different, where was it? Where would it be?”
“It ain’t there,” Spanky said, rubbing his chin through his white-shot brown beard. His expression was as empty as a ’Cat’s. He pointed. “Here’s where it would be, on the south coast of this ‘New Ireland’ place, near this ‘Waterford’ burg. Looks like a lake on a plain.” There was a moment of silence while the others in the room absorbed that. “There’s that old company flag, without the blue too,” he said.
“Yes,” Jenks agreed, sensitive to the men’s emotions. “New Ireland practically belongs to the Company, for all intents and purposes. There is only one good anchorage, but it’s rather exceptional. It’s the best-protected harbor on the windward side of any of the islands.”
“Best-protected from what?” Chack asked.
“From storms-and attack. Edinburgh is good, on New Scotland, but it’s too broad to easily defend against an attacker. New Dublin is well sheltered and fortified, and as you can see, any landing and approach from another part of the island itself would pose a serious problem. Let us fervently hope things do not come to that.”
Matt took a breath. “Well, Jenks, we’re here for the Company-and our people. Where do we go? Where will the Governor-Emperor be?”
“New Britain or New Scotland. New Britain is the largest island with the largest… unindentured population. It is where most people of substance live, and despite their representative duties, most members of both courts live there as well. There are vast plantations and timber holdings. The Imperial capital is at New London on the west coast fronting New Britain Bay alongside Portsmouth. Those are the two largest cities, and they’ve become practically one.” Jenks thought for a moment. “In normal times, that’s where we would find him, but I think Government House on New Scotland at Scapa Flow is where we should steer.”
“Because?”
“It’s the headquarters of Home Fleet. The Admiralty is there, and nowhere will he find a higher concentration of loyal subjects, indentured or not. Even the ‘obligated’ are Tories because their debt is to the throne and the Navy, not the Company, for the most part. They’re considered ‘Naval auxiliaries’ and many work in the yard.” He shrugged. “Some of our brave sailors are literal gutter-sweepings from the other islands, sent to the Navy instead of to gaol. A few of our officers are men with well-placed relations. Most of our best sailors, however, are Scots who spring from obligated mothers living in Scapa Flow or New Glasgow. Most midshipmen come from long-established families, but like your own navy, there are ‘mustangs.’ ” He glanced at Spanky, who reveled in his status. “A fair percentage of them had ‘Navy mothers.’ ”
“Okay, Jenks,” Matt said. “First stop, Scapa Flow. We’ll come in under both our flags, on opposite foremast halyards to show everybody we’re friends. We dock, you throw your weight around and demand to speak to the Governor-Emperor. Simple.”
“Hopefully,” Jenks hedged.
“Just in case,” Chack said, glancing around at the other officers, “I will study this chart, along with Lieuten- aant Blair, of course, and attempt to prepare for a ‘worst-case scenario’ on any of the islands shown.” He bowed his head at Matt. “Captain Reddy has taught me well to always hope for the best, but plan for the worst. I find it difficult to imagine the worst in this situation, but in my ‘Maa-reen’ capacity, I will endeavor to do so.”
Matt managed a smile. “By all means, Captain Sab-At. I rely on it.”
Spanky was following a “feel” he couldn’t identify. He stopped occasionally, listening, feeling, then moved a few paces farther on. It seemed like it must be coming from the forward fireroom, but he just couldn’t be sure. Ever since he’d joined Walker on the China Station (he and the Bosun were the longest-serving hands), he’d made a practice of learning her every sigh, screech, rattle, and groan. After so much work had been done to her, her various refits and the recent rebuilding, he’d found himself relearning her sounds and “feels” all over again. He certainly wouldn’t complain; with number three almost restored, Walker was as healthy as he ever remembered her being. But there was one frustrating-new “feel” he hadn’t “pigeonholed.” He couldn’t decide whether it was just part of the new “normal” or something to worry about. To make things worse, no matter what he did, he couldn’t find what was causing it, and it was driving him nuts.
He paused his inspection under the amidships deckhouse/gun platform and swiped a sandwich off a tray just as soon as Earl Lanier set it down on the stainless steel counter.
“Hey, you m’lingerin’ bastard,” came an indignant growl from within the galley. “Them sammitches is for them Marines playin’ sojer, aft!… Oh,” Lanier said, recognizing Spanky. He stuck his droop-jowled face through the little window. “I guess m’lingerin’ officers can swipe sammitches outta the hardworkin’ bellies o’ anybody they want.”
Spanky took an ostentatious bite. “I could work a hundred sandwiches out of your belly and nobody’d even notice, Lanier,” he mumbled around his mouthful.
Lanier grunted, satisfied with the response. He abused everyone on the ship-except the captain and his “lemon-limey” guests-by rote. He considered it as much a part of his job as cooking. The fellas, even the’Cats, needed an outlet to relieve their stress, and the sometimes bitter banter between them and their cook was one of the least destructive, and backed by ancient tradition. Besides, Lanier could take anything-and nearly anybody. His bloated form required real, substantial muscle to heave it around, and he’d proven many times he had plenty of guts… beneath his expansive gut.
“Pepper,” he roared at someone behind him. “No, goddamn it, Pepper ain’t here! Bastard’s back in Baalkpan, runnin’ the Busted Screw! Prob’ly got it took over by now!” The Busted Screw, or Castaway Cook, was a saloon/cafe Lanier had opened near the shipyard, and Pepper had remained behind to keep it going in his absence. It was considered “necessary to the war effort” by now. “You, swabbie, what’s your name again?”
“Taarba-Kaar,” came an indignant response.
“Yeah, Tabasco! Hell, I don’t care what your name is. Get a mop and run out there an’ clean up Mr. Spanky’s crumbs!”
Spanky left the argument behind, shaking his head. Aft, in the cramped space around the searchlight tower and the secured Nancy floatplane, Chack and Lieutenant Blair were drilling their troops. Together. Interesting, he thought. He stopped and listened. Damn, it’s got To be in The aft fireroom! Number three was almost “back up”; maybe that was it, something goofy going on in The new Tubes. He dropped down the access trunk. Sitting there, between the hatches, he could definitely feel “it” again, and more distinctly. He opened the bottom hatch and slid down to the catwalk above the number three boiler. Closing the hatch behind him, he carefully felt the rail, a pipe, but whatever “it” was, “it” was gone again.
“God damn it!” he roared.
“What the matter, Spanky?” one of the ’Cat firemen asked from below.
“Oh… never mind.” He slid the rest of the way down the ladder to the deck plates. “Where’s Tabby?” he demanded. “She ain’t in her rack like she’s supposed to be this watch.”
“She hide when you yell,” ratted one of the other ’Cats. Tabby’s division had sworn not to cover for her when it came to her health.
“I ain’t hidin’, you fink,” Tabby exclaimed in her new, gravelly voice. She stepped from behind the boiler, wiping her hands on a rag. She still looked awful-fur blotched, gray skin, no longer pink and angry but scarred now on her arms and neck. “I was checkin’ stuff,” she said, a little petulantly. Spanky motioned her forward and together they sought a little privacy, from ears, anyway.
“If you want to stay down here, you have to follow the rules,” Spanky scolded.
“Why? What’ll you do if I don’t? Get rid of me?” She held out her arms, exposing the scars. “Make me freak deck ape? I say ‘hell no,’ I stay down here.” Her drawl had begun to slip again. Never a good sign. “I already lose everything I want. I lose my Mice, I lose my Spanky-I ugly now! I lose my boilers too? You take that from me?”
“Tabby, I…”
“No! You no ‘Tabby’ me! I chief. You say so. I feel swell! You make me lay sick, no work, I lose chief. You make some dumb-ass chief!” She shook her head. “I chief, I work. I no work, I no chief. Boiler chief all I am now, all I ever be. You take that, I die.” Tears started down Tabby’s face again, just like before in this very spot, and Spanky felt like a heel.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” he said slowly, huskily. “I’ll always be ‘your’ Spanky; you haven’t ‘lost’ me and never will. I do love you… but more like a… a daughter, like-than maybe like you think you wish I did.” He shook his head and sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a swell dish, a knockout. I wouldn’t give a damn about all them little scratches if I loved you a different way… but I just can’T, see? Even if I could, it wouldn’t be right. Over time, I
