The Ship's Council did not command; command was reserved to the captain and his officers. The Council governed, and on occasion tried criminal cases. During the black Winter Without Harvest eighty years before it had decreed euthanasia for all persons over sixty-three years of age and for one out of twenty of the other adults aboard. It had rendered bloody judgment on the ringleaders of Peale's Mutiny. It had sent them into the wake and Peale himself had been bowspritted, given the maritime equivalent of crucifixion. Since then no megalomaniacs had decided to make life interesting for their shipmates, so Peale's long agony had served its purpose.
The fifty of them represented every department of the ship and every age group. If there was wisdom aboard, it was concentrated there on the fantail. But there was little to say.
The eldest of them, Retired Sailmaker Hodgins, presided. Venerably bearded, still strong of voice, he told them:
'Shipmates, our accident has come. We are dead men. Decency demands that we do not spin out the struggle and sink into—unlawful eatings. Reason tells us that we cannot survive. What I propose is an honorable voluntary death for us all, and the legacy of our ship's fabric to be divided among the remainder of the Convoy at the discretion of the Commodore.'
He had little hope of his old man's viewpoint prevailing. The Chief Inspector rose at once. She had only three words to say: 'Not my children'
Women's heads nodded grimly, and men's with resignation. Decency and duty and common sense were all very well until you ran up against that steel bulkhead. Not my children.
A brilliant young chaplain asked: 'Has the question even been raised as to whether a collection among the fleet might not provide cordage enough to improvise a net?'
Captain Salter should have answered that, but he, murderer of the twenty thousand souls in his care, could not speak. He nodded jerkily at his signals officer.
Lieutenant Zwingli temporized by taking out his signals slate and pretending to refresh his memory. He said: 'At 0035 today a lamp signal was made to Grenville advising that our net was lost. Grenville replied as follows: 'Effective now, your ship no longer part of Convoy.
Have no recommendations. Personal sympathy and regrets. Signed, Commodore.''
Captain Salter found his voice. 'I've sent a couple of other messages to Grenville and to our neighboring vessels. They do not reply. This is as it should be. We are no longer part of the Convoy. Through our own—
lapse—we have become a drag on the Convoy. We cannot look to it for help. I have no word of condemnation for anybody. This is how life is.'
The chaplain folded his hands and began to pray inaudibly.
And then a council member spoke whom Captain Salter knew in another role. It was Jewel Flyte, the tall, pale girl who had been his mistress two years ago. She must be serving as an alternate, he thought, looking at her with new eyes. He did not know she was even that; he had avoided her since then. And no, she was not married; she wore no ring. And neither was her hair drawn back in the semiofficial style of the semi-official voluntary celibates, the super-patriots (or simply sex-shy people, or dislikers of children) who surrendered their right to reproduce for the good of the ship (or their own convenience). She was simply a girl in the uniform of a—a what? He had to think hard before he could match the badge over her breast to a department. She was Ship's Archivist with her crossed key and quill, an obscure clerk and shelf-duster under—far under!—the Chief of Yeomen Writers. She must have been elected alternate by the Yeomen in a spasm of sympathy for her blind-alley career.
'My job,' she said in her calm steady voice, 'is chiefly to search for precedents in the Log when unusual events must be recorded and nobody recollects offhand the form in which they should be recorded. It is one of those provoking jobs which must be done by someone but which cannot absorb the full time of a person. I have therefore had many free hours of actual working time. I have also remained unmarried and am not inclined to sports or games. I tell you this so you may believe me when I say that during the past two years I have read the Ship's Log in its entirety.'
There was a little buzz. Truly an astonishing, and an astonishingly pointless, thing to do! Wind and weather, storms and calms, messages and meetings and censuses, crimes, trials and punishments of a hundred and forty- one years; what a bore!
'Something I read,' she went on, 'may have some bearing on our dilemma.' She took a slate from her pocket and read: 'Extract from the Log dated June 30th, Convoy Year 72. 'The Shakespeare-Joyce-Melville Party returned after dark in the gig. They had not accomplished any part of their mission. Six were dead of wounds; all bodies were recovered. The remaining six were mentally shaken but responded to our last ataractics. They spoke of a new religion ashore and its consequences on population. I am persuaded that we sea-bornes can no longer relate to the continentals. The clandestine shore trips will cease.' The entry is signed 'Scolley, Captain'.'
A man named Scolley smiled for a brief proud moment. His ancestor!
And then like the others he waited for the extract to make sense. Like the others he found that it would not do so.
Captain Salter wanted to speak, and wondered how to address her. She had been 'Jewel' and they all knew it; could he call her 'Yeoman Flyte'
without looking like, being, a fool? Well, if he was fool enough to lose his net he was fool enough to be formal with an ex-mistress. 'Yeoman Flyte,' he said, 'where does the extract leave us?'
In her calm voice she told them all: 'Penetrating the few obscure words, it appears to mean that until Convoy Year 72 the Charter was regularly violated, with the connivance of successive captains. I suggest that we consider violating it once more, to survive.'
The Charter. It was a sort of groundswell of their ethical life, learned early, paid homage every Sunday when they were rigged for church. It was inscribed in phosphor-bronze plates on the Monday mast of every ship at sea, and the wording was always the same.
IN RETURN FOR THE SEA AND ITS BOUNTY WE RENOUNCE AND
ABJURE FOR OURSELVES AND OUR DESCENDANTS THE LAND FROM
WHICH WE SPRUNG: FOR THE COMMON GOOD OF MAN WE SET SAIL
FOREVER.
At least half of them were unconsciously murmuring the words.
Retired Sailmaker Hodgins rose, shaking. 'Blasphemy!' he said. 'The woman should be bowspritted!'
The chaplain said thoughtfully: 'I know a little more about what constitutes blasphemy than Sailmaker Hodgins, I believe, and assure you that he is mistaken. It is a superstitious error to believe that there is any religious sanction for the Charter. It is no ordinance of God but a contract between men.'
'It is a Revelation!' Hodgins shouted. 'A Revelation! It is the newest testament! It is God's finger pointing the way to the clean hard life at sea, away from the grubbing and filth, from the over-breeding and the sickness!'
That was a common view.
'What about my children?' demanded the Chief Inspector. 'Does God want them to starve or be—be—' She could not finish the question, but the last unspoken word of it rang in all their minds.
Eaten.
Aboard some ships with an accidental preponderance of the elderly, aboard other ships where some blazing personality generations back had raised the Charter to a powerful cult, suicide might have been voted. Aboard other ships where nothing extraordinary had happened in six generations, where things had been easy and the knack and tradition of hard decision-making had been lost, there might have been confusion and inaction and the inevitable degeneration into savagery.
Aboard Sailer's ship the Council voted to send a small party ashore to investigate. They used every imaginable euphemism to describe the action, took six hours to make up their minds, and sat at last on the fantail cringing a little, as if waiting for a thunderbolt.
The shore party would consist of Salter, Captain; Flyte, Archivist; Pemberton, Junior Chaplain; Graves, Chief Inspector.
Salter climbed to his conning top on Friday mast, consulted a chart from the archives, and gave the order through speaking tube to the tiller gang: 'Change course red four degrees.'
The repeat came back incredulously.
'Execute,' he said. The ship creaked as eighty men heaved the tiller; imperceptibly at first the wake began to curve behind them.
Ship Starboard 30 departed from its ancient station; across a mile of sea the bosun's whistles could be heard
