Watho: A Novel of Gal ... by Bob Nelson - Episode 21

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Just a few seconds after Timat Alinin left – just a few seconds respite and no more! – there was a knock on my door. "Bosun's Mate Jeris Ross, reporting as ordered, Sir!" called my Marine guard. (At some point in the afternoon, the Marine who had been on station next to Lieutenant Kolenter's door moved to my door. I assumed that this was on Lieutenant Sartine's order.)

I took several deep breaths. "Send him in, please!"

Ross was my age and build. That is to say, nothing special. Average height. His biceps were well defined, but didn't bulge. His dark brown hair was streaked with sun-bleached blond, giving an undecided result. Brown eyes, wide set. He was wearing the same everyday sailor's slops that I was wearing, but he also had a red bandana, the symbol of a Bosun's Mate. Solid jaw, needing a shave.

On second glance, Ross probably only needed to shave once a week. That made me feel better. I had to shave at least twice a week.

"What was your post during the battle today, Ross?" The Bosun was addressed by his title. His Mates by their family names. This rule was unwritten, but set in stone.

"Starboard cat, Sir," he answered.

"How did it go?"

"Our aim was good, I think... we got a lot of hits. I think it was one of ours that took down their wheelhouse... but I heard the aft cat crew claim it, too!" He shrugged: the important was that the hit had happened.

"We lost one man to splinters," he went on, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "Bloody damned shame, Sir! Just bad luck for him... could have been any of us. The ball came through the gunnel a rod away, and the splinters came flying. Kesris caught a couple..." he grimaced. "Three other lads got nicked, but nothing too bad..."

"What do you think of Master Wainterin?" The Ensign had been commander of the forward cats.

"It's not for a Mate to say, now is it, Lieutenant?"

"It is for all in this ship to answer the First Lieutenant, Ross!" I insisted.

He stood silent a moment, considering. "He did his job, Sir."

"That does not answer my question." I leaned forward. "You must decide right now, Ross, whether you trust me. And then, in the minutes that follow, I must decide whether I trust you. We – Hawk – have very little time. No time for dancing."

He continued to consider me for a few seconds, and then said, "He's well-launched, Sir. He's a competent officer, and he takes his duty very seriously. He'll do well, if you other and the Captain continue to take care of him." Ross was about five years younger than Wainterin... just about my age, that is...

"Could you do as well?" I asked, looking him in the eyes.

He leaned back a bit in surprise. He had not expected that. The Bosun had not told him anything.

"Not tomorrow, Sir. But give me a week's training... and then I might do."

" 'Might'?"

"I never promise anything if I don't know it's true. There might be parts of commanding the cats that I haven't seen..."

"Your Gallian is very 'proper'. Where did you learn to speak as you do?"

He laughed thinly. "At temple, Sir. I was at school with the Lady's monks from six to eleven, before going to sea. There was one monk who took an interest in me... told me a very simple truth: the most important factor in how a man is judged... is how he speaks."

"That's rather cynical," I said.

"No, Sir. It's logical. When one person meets another, they know nothing of each other... except what they hear. Stories are easily invented. 'Proper speech'... not so easily..."

"The lads must look askance. ... Listen askance... Whatever..." I said.

"I don' speak so good when I'm for'rd, Sir," he said with a thick Yallit brogue.

"Are you from Yallit, then?"

"No, Sir," he answered, again in 'proper Gallian'. "I'm from Konnard. But there's no local speech pattern, there... I can do several regional dialects: Sale and Senano... and I can fake Sangit pretty well, since nobody really knows how the people speak out there!" He grinned.

"The lads all realized fairly quickly that I'm putting on a mask, but privacy is respected, up for'ard, so they don't push me about it. Privacy has to be important, since there's no room for walls. When they understand that I don't want to tell them about my past, they let it go."

"I cannot 'let it go', you understand?" I asked.

He thought for a long moment. "No, Sir. I do not understand. I do not know why I am here. I do not know why you want a Mate's opinion of a Ensign. I do not understand why my speech is of any importance to you."

I did not let him take control of the conversation. "Why did you – still a child – decide that 'proper speaking' was important for you?"

He considered again, and nodded. "That same monk, Sir. He told me that whatever I might want to do with my life, I would succeed or not depending on only a few criteria: what I could learn, what people thought of me, and how well I chose my 'friends'. It was easy, even for a child, to hear the differences in speech among the monks, and to observe how their speech corresponded to their station within the monastery and school. So 'proper Gallian' became as important to me as reading and arithmetic. ... Nothing I have seen in the world since then has changed my mind."

"And 'choosing your friends'?" I repeated.

He shook his head. "Not so simple as 'proper Gallian'! I've been very lucky, though. There have always been older men who have taken care of me... brought me along. Men like the Bosun... though he's in a class by himself, I think.

"There are a lot of hard men, for'ard. But then again, there's hard and there's hard. Some of the hard men are good men. That's what the Bosun has been teaching me lately: how to know who's good or bad, beyond being hard or not." He thought about his words. "Then too... there are men who are weak and bad... and they can do a lot of harm, too... Viper tongues, setting one hard man against another, and the like.

"I'm still learning the 'friends' part... and I'm beginning to suspect that it's a life-long task." He shrugged.

"Are you ambitious?" I asked.

His eyes widened at the question. "That's a hard question, Sir, on a ship. The only man above a Bosun's Mate is the Bosun... and I don't think I'll be ready to replace him any time soon!" He gave a little laugh. "I sometimes think about asking for a transfer in a few years, as Bosun in another ship. ... But for the moment, I'm happy in Hawk, and still learning a lot every day... so I don't know if I'll go."

"Did you see the boy who left, just before you came in here?"

"Timat? Yes, I saw him. Good lad, that one. He'll do whatever he's told, and never shirks. ... Well, almost never... He's still just a child. Master Willder says he's a good student, too."

"Do you think he could make Midshipman?"

Ross's head reared back. His nostrils flared. "I'm just a Mate, Sir... and that's twice you've asked me questions that don't concern a Mate. I think I need to understand, if you want me to answer as well as I might..."

"I need two new Midshipmen, Ross. Timat Alinin is going to try to be one. I am offering the other berth to you."

It was almost funny. Eighteen-year-old Jeris Ross was just as stunned as thirteen-year-old Timat Alinin.

He said nothing... just stood there in shock... swallowed several times.

"It would be difficult, Ross. You are considerably older than the others, and you already have a level of authority that they only acquire momentarily when they are on deck duty. You can order punishment for a Midshipman, but a Midshipman cannot order punishment for a Bosun's Mate. Suddenly, you would go from your current position to being one of the two most junior Midshipmen.

"I am just now setting up a new duty roster, and if you accept your warrant, I will have all the Midshipmen rotating so as to serve with all the Lieutenants... and," I cleared my throat ostentatiously, "Acting Lieutenants."

"You would be as old as our Ensigns, and older than all the senior Midshipmen. You would have to live with that."

To my surprise he broke in: "I could make Ensign at twenty, and Lieutenant at twenty-two... well twenty-four, more likely... and that wouldn't be so far behind the other Lieutenants... Is that right, Sir?"

I held up my hands. "It would be 'possible'... but it would also be possible that you stay a Midshipman for four years and an ensign for six years... making you nearly thirty when you make Lieutenant. Lieutenant Kolenter is an excellent officer, as deserving of promotion as any... and he is over forty. There just aren't that many ships, Ross."

"There are small ships that are commanded by Lieutenants, aren't there?" he asked, following his own train of thought without regard for what I was saying.

"Yes. Messenger sloops, and such."

He closed his eyes, and inhaled very deeply. His eyes opened and he nodded. "Yes, Sir! I will be pleased to take your offer. ... I will command a Duke's ship some day, even if I'm fifty!"

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We gave our dead to the sea at dusk. In my nine years at sea, I had stood at attention for several funerals, but nothing like this. Thirteen planks leaned on the gunnel, covered with canvas. Beneath the canvas, sewn into their hammocks with a heavy cat ball, the dead awaited their last dive into the ocean.

" 'Ten... shun!" called the Bosun. We stood straight. Captain Crain waited a long moment before signaling the Bosun to release us. "At ease!"

"Thirteen of our mates died for us this day," said the Captain, in a voice that was both soft and powerful. "We are a Duke's ship... but when the bolts fly, and the balls crash... we are just ourselves. We are our own company. We fight for one another and... ... some die for others.

"Human memory is weak. We will gradually forget the names of those who died for us today. Their faces will blur and fade. But we will never... NEVER... forget what they did here today.

"Hawk will not forget these men. She will carry their names as long as she sails." He gestured to the stern bulwark, where a freshly painted plaque bore a heading, "Fallen for Their Brothers", then a subheading, "Off the Gulf of Watho, 2 March 3282" and then thirteen names. Five columns of three names each... with more than enough room for the three desperately wounded who would most likely soon be gone, too.

He raised his voice a notch, "We give our brother Horas Chinting to the sea!"

"Horas!" we all repeated in unison, as two Bosun's Mates raised the end of the plank, and Horas Chinting left Hawk for the last time.

By the thirteenth repetition, Captain Crain's voice had slowly fallen to a reverential near-whisper, as had our chorus.

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Captain Crain accepted my new duty roster, including Midshipmen Ross and Alinin, without comment. The two were formally presented presented at dinner that evening, in the Captain's cabin. Captain Crain, who had spent a good part of the day visiting with the wounded, reported that Lieutenant Kolenter was sleeping peacefully, and that the Healer was optimistic. We drank a toast to our missing senior lieutenant, and I was fascinated to see how sincere everyone's best wishes were. A First Lieutenant necessarily makes the other officers unhappy from time to time – he had stuck me with the dour Master Kort, after all! – and yet the officers' concern was so evidently sincere.

Lieutenant Shoinin was present. He would leave the next morning as prize captain in Hoget'cht. The raider had been nicknamed Hog, of course. Shoinin was seated to Captain Crain's right, as an invited captain would be, while I was at the foot of the table, opposite the Captain, in the First Lieutenant's seat. The meal was not memorable. Conversation avoided the sad aspects of the battle – the dead and wounded.

Lieutenant Sartine moaned that his Marines had not had the opportunity to show their mettle. The ensigns speculated about Hog's route: to Chendan, of course, but after that? They discussed our own future. One attempt had been made to prevent our arrival in Donor, so there might be another... The senior Midshipmen – Ach'Ahim, Parenter (who could dine left-handed despite having his right shoulder and arm closely bound against his torso), Pasharin, and Dulass – participated modestly. The two newbies remained almost silent. And very watchful.

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The weapons-captains were assembled in the early morning, on and around the rear hatch cover. Hawk's officers were arrayed along the gunnels to both sides.

"You did well, yesterday!" I said in a loud conversational voice. "You showed that all those exercises were worth the time and effort. But we lost a lot of good men... So we have to start all over. Captains! You came through pretty well... just a few scratches here and there!" I glanced at a pipe-organ captain who had caught a glancing blow from a cat ball... and survived to tell about it! The flesh on his left cheekbone was gone, and his left eye was swollen shut, so he wore a very impressive bandage around half of his head. The Healer said he would recover with nothing worse than a very impressive scar. The lads followed my glance and laughed. "You captains must lead our exercises for the next week at least. I must learn Lieutenant Kolenter's job... and just about every other officer will be learning a new position, too. You must keep up the standard that you showed yesterday... and bring all us newcomers, seamen and officers, up to that standard.

"Now... Let's be at it!" And in my very best command voice, "All hands to battle stations!"

They went at it with ferocity... and a kind of glee. Hawk was in a class by herself. No ship in the whole world could stand against her... and as a result, she had never been in battle before yesterday. Potential foes had either escaped or surrendered, before Hawk – and more importantly, her people – could prove their worth. Yesterday, Hawk had offered combat to three enemies, had captured one and set the others fleeing.

Among the men were seventeen Donorans. We had found three of Hog's sailors who spoke some Gallian, and through them we had offered enrollment in the Navy to all the captured prisoners.

In the afternoon, the deck was turned over to the Marines... and my Troopers. Lieutenant Sartine told me of a visit from Corporal kinVester, who had suggested that my escort be integrated into the Marine company for the duration of the voyage. We had left a section of Marines with Lieutenant Shoinin, to keep Hog's captured crew under control, so we were considerably shorthanded if we got into a boarding action. I agreed, of course.

Over the next few days, the ardor of the crew cooled to something even better: a cold determination to be ready for the next battle. They were all convinced that Hawk would not leave Donor without at least one more fight.

Midshipman Ross was instantly accepted by all – he simply shifted from weapon-captain of a forward cat to commander of the aft cat. Everyone already knew that he would do well. Midshipman Alinin was not so instantly accepted. Bosun Perinalitilis informed me that the word had spread through the foredeck that anyone who purposefully tripped up the lad would answer to Midshipman Ross. Timat Alinin would have to prove himself... but he would meet no particular resistance.

Captain Crain... our mild, quiet, retiring little captain... was everywhere, sometimes with a friendly encouragement and sometimes with a scathing correction. Once again, I felt like whacking myself behind the head: Of course he had a voice when he needed one! He couldn't have risen to command the finest ship in the world unless he possessed every single one of the tools that an officer might need. His "mild manner"... so appropriate to his physical stature... was just a role he played. He spent considerable time at the duty station, counseling his novice First Lieutenant... He continued to appear and disappear without warning. Unsettling.

Navigator Willder set us a course northwest to round Land's End, close in. Captain Crain and I had discussed our options. (What an amazing sentence that is!) We could head far west, beyond the trade routes that hugged the coast, before turning north to Sheth's latitude, and finally come back to land on a straight, short run due east; or we could follow the coast, amid all the traffic in those busy waters. We decided to show the Gallian flag.

The West Coast is a different world. We Gallians are familiar with the economy and geography of the East, with commerce swirling around Galdiff: foodstuffs from the Plains and the Southeast, raw materials from the Northeast and Northwest, and manufactured goods flowing back from the capital to the counties. Galdiff is not just the governing center of the Duchy; it is visibly the center of the economy.

There is no equivalent to Galdiff in the West. There are cities scattered all along the coast, and all of them traded. There are fewer roads, and not as well maintained as in Gal, so transport and travel by sea are more developed.

The land itself contributes. The West Coast receives winds and swells that are unchallenged all across the thousands of leagues of the world-circling Ocean. The shore is scrubbed naked of dirt, leaving only bare rock to resist the unending onslaught of the waves.

On Gal's East Coast, an estuary might fill with silt; the land might encroach on the sea. Not so in the west! Deep tides are funneled up the river valleys, deepening even more, and ripping away everything but bedrock. Every stream running to the sea eventually results in a long inlet, as the ocean scours the earth away.

Sometimes these inlets take natural twists and turns, so that deep ocean swells are gradually reduced to wavelets. Such natural harbors have been occupied by sailors and traders since before history. Almost as long ago, men brought great quantities of rock to other inlets, to shape the flow of the water, making artificial harbors.

On our East Coast, a few big ports – now the end points of Duke's Highways – dominate all traffic. There are also quite few small ports, but those are almost exclusively dedicated to fishing. On the West Coast, where production of goods is still more "artisan" than "manufacture", and more widely dispersed geographically, every port, great or small, is a trading port. Small ports meant only small ships... but clouds of them!

Land's End is in fact two capes, with a stretch of land running north-south between them. Almost from the moment we turned northeast on passing North Land's End, we started seeing sails. Small boats, close in to the coast. Fishing boats and coastal luggers. They had nothing to fear from even the most ferocious warship: there was no war. So they held position placidly as we closed.

None of these seamen spoke Gallian, and we had no Donoran. Our recent Donoran recruits were very proud to be useful to their new ship – and hoped that it would make up for the thirteen in some small way. The fishermen were properly impressed by Hawk – or were smart enough to pretend to be – but none admitted to having seen Hog's flag in these waters.

As we continued north along the coast, we began to encounter bigger ships. Ocean-going cargo ships. They did not appreciate being stopped, and made their feelings known quite loudly... in Gallian. Trading captains had to know Gallian for all ports east of Chendan, after all.

We inspected each ship we stopped, searching for evidence that they might be in league with the "Jenkaran" raiders. We stopped several ships every day, including a few headed north, toward Sheth. We wanted word of events in the Southern Ocean to reach the Donoran capital before we did.

Inevitably, we met a Donoran warship. She was smartly turned out; a fast schooner-rigged packet ship, carrying one small cat and one small pipe-organ on each beam: enough armament to tame any fisherman or coastal lugger... but no more. She stayed out of Hawk's range, flying a white parley flag, until we sent one up, too. Then she closed. The commander's nerve was admirable. He sent someone straight across, without waiting for an invitation.

I couldn't read Donoran insignia, so I had no idea of the rank of the person who clambered up the side ladder. His manner said "officer", in any case. Late twenties or early thirties, blond, probably light-complected, but carrying a dark sea tan. Less than medium height, but wider than most. Wide face, wide features.

I met him as he straightened after his climb. "Good day! I am Lieutenant Fochen, First Lieutenant of Hawk."

He gave me a quick examination, surely wondering why so young a man was First in such a powerful warship.

He nodded in turn. "I am Lieutenant Hurtung, commander of Ar'ch'ole." A glottal stop in the middle. His Gallian was quite good.

I extended my hand. "I am pleased to meet you."

We shook. And then he seemed to mark time. He would undoubtedly prefer to talk to Hawk's Captain, but saying so would be an insult to me... and my status as First on this great ship was clearly greater than his as commander aboard his little packet-ship.

"We are en route to Sheth, on a diplomatic mission," I said. Laconically.

After another silence that stretched, he tacitly acknowledged that he would have to talk to me. "A captain I encountered told me that you stopped and searched his ship..."

I nodded agreement. "We have stopped quite a few. We regret the inconvenience, but we were attacked in the Southern Ocean, and would rather avoid any further problems."

He looked along the gunnel, at the big pipe-organs. Four were unlimbered, not exactly pointing at Ar'ch'ole, but ready on a moments notice. "I cannot imagine any ship daring to defy Hawk, Master Fochen..." he said. His disbelief was a way of saying that the motive I had given for stopping and searching Donoran ships was false.

"There were three raiders, Lieutenant. Converted fast cargoes, each somewhat bigger than Hawk." (In fact we had never gotten close enough to the other two to be sure of their size, but "equal to Hog" seemed like a safe bet.) "We shattered and captured one, and set the other two to flight. It is those two that we would like to find."

"These are Donoran waters, Lieutenant. You have no authority to stop ships here."

"Then perhaps Ar'ch'ole will accompany us? She could do the stopping..."

His face darkened at my casual reduction of Ar'ch'ole's status to auxiliary.

As luck would have it, at that same instant, the masthead lookout shouted, "Deck there! Sail on the starboard beam, coming out, straight from shore..."

"Well then, Lieutenant!" I said with a very artificial smile. "Will you hail her, or shall we do it ourselves?"

"Stopping Donoran ships in Donoran waters is an act of war!" His jaws were clenched in anger.

I made my face as hard as I knew how... although I feared that it remained a soft nineteen-year-old face. "Thirteen of our company died in the battle last week, Lieutenant! Killed by Donorans in a Donoran ship, under patently false colors. If you wish to speak of 'acts of war', Master Hurtung... then I shall invite you aft to read those men's memorial plaque!"

We glared at each other for a long moment.

"I shall make route for Sheth, at all speed..." he said, finally, letting his words end in unspoken menace.

"That was our intent, Lieutenant," I said equably. I gave him a sloppy salute. "Good sailing, Master Hurtung."

He had been dismissed. Rudely. By a "boy" ten years younger than he. His face was suffused with black blood. He did not return my salute, but spun and almost lept over the gunnel and down the ladder.

Hawk was under way toward the newly sighted sail before Lieutenant Hurtung's boat reached Ar'ch'ole. Within minutes the Donoran schooner was under full sail northward.

The best of the Gallian-speaking Donorans who had joined our company was an "older sailor" – their equivalent of "able seaman", with experience in most aspects of a sailor's existence – named Shum'och 'Ch'tor. Impossible to pronounce, for anyone not born to glottal stops. On the third day, he said that "Shum Shtor" would be an acceptable alternative... and then went on to suggest pronounceable names for all his fellows. It was an important step toward the Donorans' acceptance among us. Two days later – the day we encountered Ar'ch'ole – Bosun Perinalitilis proposed that Shum be given "Able" status. This was simple logic, but it was important to the Donorans.

The next morning, we stopped yet another fishing boat. Shum talked to the "captain" of the boat – his crew was two boys – and informed me that the man said that he not seen any strange ships nearby. We let the fisherman go.

"He was lying, Sir," Shum said, once the fisherman had left our deck. I had thought the same. "He was very scared."

I had thought the same.

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