Truth and Beauty 2-3

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Jack coughed over his cigar. Frigates might weigh 40,000 tons, but lieutenants did not command frigates; captains did. Lieutenants didn’t even command sloops, which were the domain of commanders and whose weight generally topped out at around 16,000 tons. Uncle Rufus must have misheard or misread: the Vengeance class brigs all had anger- or revenge-themed names; Wrath would certainly be one of those and so would also weigh around 4,000 tons, the same as Fury. The difference being that instead of a temporary jobbing post he had a true appointment. “Thank you, sir,” he said again, “thank you very much.”

Uncle Rufus waved his hand. “No, no,” he said. “It’s nothing, nothing at all. Willard owes me a few favors, I called one of them in. Ah,” he said as Natalie returned with a wrapped parcel, “thank you, Natalie. The orders are already written, Jack, I had him write them out and submit them before I left so there would be no mistake, no sudden need for someone else to command, and you are sadly underdressed.” He held up the parcel. “Your squibs! Put them on and let us wet them!” He passed Jack the parcel, Jack tore off the paper and there, wrapped in jeweler’s cotton like the precious things they were, lay two golden lieutenant’s epaulettes, wonderfully heavy, beautifully worked, the shining symbols of his new rank.

* * *

Some hours later, Jack, wonderfully conscious of the epaulettes gleaming on his shoulders, caught the subway back down to his inn. He had a hazy recollection of several rounds of Scotch, of proposing to Natalie, and of several more rounds of Scotch, which, combined with his earlier drinks with Jevons left him with a certain tendency to slur his words, to stumble as he walked, and to bestow handshakes and even hugs on random strangers.

At Washington Square he crashed into the doorway as he left the train, rebounding into someone on the platform and knocking them over. Looking down he saw the same man he had crashed into earlier in the day. “My dear sir,” he said, extending a hand and pulling the man up, “a thousand apologies. Are you okay? Let me help you.” He knelt down to collect some of the man’s bags. “Can I buy you a drink, or something to eat? I have just been promoted, you know!”

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Truth and Beauty 2-2

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Jack’s attention had been diverted by Natalie; Uncle Rufus generally managed to have young, good-looking maids, and either the whiskey he had shared with Jevons had given him beer goggles, or Natalie was no exception.

Uncle Rufus laughed. “You won’t have time for her, anyway,” he said as Natalie left the balcony. “You have a ship, and you’ll be up in space before the end of the week.”

“A ship, sir?” Jack turned his attention back to his patron.

“Yes, and no mean midshipman’s berth for you, either, a lieutenant’s commission and you’re in command!” Jack’s heart began to swell and he put down his drink. “Willard said you were up for second lieutenant on the Bakeneko, but I said ‘no, no, we can do better than that. Think of the Thebes-”

“The Thetis, sir?”

“Exactly, ‘and the Santa Brigada.’ Would you like a cigar?” he asked, taking one from a silver box and offering the box to Jack.

“Thank you, sir.”

Uncle Rufus returned the box to its table at his elbow and went on. “‘Think of the Thebes and the Santa Brigada, it has to be a command.’ So he hemmed, and he hawed, and went on about how lucky I would be, with the Bakeneko, but he came up with the Fury, who will need a temporary captain while hers is up for the Parliamentary session, a few weeks or so.”

Jack knew the Fury well, having served a short stint in her as a midshipman, and while Uncle Rufus paused to cut his cigar and light it from a fussy little table lighter, Jack considered his new, albeit temporary, command. One of Julio-Novak’s Vengeance class of brigs, she was fast, nimble, well armed for her size, and carried a superb electronics-and-measures suite. Just the ship to distinguish himself in and earn a permanent appointment. A smile spread across his face and he cut his own cigar. “Thank you, sir, she sounds ideal,” he said.

Uncle Rufus blew out a cloud of smoke and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Nonsense. She’s a silly little thing, barely four thousand tons. And only a few weeks before you’d be back on the shore. No, no. Not to bore you with the details, I convinced him to take me through the ships he had available and found you just the thing, the Wrath, 40,000 tons.”

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Truth and Beauty 2-1

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By the time the subway hissed to a stop at 86th street Jack was feeling definitely nauseous. He joined the queue of people filing through the doors to the platform, forced himself through a turnstile, and climbed the stairs two-at-a-time to the street, where he reemerged into the sunlight and found a trash can to throw up into.

Now feeling somewhat better he wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and fished a stick of gum from his pocket, took in his bearings, and set off down the street at a brisk walk.

Five minutes later he was spitting his gum out into another trash can, and walking through the front door of his uncle’s building. He gave his name at the front desk and was waved through to the elevator.

“Twenty, please,” he told the elevator man.

At the twentieth floor the elevator waited as Jack crossed the hallway to knock at his uncle’s door. The door flew open as Jack raised his hand, opened by a jolly-faced man of about middling height, slightly overweight, but otherwise looking remarkably like Jack, if Jack had been a few inches shorter, a few inches rounder, and had white hair instead of yellow. The blue eyes were the same, as was the smile. “Jack!” said Uncle Rufus. He hugged Jack warmly and pulled him into the apartment. “Thank you, Charles,” he said to the elevator man, who bowed his head and allowed the elevator doors to close at last.

Uncle Rufus closed the front door. “Jack!” he said again, “good to see you at last. How have you been keeping? Will you have a brandy? Munchen!” he called to his butler, “two brandies, the Regency with the yellow seal, I think, we’ll have them on the veranda. Come, Jack, come. The uniform looks good on you, but you’re really getting too old for it.” He led his nephew through the foyer, down a hallway, across the blue library, and so out onto a wide balcony and back into the sun. “Yes,” he said, “too old. So I spoke to Willard, at the Admiralty, and I think the time has come for you to wet the squibs!”

“The squibs, sir?” Jack asked politely, taking the seat his uncle offered him.

One of his uncle’s countless servants appeared with brandy and glasses on a silver tray. “Leave the bottle, please, Natalie, and bring me the package from my desk in the study, please. Yes, the squibs! You have a ship!”

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Truth and Beauty 1-8

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Truth and Beauty 1-7

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* * * Stephen squinted as he looked up at the tall main building of the eminently respectable Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health Center. He was a thin man, a little under middle height, with straight, dark hair, and at the moment his sunglasses were inadequate against the mid-morning sun. Using the hospital’s front windows as a mirror (the room in which he rented a bed contained none) he combed his hair and starightened his tie. His person as immaculate as he could make it, he checked his watch again, waited for the second hand to reach the 6, brushed some imaginary dust from his coat, and stepped through the lazily-revolving automatic door to the hospital atrium. “I am here to see Doctor White,” he told the receptionist as the clock on the wall began to strike the hour, “I have an appointment. My name is Russ.”

“Doctor Russ, yes,” said the receptionist, consulting her tablet. “Yes,” she said again, “I’m afraid that Doctor White is not available, but he did leave a message.” She handed Stephen a thin envelope.

The envelope was cheap and flimsy, and did not fully disguise that the note within consisted of a single, short paragraph. “Thank you,” said Stephen, his voice oddly hollow in his ear. He lifted his hat to the woman, who had already returned to her tablet, and stepped back out through the revolving door to the street. Now what?

His stomach rumbled unpleasantly. He had spent his last penny on the cab ride to the hospital, so as to arrive unrumpled for his interview, skipping breakfast to do so. Perhaps I should have apologized and not given a tip, he thought, then I could at least buy some coffee for my headache. He directed his feet to the subway. But could I do such a thing?

Back at the boarding house his shared room was blessedly empty. He closed the door and sat on his rented bed for a while, shaking, his head in his hands, stifling his tears. A noise from the hallway brought him back to the present. Mrs Parsons will be asking about the rent again, he thought. Quietly, he collected those of his possessions that he could carry, waited for the hall to fall silent, then crept out the back door. The park on the corner was unoccupied and he sat on a bench, staring woodenly ahead of himself as he tried to work out his next steps. Harrison’s and Robbins I can sell at the Strand, but can I get by without them? And then what? When a security officer came by he left before the woman could approach him.

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