Truth and Beauty 3-5

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The victualing wharf lived over New South Wales, about a 90-minute flight. Jack loosened his seatbelt enough to pull his phone free. He wrote a short text to Jevons, describing his misfortune. The message took a surprising amount of time to compose; bitterness and blame kept creeping in.

He sighed, saving the message instead of sending it. Over on FaceTime he updated his status, adding several exclamation marks to show his excitement. He thumbed through friends’ pages for a while, ignored congratulatory replies to his updated status, then reread his message to Jevons. It was as good as it would be; he tapped send.

Various other craft passed them. Some were wherries, but others where lighters, carrying cargo to and from the planet surface. Several ships’ cutters tore past, racing for bragging rights. A barge, bearing the revolving green lights of a flag officer; an ambulance with flashing lights; several black-hulled buoy tenders. They overtook a cluster of station tugs guiding a wounded frigate; Jack saw carbon scoring and twisted metal, and noted that the frigate’s engines were dark. Orion was her name - Captain Wilcox’s ship.

Once they were past the frigate and its retinue, Jack made out the victualing wharf. Several vessels were tied up along side it, loading and unloading. One was clearly a T-2 - Jack recognized the long, somewhat rounded profile, not unlike a loaf of bread - and clearly, as Jevons had described, in need of a paint. Faded lettering across her stern, some of it raised, read ROTH.

“Bravo-oscar-six-five-three, Roth.” said the wherryman into his microphone, telling the victualing wharf’s traffic controller that he had Roth’s commanding officer aboard. Jack’s eyes searched his craft, picking out details, assembling a sense of her condition and capabilities: old, high-mileage, and overdue for a refit. The engine nozzles were dark since she was plugged into the wharf’s power grid, and looking into them Jack noted that they were not original: Algonquin-Electric 300 series, probably 375s. Premerger, based on the tail cones. Reasonably maintained, though that bluing at the number two nozzle's inner edges suggested that the fuel mixture was too lean. He tried to remember whether the T-2s used a single- or multi-point injector setup. He had read a case report of a multi-point system being retrofitted, but that had been on a private vessel; would Whitehall be willing to spend the money on a T-2?

The wherry slowed as it drew close to the gate, and the wherryman began fiddling with his docking controls. With no more than the usual jolt the docking rings mated and locked, turning the wherry’s mood lighting blue. “Here we are, sir, gate C-9,” said the wherryman, “and an uncommon fast and smooth trip it was."

“So it was,” said Jack, tapping his ID to the reader, then typing in the value of his tip and swiping his thumb. He removed his headsets and unbuckled his harness, grabbed his hat and daybag from the seat beside him, and climbed through the hatch into the wharf.

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Truth and Beauty 3-4

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At the launch pad the tractor backed them into the catapult, guided by a yellow-shirted handling officer. Two green-shirted launch jockeys fitted the bridle and surcingle and verified the launch weight with the wherryman. The wherryman wiggled his control surfaces as the jockeys looked on, and once they were satisfied that everything was in working order they gave the thumbs up to the catapult officer.

“Seat belt,” said the wherryman, “all items away”. Jack stuffed his phone in his pocket and pulled each of the harness’s five belt tails to tighten them further. A dull whine escaped the catapult as it tipped the wherry back, back, back, a full 60 degrees back, so Jack lay in his seat.

Outside, the catapult officer gave everything a final look-over, then saluted the wherryman, who blinked his landing lights in response. Jack turned up the volume on his headsets.

“Bravo-oscar, six-five-three. Proceed next in queue for departure.”

“Bravo-oscar-six-five-three next in queue ten-four,” said the wherryman, loud in Jack’s ear.

Two moments’ silence. The wherry’s bell rang three double strikes for six bells: eleven o’clock. “Bravo-oscar, six-five-three” said the radio, “You are clear for take-off, path alpha-zero-five-two.”

“Bravo-oscar-six-five-three, alpha-zero-five-two, ten-four,” replied the wherryman. A rumble and hiss as the catapult charged. The catapult captain gave the signal, and the wherryman dimmed the windows, then moved his throttles to start.

Orange light filled the cabin, faint and flickering at first, then brighter and stronger as the wherryman pushed his throttles toward their stops. Tongues, then full sheets of flame raced past the windows. The wherry rattled and shook as the engines spooled up; Jack braced himself for launch.

The catapult flung them skyward, pressing Jack into his seat; the flames, the spaceport, the planet fell away.

Jack swallowed to pop his ears. The windows turned clear again, and soon the wherryman began to throttle back. The ride smoothed enough for Jack to make out the curvature of the planet in the patterns of light below. When the wherry banked into a turn he made out the arcing flame of the next launch.

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Truth and Beauty 3-3

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Half an hour later he was showing his ID at the Navy Yard gate, and ten minutes after that he was boarding a wherry for the victualing wharf. He strapped himself into his seat, put on the headphones given to him by the wherryman, and selected the Yard’s traffic departure control channel to listen to as a sort of background to his jumbled thoughts.

“Seven-victor-X-ray, seven-two-niner. You are clear for take-off path delta-three-two-seven.”
“Seven-victor-X-ray, seven-two-niner, delta-three-two-seven, ten-four.”
“Alpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner. Proceed next in queue for departure.”
“-lpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner. Next in queue, ten-four.”
“Alpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner. You are clear for take-off path beta-one-one-four.”
“-lpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner beta-one-one-four ten-four.”
“Zulu-sierra, six-three-seven. Proceed next in queue for departure.”

The wherry shook slightly as the pushback tractor engaged, then shook again as the wherry’s grounding clamp detached and retracted, and they were in motion, trundling across the cracked tarmac to one of the launch pads. Through the windows Jack watched the slow dance of the Yard traffic, dark shapes with flashing lights gliding between the steady beacons that marked the taxiways. In spite of it all, a smile found its way to his lips: he was going back to space.

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STO'B 5-1 Captain Fitton

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Chapter 5

“And so, sir, having been unable to locate Doctor M’Mullen, in spite of a thorough search, I proceeded back to the rendezvous for further instructions. That is, given the condition of the sloop I have the honor to command.”

Philip stood bare-headed in Rear Admiral Whyte’s day cabin in the London Bridge, giving his report to that man and his secretary, Admiral Halsey being with the inshore squadron off Toulon. Rear Admiral Whyte was one of Philip’s steady, reliable enemies, and Philip had known that he was in for a rough time of it ever since the lookouts had reported that Admiral Halsey’s Viceroy was absent from Mahon’s harbor, leaving the broad pennant to fly from London Bridge instead. Duty was duty, however, so a little before two bells Philip had had himself rowed over to where London Bridge lay moored with a steady stream of water discharging over her side.

The admiral, a fair-haired man with receding hair and almost comically oversized ears and nose, allowed the silence to stretch out. His secretary made use of the time to catch up with his notes, his pen squeaking as it worked across the page.

Philip wondered what questions the admiral could possible have left to ask. He had already quizzed Philip on everything from the set of Philip’s sails to how much wine Philip had drunk with his meals. The secretary’s pen ceased squeaking, and the admiral roused himself. “Remind me of your orders, Mister Fitton?”

Here it comes, thought Philip. “To safely and swiftly convey Doctor M’Mullen to Gideon’s Bay, sir, and any other locations as he might request, and then to rejoin the fleet here at Mahon.”

“Yet instead I find that you have lost Doctor M’Mullen, almost lost your sloop and another brig that you somehow managed to obtain, lost several of your men in a series of inconsequential affairs, expended a great deal of powder and shot for water that you could have obtained for free at Gideon’s Bay, and delayed the turning in of enemy signal books, am I correct?”

“In fairness, sir, we did destroy a Spanish frigate.”

“So you say. Which you outnumbered two to one. But you haven’t a scrap of evidence to back this up - not even the name of this supposed frigate. And as for fairness, Mister Browne of the yard tells me that there is not a sloop on the station, not a frigate nor yet a ship of the line that has called for half as many spars and timbers as you have. We give you a brand new sloop and you knock her to pieces with nothing to show for it and you speak to me of fairness? Remind me of how many Commanders there are on The List, Mister Fitton?”

“563, sir, as of last month.”

“And how many sloops for them to command?”

“112, plus another 37 in ordinary and 16 fitting out new, sir.”

Admiral Whyte allowed another silence to fill the cabin. Four bells struck. The secretary dipped his pen and wiped the nib, waiting for the admiral to begin again. “Unfortunately,” said the admiral, eventually, “I have no spare commanders within reach. And as we have need of the Badger, it will have to be you who takes her to Malta for a refit, and to return without delay. You will not dilly-dally about, nor will you go whoring after prizes, and to underscore the need for dispatch I will tell you that I am at the same time writing to Gibraltar for any of several commanders who are presently on the beach there, and if they arrive before you return I will turn the sloop over to them. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t find you here in a month’s time telling me that you need another refit because you single-handedly destroyed the French fleet?”

“No, sir.”

“You will wait on the gangway for my secretary to write out your orders and then depart for Malta without delay. You are dismissed.”

Philip bowed, his face burning. As he waited on the gangway for his orders, watching the stream of water that continued to run over the ship’s side, he reflected that London Bridge suited Admiral Whyte perfectly: neither was particularly seaworthy.

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STO'B 4-14 Captain Fitton

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Fragments of the Spaniard rained down, crashing into and through the splinter netting - balks of shattered timber, spars with ropes still attached, part of a gun carriage, the upper half of a man, not quite dead yet. Sailors ran about with buckets, dashing out the burning debris as it came aboard, and then a massive wave yanked the Badger from her moorings.

Gravity vanished. Water, wood, iron flew around and into Philip. A rope passed by. Crushing weight that pressed the air from his lungs. Someone’s arm. Noise: roaring, shouting, crashing; a cacophony that crested and receded, flinging him onto something broad and flat where he could at last draw breath again.

Time backed up and restarted, so that “Grab hold!” took place before the deck lurched, before he rolled over and found himself on the mole staring up at the sky across which tendrils of smoke drifted lazily in the breeze. He sat up.

His two brigs lay low in the water, leaning drunkenly into each other, curiously bare of their masts. Spars littered the bay, and bodies.

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STO'B 4-15 Dr M'Mullen

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He began to swim awkwardly toward the mole, pushing the crate before him with two hands, ducking as low into the water as possible as bullets and cannonballs continued to fly about him. The cat supervised haughtily, then turned about and leapt onto the mole as soon as it was close enough.

Abandoning the crate, Patrick swam over to the stairs, scrambling up them to find the cat sitting at the top, grooming itself beside a rusted bollard. “This is absurd,” Patrick muttered as a half-spent cannonball smacked into the stonework below him. A cluster of dilapidated stone buildings offered shelter along the land side of the mole; Patrick ran for the nearest one, scurrying in behind its far side and sitting down with his back against its wall. Eventually the firing would stop. Then he could see who won, rejoining Philip or melting into the countryside as appropriate.

For the meantime he felt his pockets for his rosary. It wasn’t there. A handful of pebbles made an unequal substitute.

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Truth and Beauty 3-2

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Jack stared at his orders. The blood ran from his face. “Roth?” he said, “Roth!? Porter! Porter there! Those two letters I gave you, do you still have them?”

“No, sir,” said the porter, looking up from his tablet. “I sent them directly, like what you said.” Seeing Jack’s face, he went on, “the boy may have dawdled at the corner, though, so I may be able to get them back.”

“Yes, yes!” said Jack, now starting to pace. Was he better off writing to Uncle Rufus or the Undersecretary? He was still working through the reasons for either when the porter returned.

“No, sir,” the porter said, “the butcher’s daughter is out on a delivery so the boy didn’t have reason to stop. I should think he’d have them delivered in forty-five minutes or so, depending on the tube. Are you okay, sir,” he added, for Jack now leaned against the wall, one hand to his forehead. “Would you like to sit at the bar? Allison is on her break but I could fetch you a glass of water?”

Jack said nothing, but allowed himself to be led to the bar, and when the porter placed a glass of water in front of him he mechanically took a sip. A vision of Jevons’ rosy, slightly drunk face flashed into his mind: “I’ve been superceded! Some fool used Parliamentary influence to get appointed to the Roth, probably thought she was a frigate, ha ha ha!”; followed immediately by the table in his copy of Darcy’s Sheet Anchor, where the fleet oilers were classified as brigs for command purposes, along with transports, small exploration vessels, and some experimental vessels; then Jevons again, before he had been superceded: “perhaps I’ll be promoted, some day.” And bumbling Uncle Rufus, so pleased with the miracle he had performed.

“Who is more the fool,” he asked aloud, “the fool, or the fool he leads?” He pulled out his phone again, queried the current location of the Roth, and found that she was still at the victualing wharf.

“To the swabs,” he said, lifting his his glass, draining it, and replacing it on the bar. Then he picked up his day bag, left a tip for the absent Allison, and left the inn.

Outside, the streetlamps were burning brightly. He checked his phone: two minutes after ten o’clock: plenty of time to get aboard the Roth before midnight, when Sunday became Monday and lawful arrests for debt could again be made.

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Truth and Beauty 3-1

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Chapter 3

Jack did have to report aboard that night, but first he had to forward his mail, arrange for the return of his library books, write and post a letter of thanks to the Senior Undersecretary for the appointment, write and post another letter of thanks to his uncle, and finally settle his account at the inn with his now elastic credit, so they would release his chest when he sent a midshipman (one of his own midshipmen, he thought with a smile) for it. This entailed packing, which in spite of his enforcedly frugal lifestyle included a phenomenal amount of possessions - no sooner had he strapped his chest shut and fitted its lock then he spied one of the trays sitting brazenly on the corner of the bed, forcing him to undo the lock and buckles and unstrap the chest to fit it in. And once he had figured out how to fit in the tray and was half way through strapping the chest up again it occurred to him that his sextant, presently in the lowest drawer of the chest, cushioned in a pair of socks, would probably be better off in his day bag so that he could sync it to Wrath’s central computer as soon as he was aboard and read in. Finally, during his last sweep of the room before exiting it for the last time he found one of his pistol’s spare batteries in the drawer of the bedside table, where he had carelessly left it after cleaning and charging it last night. Eventually, though, the trays were all situated in the trunk, the trunk was strapped, buckled, and locked; his sextant was safely in the side pocket of his day bag, his pistol and its batteries were all accounted for and packed; and he hauled the chest down to the lobby where he settled his bill and left instructions for the chest to be released when his (his!) midshipman called for it.

“Now,” he said, pulling out his phone to log into the Navy’s data site, “let’s see where she is.” A smile spread across his face as thought of the Wrath, that sweet little brig, his sweet little brig - to be replaced by a moment later by a frown. “That can’t be right,” he said, pocketing the phone, pulling his commission from an inner pocket, and reading it closely for what was in fact the first time:

By the right honorable Lord X_____, Knight of the Bath, Vice Admiral of the White, and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Vessels employed and to be employed in the Home Sector, &c., &c.,

You are hereby required and directed to proceed on board His Majesty’s Brig Roth to accept the charge of Officer-in-Charge of Her, at the same time directing all those Persons belonging to Her to accept You as Her Officer-in-Charge, and to conduct their Selves in their employments with all due respect to You, her commander; and likewise shall You conduct yourself in accordance with the General Instructions and with and Orders and Directions as You may receive from your Superior Officers in His Majesty’s Service.

For so doing this shall be your order and your Commission.

Neither You nor Any of You shall answer to the contrary, as You shall do so at your Peril.

Given this, the 22 day of October, at 0900 hours to John Richard O’Brian, Esquire, hereby appointed Commander of His Majesty's Navy.

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