Chack—and all his people, ultimately—had a lot of stuff to sort out, and as essential as it had become for them to enter the “modern world,” Matt felt a profound sadness as he watched Chack’s and the Lemurian people’s . . . innocence ... drain away.
The third member of the tribunal had been a slightly controversial selection. Courtney Bradford had been a civilian employee of Royal Dutch Shell before the strange Squall brought them to this world. An Australian, he’d been a petroleum engineer and self-styled naturalist. Quirky and brilliant, the man was also a moderately reliable pain in the ass in an unintentional, exuberantly oblivious sort of way. Despite his personality, Matt considered him an obvious choice for the assignment because not only was he Minister of Science of the Allied powers; he also enjoyed the dubious and well-deserved, if slightly nerve-racking, title of Plenipotentiary at Large.
Matt had been genuinely surprised when Commodore Jenks himself raised an objection to Courtney’s appointment on the grounds that this was to be a military trial and no civilian could sit in judgment of a military man. Matt countered with a simple question: “How many navies does the Empire have?” Jenks had been flustered, as if the question had never occurred to him before. Perhaps it hadn’t. He finally, thoughtfully, admitted there was only one Imperial Navy, and “Company” ships weren’t part of it. That being established, he readily, almost eagerly, agreed that it was perfectly appropriate for a civilian to sit in judgment over what were, ultimately, civilian pirates. As prosecutors, Jenks and his exec, Lieutenant Grimsley, had pursued and stressed the treasonous pirate theme throughout the trial, and Matt suspected they were practicing an argument that Jenks intended to lay before the Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy in regard to the actions of the “Honorable” New Britain Company as a whole.
Matt’s own exec, Francis “Frankie” Steele, reluctantly but competently presided over the defense, with Lieutenant Blair of the Imperial Marines to assist him. Despite their reservations, both men took their duties seriously and were scrupulously, almost torturously fair, but the preponderance of the evidence and the vast numbers of witnesses for the prosecution left them relying almost entirely on “reasonable doubt,” which was recognized by the Empire. Unfortunately for most of their “clients,” there wasn’t any doubt at all.
The trials were finally over, and this day had been dedicated to summoning the prisoners to hear their fate. A total of fifty-one HNBC officers and Company officials had been charged and tried. Of those, thirty-one had been found guilty of the capital crime they were accused of. According to the Imperial trial procedures and Articles of War that Matt had agreed were appropriate under the circumstances, there was only one possible sentence for them: death by hanging. Even now, the condemned men were being ferried across and hoisted, one at a time, to the tip of the main yard of Ulysses. Thirteen were guilty of arguably lesser crimes, for which they would be imprisoned at the first Imperial settlement they reached. Six were actually found not guilty of anything, as far as even Jenks could tell, other than being Company toadies who’d mistreated the naval personnel placed under their authority. They hadn’t had any idea what the true nature of their mission was.
Still staring at Achilles through the porthole, Matt was glad Ulysses was out of sight. He had no concern that they might be hanging innocent men, but he’d seen so much death in all its forms over the last couple of years, the cold-blooded, methodical hanging of men was not a mental image he needed to add to the album of his troubled dreams. Not while he was attempting to remain as objective as possible and trying very hard not to hate the Empire as a whole for what some of its people had done. Not while he thought he might enjoy the hangings a little too much . . . He glanced at the other “judges” beside him and sighed.
“Let’s get this over with,” he murmured quietly.
“Forgive me, Captain Reddy ... Captain Chack. You as well, Mr. Bradford,” Jenks said apologetically. “I knew I was asking a lot of you. Of you all. But this . . . process . . . was utterly necessary, I’m afraid. We still have a long voyage ahead, and an unknown situation awaiting us when we arrive. We haven’t caught up with Ajax and Commander Billingsley, nor had any of the ships we fought sighted or spoken them. With this delay to make repairs and the delay we must endure a little farther along while we await your replenishment squadron, I fear we may not catch Billingsley at all. We must assume he will reach New Britain, or one of the other main islands before us, and we must be prepared to counter his version of events. That assumes, of course, that he makes his presence known when he arrives. We have no conception of his agenda or how the Company means to use its possession of the princess—not to mention the other hostages. Taking the princess will have been bad enough, once known, but taking the other hostages, your people—” He stopped, knowing full well one of those “people” was the woman Matt loved. “That has made this an international incident,” he ended at last.
“It was an act of war!” Matt reminded him. “Besides the hostages he took, he destroyed Allied property and killed people when he did it!”
“Rest assured, Captain Reddy, I shan’t forget. It will be our business, yours and mine, to convince the proper people—hopefully the Governor-Emperor himself—just how significant an act that was, not only from the perspective of avoiding conflict between our peoples, but how that might affect our future cooperation against the Grik.” He frowned. “Trust me in this—having seen and fought those vicious buggers, I’m quite a fervent convert to your assertion that they pose a monstrous threat not only to our way of life but to all life on this world.” He gestured around at the compartment and, by implication, the proceedings underway. “This unpleasant business will have been expected of us, and not to put too fine a point upon it, many of these traitorous scum will actually escape the hangman if the Company is allowed to take a hand. In that case, not only will justice never be served, but we might find ourselves in the dock facing a—I believe you call it a ‘stacked deck.’ If we hope to accomplish anything when we reach New Britain, ours must be the official, legal, indisputable account of the events that have transpired.”
There came a knock on the passageway bulkhead beyond the beautifully embroidered curtain that had replaced the vile, stained pea green curtain that had hung there when Matt first took command of USS Walker a lifetime ago. The new curtain was still green so as not to clash with the cracked and bulging green linoleum tiles on the deck, but some Lemurian artist had lovingly embroidered the U.S. Navy seal and “USS Walker, DD-163” in gold and colored thread. The thing was beautiful, and in stark contrast to the spartan interior of the wardroom.
“Enter,” said Matt after a slight hesitation.
Juan Marcos, the bold, inscrutable little Filipino steward who had, by force of will alone, established himself as Matt’s personal steward/ butler/secretary, moved the curtain aside with a grim expression. The final prisoner to come before them was none other than the captain of Ulysses, the flagship of the Company squadron that had attacked them and then fled so ignominiously in the face of Walker’s vengeful salvos. As flagship, Ulysses carried the greatest weight of metal and the most powerful guns. She had most likely been the ship that fired those first unexpected broadsides that damaged Matt’s ship and killed several of her crew. The Company captain’s later protestations of innocence and remorse only added to the contempt in which Walker’s crew held him. He was a murderer and a coward. Currently, only his cowardice was on display. When the ’Cat Marines practically carried him into the compartment and he saw his own sword laid upon the table, its point arranged in his direction, he already knew the verdict and began to blubber. Any sympathy Matt might have felt toward the man evaporated, and his voice was harsh when he spoke.
“Captain Moline, it is the judgment of this court that you are not a naval officer and are therefore not subject to punishment for certain infractions of the Imperial Articles of War of which you have been accused—even though it’s my understanding you did swear, upon rece
iving your HNBC commission, that you’d abide by those articles. That being the case, this court has no choice but to find you not guilty of the crimes specified under articles two, three, four, twelve, thireen, fifteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty-seven of which you’ve been charged.”
Matt had never considered himself a cruel man, but he couldn’t stop himself from pausing, ever so slightly. Just long enough to see the first rays of hope begin to bloom in Captain Moline’s eyes. He abruptly continued, in the same harsh tone.
“However, even as a civilian, you’re still subject to certain specifications within those military articles, and of course you’re entirely subject to numerous civil charges as they exist for the protection and punishment of non-military subjects of Imperial law. No provincial Assize court or Home Circuit being in the vicinity, it’s my understanding that, according to Imperial law, this court must assume the duties normally prescribed for them. If you were being tried by a civil court, you’d certainly face at least the charges of high treason against your sovereign and nation, piracy, and attempted murder of a member of the Imperial family. I could add other charges, but there’d be no point. Any of these are capital crimes, and this court finds you guilty of all specifications.”
“But ...” Moline floundered desperately. “I was following orders! The orders of a representative of the Prime Proprietor’s personal factor!”
Matt paused and took an exasperated breath. He glanced at his notes. “Yes. You testified that a ‘Mr. Brown’ presented you with sealed orders that were to be opened in the event you sighted this ship—a ‘dedicated steamer with four funnels,’ you said. You also said these orders directed you to lure the described steamer as close as possible and destroy it without warning.”
“Despicable orders, but orders nevertheless!” pleaded Moline.
Matt continued relentlessly. “Orders you did not question? Commodore Jenks assures me that even masters of Company vessels are free . . . are required to question orders they consider criminal or immoral—it’s in your charter!”
“Much of what is in the charter has no meaning now,” Moline moaned. “Questioning orders is no longer encouraged or even allowed!”
“The charter reflects Imperial law. It does not supersede it!” Jenks accused. “Neither do the orders of rogue Company officials! Regardless of what the Company might or might not encourage or allow, you are still subject to Imperial law!”
Moline looked at Jenks and his eyes grew dull. “You have been gone a long time, Commodore. Who are you to say what supersedes what?”
Jenks jumped to his feet. “Honor supersedes treachery!” he practically shouted. “Duty to the Governor-Emperor supersedes any conceivable ‘duty’ to a Company ... creature . . . in the office of the Prime Proprietor!” With a visible force of will, he composed himself. When he continued, his voice was dry and emotionless.
“If your ‘Mr. Brown’ had not been so conveniently killed in the exchange of shot with this ship, perhaps some of what you say might be verified and your own guilt mitigated to a slight degree, but not enough to save you from a rope.” He glanced at his own notes. “You testified that these ‘sealed orders’ were destroyed as soon as you were acquainted with them, so clearly even ‘Mr. Brown’ recognized their criminal nature. It has been established by numerous witnesses that Ensign Parr, whom I dispatched aboard Agamemnon, duly reported to the first authorities he met—Company officials!—the survival and rescue of the princess, as well as her intention to take passage on this ship. Numerous witnesses—virtually Agamemnon’s entire original crew!—also report that they were transferred and sequestered aboard Icarus, a less powerful and capable ship, before they could report to any naval or Imperial authorities. Finally, both Icarus and Agamemnon were pressed into Company service! Imperial Navy ships and crews were illegally seized by, and placed into the service of, Company pirates bent on committing high treason! Regardless of any ‘sealed orders,’ these acts were no secret to you. That you continued in command of Ulysses is abundant proof that you made no objection to these other crimes at least, and obviously made no attempt to thwart them! Even if you are as utterly stupid as you would have us believe, you are at the very least guilty of being an accessory to a blatant act of piracy!”
Jenks paused, catching himself. His voice had begun to rise again and his fury toward not only Captain Moline but the HNBC itself threatened to overwhelm him. Matt suspected Jenks’s emotions were stirred by terror as well: not physical terror—he knew Jenks was no coward—but a growing terror of what they might discover his precious Empire had become in his absence. Matt could identify with that kind of terror: he felt it at the edge of his consciousness every moment of every day. He somehow managed to function and perform his duties—he had no choice—but he was genuinely terrified for the safety of one Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, who even now was still in the maniacal hands of the Company minion, Walter Billingsley . . . as far as they knew.
Matt cleared his throat. “Further demonstrations, protestations, or even admonitions are pointless at this stage. As previously stated, Captain Moline, you’ve been found guilty of the crimes described by Commodore Jenks. It is therefore the order of this court that you be taken from this place to the deck of the pirate prize Ulysses, where, according to the customs of your service, you will be bound hand and foot and hanged by the neck until you’re dead.” Matt glanced from the frozen form of the prisoner to the two Marines. “Get this bastard out of my sight.”
Brad “Spanky” McFarlane scrutinized the toil underway in the crew’s forward berthing space with a critical but generally satisfied eye. Standing in the steamy compartment where hardly anyone ever actually slept, he struck his trademark pose—hands on his skinny hips, his absolute authority over everything in his domain radiating from his diminutive but powerfully wiry frame. Before him, a party of’Cats adjusted shoring timbers while two men held torches against a warped steel plate, heating it to a dull reddish orange. Radiant heat from the torches and the steel they played against only added to the stifling temperature of the berthing space, even with the portholes open. Absently, Spanky wondered again what kind of idiot designed this ship and so many like her with the portholes in the forward berthing space so close to the waterline that they could almost never be opened—at least not in any kind of sea, or while the ship was underway. If it hadn’t been for the meager light they provided in daytime, he probably would’ve plated over them during the reconstruction.
Periodically, the smoking timbers were pounded against the plate, pushing it a little closer to where it had been before the large roundshot bent it inward. It was the last one; all the others that had been displaced nearby had already been reformed. The racket of the sledges against the timbers in the confined space was terrific.
“Almost there, Lieuten-aant McFaar-lane,” cried a ’Cat between blows. Spanky nodded. He was far more than a mere lieutenant now, he was “Minister of Naval Engineering,” or something like that, but he didn’t care. Usually he couldn’t even remember whether his “official” Navy rank was lieutenant commander or commander, but it couldn’t have mattered less to him. Nobody would try to tell him what to do when it came to his area of expertise, and right now, aboard USS Walker, doing what he was doing, he was the ship’s engineering lieutenant, and that was it. As far as he could recollect, he and the Skipper were the only officers currently on the ship still performing their “old jobs.”
Spanky and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear were inspecting the final touches on the repairs to Walker’s hull. They’d already fixed several similar perforations acquired during the sharp action with the Company traitors. The hole that opened up the forward engine room had been the worst, not only puncturing the hull—right at a frame—but also knocking a double hole through one of the saddle bunkers. They’d salvaged most of the fuel, pumping it into bunkers they’d already run dry. They even saved most of what leaked into the bilge, just in case, but fixing that damage had been their most
critical and difficult repair. They had found the roundshot that made the holes—and nearly took Brian Aubrey’s head off—rolling around in the bilge. Jenks identified it as a thirty-pounder. This struck everyone odd, since the Grand Alliance had sort of based its shot sizes on the old British system, and its closest equivalent was a thirty-two-pounder. The Brits themselves seemed to have abandoned the very system they brought with them—or adopted another. Oh, well, that wasn’t Spanky’s concern beyond the proof it provided concerning who’d shot it into them. Ulysses carried thirty-pounders. Even now, unless he missed his guess, her skipper was swinging for it.
“Nice to be able to fix something right for a change,” Bashear rumbled. It was a positive statement, but still came out with a tone of complaint.
“Yeah. Havin’ enough guys for a job makes a difference—not to mention havin’ somethin’ to do it with.”
Their labor pool and equipment list were far better than they’d ever been when they’d attempted similar repairs in the past; they had spare plate steel, rivets, and plenty of acetylene—even if it popped and sputtered—and Walker’s crew was actually somewhat over complement for a change too. Almost two-thirds of that crew was Lemurian now, but they took up less space and more would fit. Many were Chack’s Marines, who had shipboard duties as well. Spanky was generally satisfied with the growing professionalism and competency of all their “new” ’Cats, and he’d long been pleased with the “old hands,” who’d signed on as cadets when Walker first dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay, but there was just no way he’d ever get used to certain aspects of this new navy they’d created.
Rising Tides: Destroyermen Page 2
