by Glen Cook
“I thought you had to be born into it.”
“Not always.”
“I’ll have to think....”
“Of course. You’ve plenty of time. Just let me know before the Meeting.”
Kurt felt relief. Plenty of time. From what he had heard, it might be a year before the fleet reached Australia.
The interview quickly ended. In his excitement over his wife’s visit. Beck was eager to have him gone. And, of course, Kurt was eager to get to Fitzhugh’s shop.
But Gregor, of whom he had seen so little these past three weeks, intercepted him in the passageway as he was departing. “Come to my room a minute,” he said. Kurt recognized an order.
Gregor closed the door. “What’re you and Beck up to?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me here, Kurt. I’m Gregor, remember?”
Gregor, Kurt thought, a cousin I loved as a child, a mystery of a man, a friend who had become a stranger.
“What’re you and Beck doing? Are you going over to the Political Office?”
“Gregor! No! We just talk, like anybody talks. Women, history, ships, weather, women. Sometimes we play chess. He’s very good.”
“Maybe it’s all innocent, then. But you should stand clear of him more. You’re picking up the smell. Some people think you’re spying....”
Kurt put a finger on something that had been making him uncomfortable for weeks. Men he thought were friends had been avoiding him. Not openly, of course, but just not appearing in parts of the ship he frequented — he’d been too immersed in his studies to notice earlier. It hurt. “Paranoia!” he growled. “You, Hippke, and whoever else’s in on your plot are as crazy as Beck.”
Shadows surrounded Gregor, who stood near his bunk at the far wall. He jerked around and away with a startled exclamation — and Kurt gaped momentarily. For just yesterday there had been a furtive man in the shadows at the rear of Fitzhugh’s shop, getting out of sight with sudden movement. “Get out, Kurt! And whatever you’ve seen or heard, or think you’ve seen or heard or know, keep it to yourself.” Gregor lifted a hand, hit himself in the forehead. “Ask Commander Haber to bring me some aspirin.”
How sudden that was, Kurt thought, remembering that Gregor always suffered severe headaches in time of stress or fear. Or had he been frightened already? Did he really think I’d betray him?
Kurt’s anger would not fade. He could not resist a parting shot. “For God’s sake, tell Hippke to stop making an ass of himself with those stories about the freecorps. He doesn’t know a thing about them.”
After speaking to Commander Haber, he went topside, looked aft. Damage Control was still working with the screw, but he had no time to watch. He had to get off the ship. The gray walls were closing in....
Soon, dictionary under one arm, he entered Martin Fitzhugh’s antique shop. “Hello, Kurt, hello,” the old man said, almost dancing. It seemed he had not expected Kurt to return. It had been this way every morning, all through the weeks. Perhaps, Kurt thought, Martin had been abandoned before.
“Good morning, Martin,” he replied, concentrating on his pronunciation. “To study?” Kurt’s English was still very rough — it came to him much harder than had Danish — though he could manage ordinary conversations.
“Not today!” Toward the end of the first week, Pitzhugh had given up trying to make anything of German. Too hard to leam, he had said, with a comment about old dogs and new tricks. Kurt had laughed and told him he should try English. “How was the book?” Fitzhugh asked.
“Not good, what I read. Why do we study not?”
“I want to go outside.”
“Ah?”
They had become good friends over the weeks. Kurt had discovered, to his delight, that Fitzhugh was not at all self-conscious about his deformities — which relieved his own self-consciousness and made dealing with the man much easier. And they had common interests.
“Why not? Business is terrible, and I want to see the fleet before it leaves. That’ll be soon now, I think.”
“Why think you that?”
“Oh, I hear things here and there. I get around. And I know people from up there.” He jerked his head toward the heights. His face expressed loathing. Kurt had been surprised when first he heard the old man express dislike for High Command, but no more. Gregor might have been here. Beck said there were spies on the Rock. Who less likely to be suspected than a crippled old shopkeeper?
“Among other things, boy, High Command’s bothered by the restlessness aboard the ships. They’ve been squabbling over what to do about all the young men who can’t see any reason to get killed in this thing, the ones talking about going home. Always been those at any Gathering, but not near so many as this time. Times are changing — even in the Political Office.”
“I had not noticed,” said Kurt.
“No, you wouldn’t. Not on your ship. And High Command’s covering it up. The real trouble’s among the Spaniards and Portuguese — they’re so close to home. If the fleet doesn’t sail soon, there’ll be a blowup — they know that up there. They don’t know they’re running late.”
Kurt frowned, remembered Beck’s words to the same subject. He did not like it — too unpleasant.
“Be a good lad and fetch my wheelchair from the back, will you? We’ll go up and take a look at the fleet — if you don’t mind pushing me, that is.”
“I do not mind. But we cannot go up. Once I was warned already.”
“You went to the wrong place. We’ll go where they don’t mind.”
Kurt returned a moment later, pushing the wheelchair. Fitzhugh had donned a long, heavy coat in the meantime. “Get me that blanket there,” he said, pointing while seating himself. Kurt tucked it in around the warped body, then wheeled Fitzhugh out the door, locked the shop, and asked, “Which way?”
“Left, and straight up the street to the end.” They wove through crowds of sailors from many nations. The crush had become oppressing. The Gathering had doubled in size.
An hour later, as they followed a path high up on the Rock, Fitzhugh pulled out an ancient pocket watch and said, “Hurry! We’ve got to go faster.” Mystified, Kurt went faster and hoped for an explanation. They reached a wide, flat place. “Stop here!” Fitzhugh ordered. “Turn me so I can see.”
The fleet lay in panorama below them, rank on rank of battered ships. Kurt thought it a marvel that some had survived the trip to Gibraltar. As if reading his mind, Fitzhugh growled. “They’re a sorry lot.” He stole a peek at his watch. “They get worse each Gathering. I expect this’ll be the last made up of steam-powered ships. They may go back to wooden vessels, sails, and muzzle-loading cannon soon — unless something’s done to stop it.”
“What?”
“Watch the Spanish and Portuguese ships!” the old man snapped, pointing with his claw hand. Kurt stared down at the little covey of destroyers and corvettes. “Here,” said Fitzhugh. He pulled binoculars from beneath his blanket. “Look close. And give them back quick if anyone comes along.”
Kurt stared through the glasses. Several minutes passed before he saw anything of note. “It appears that they are going to hang someone on one ship.”
“Ah?”
“NeM. On each ship! Three men on one. Liebe Gott They are Political Officers....”
“Anything else?” As he asked, a faint pop-pop-popping of small-arms fire reached them. Smoke curled up from the stacks of the six vessels, grew rapidly heavier. Men appeared on forecastles, cast off mooring lines. Gun batteries tracked right and left. It looked well-planned and timed.
“They’re going home,” Fitzhugh said in early response to a question Kurt was about to ask.
“Will not the High Command object?”
“Undoubtedly. Look around the point. See what the battleship’s doing.”
Kurt turned. High Command sailors were running aboard the huge warship. “To action stations they are going.”
“Looks like they’ll have to shoot their
way out.”
“They will not escape,” Kurt growled. He wished his English would give his emotions more freedom.
“Maybe, maybe not. You might be surprised. But, win or lose, they’ll’ve set an example by trying — which is more than anyone’s ever done. Gives an old man hopes of seeing the War die before he does. Word of this gets out, maybe nobody’ll answer the call to the next Gathering.”
“What is your part in this, Martin?” Kurt stared at the old man, wondering, remembering the dark sailors who had come and gone from the antique shop during the past three weeks, the Gregor-man furtive in shadows. He had thought little of them until today. With pretended innocence, he asked, “Are you an Australian agent?”
Fitzhugh’s eyes widened in surprise. Then he burst into laughter, almost toppled from his seat.
“What is funny?” Kurt demanded. He was growing annoyed.
“Boy, you wouldn’t believe a word if I told you. You just watch what happens down there.”
Kurt lifted the glasses. “You may tell me.”
“No, I may not. Not just yet. Maybe later, after you’ve seen this. There’s your friend, Beck — a problem. Tell you what. Ill explain if you still haven’t figured it out by the time you get back from the Meeting.”
So. Fitzhugh knew of Beck. Kurt had never mentioned the man. Now he was certain he had seen Gregor in the shop yesterday. “Tell me, Martin.”
Fitzhugh shook his head slowly. “You just watch those ships. You’ll see something I’ve prayed for all my life — the first loosening of High Command’s grip.”
“Why will not you tell me?”
‘Time, and Beck. But I’ll see that you know what’s behind it all. Eventually. What’s happening?”
“The ships are getting underway.”
“Any others look like they might join in?”
“I do not see any. Gottverdammte! A tremendous roar passed overhead. A moment later, there were almost simultaneous booms from the anchorage and the Rock above.
“Holy Christ!” the old man bellowed, excitedly standing in his wheelchair. “They’re doing it. They’re really doing it! Again! Again! Get the antennas!” He shouted something more, but his words were lost as another salvo roared overhead.
Through the glasses, Kurt watched as all six vessels opened up with main and secondary batteries. Gibraltar shuddered as a ragged salvo exploded around the peak. A swarm of three-inchers racketed over and hit, too close for Kurt. “Martin! Out of here we must get.”
“Why? They re not shooting at us. You look down there and let me know what’s happening. Let me do the worrying.” The top of Gibraltar now received a steady pounding. Glancing upward, Kurt saw a salvo fall amidst the forest of radio masts.
“That’ll clog the gears for a while!” Fitzhugh shouted. Kurt turned back to the ships. They were leaving the anchorage in line astern, gathering speed rapidly. Around the point, the battleship was getting her anchor up. Her guns turned toward the rebels. Nine waterspouts rose a few hundred meters beyond the destroyer leading the line. A moment later, Kurt heard a rumble like that of distant thunder.
“Battleship opening up,” said Fitzhugh. “She’ll have a hard time using her main battery, this close in. Wish my eyes were better.”
Kurt watched the lead ship shift her guns from Gibraltar to the battleship. Her automatic five-inchers, each capable of forty-five rounds per minute, snarled defiantly — like a house cat cornered by a tiger. Destroyer against battleship at half a kilometer was hardly a match, yet, as she began running an evasion course, the smaller ship shot everything she had. There was no missing.
Flashes of light, puffs of smoke, flying metal, engulfed the giant warship. Most of the shells did little real damage because they hit massive armor plating, but the superstructure suffered considerable ruin.
Then the battleship, like a sluggish giant, spoke again, with the mouths of dragons. The leading rebel stopped being. The other five ships hurried on, trailing the smoke of their muzzle blasts.
“Hit her fire control!” Pitzhugh shrieked. “Knock out her fire control!”
The destroyers and corvettes slipped past. The battleship tried to get up steam to chase them. Her guns continued thundering, but with less effect. Perhaps, as Fitzhugh demanded, her fire control had been destroyed and they were now being aimed by optical systems.
Kurt looked back at the rest of the fleet. There was fighting on one small ship near where the rebels had been moored, but, otherwise, nothing happening, except that decks were crowded with curious men, men who could see next to nothing. The firing was taking place around a corner of the Rock, out of sight of all but a very few ships — and the rebels were now making smoke to confuse the battleship’s gunners.
“You’d better take me back down now,” said Fitzhugh. “High Command’ll order all liberties canceled soon. And I’ve got something to give you, something to explain everything.”
Shaking, Kurt returned the man’s binoculars, glanced at the three surviving ships fleeing to the southeast, then started down with the wheelchair.
They were halfway down when the guns fell silent. “Faster now,” Fitzhugh commanded. “They’ll soon start thinking, up in the War Room.” Under his breath, he added, “I wonder if they’ll make it?”
Crowds of mystified sailors milled in the waterfront streets. They asked one another wild questions, and gave the wildest answers: Australians had attacked, but been beaten off; an ammunition ship had blown up; the Rock’s defensive guns were holding target practice.
“Some ships rebelled against High Command,” said a sailor who seemed better informed than his fellows, in English, the most common tongue there. “They shot then-way out, and now they’re going home.”
This rumormonger was different. Kurt saw it in his face — a face faintly familiar. Was he one who had come to visit Fitzhugh recently? Surely he was spreading the word intentionally. Kurt was certain he winked at Fitzhugh as he passed.
“Quick! Inside the shop!” the cripple ordered. Kurt saw he was staring down the street at a party of Political Officers working through the crowds, apparently searching for someone. Kurt hustled the old man into his shop.
“Lock the door again.”
He did. “Can you not explain what is happening?” he pleaded.
“No time now, Kurt. But you can figure it out for yourself.” He wheeled his chair over to the table where they had spent so many hours studying. A stack of books rested on it. “Take these. They’re mostly novels, there to cover the important one, the one that’ll help you understand.”
Kurt surveyed the titles. “Wrap them up.” Fitzhugh offered him a large rag. “Good. Now get back to your ship while there’s still enough confusion.”
“Why? What is wrong?”
“Nothing — unless you’re caught carrying that copy of Ritual War. That’s a death penalty, son. Go along now, and beware of Marquis.”
“Marquis?”
“Code name for a Political Officer, true name unknown, on your ship. Not Beck. His code’s Charon.”
“I will.” Confused, yet impressed and frightened by the old man’s urgency, Kurt said a hasty farewell, shook Fitzhugh’s good hand, and hurried out.
He reached the pier as one of Jager’s boats was about to leave. A shout held it long enough for him to pile into a seat next to a pale, frightened Hans Wiedermann. “What’s the matter, Hans?”
“I don’t know. Political Officers came down from High Command and told everyone to go back to their ships. What’ve you got?”
“Huh?”
“What’s in the package?”
“Oh. Some books I bought to study. English.”
“Can I see?” Kurt pulled several from the bundle and prayed his memory had not played him a trick. He remembered the dangerous one as being at the bottom. He handed three to Hans. The little Boatswain studied the dull covers, opened each, glanced at such illustrations as there were, and asked, “What are they?”
Kurt leaned ov
er and looked. “The red one’s a novel. For Whom the Bell Tolls. The green one’s a geography book. The other one’s another novel, A Tale of Two Cities.”
“What else have you got? Anything with pictures?” Kurt took the three books back and returned them to his package. “No pictures. Just novels: The Anger Men, The Guns of August, Andiron Blue.”
Hans shrugged, leaned against the gunwale, closed his eyes, said, “I hope we leave soon. Just sitting here’s driving me crazy.”
“Ran out of potatoes, huh?”
“Didn’t run out. If you’d wake up, you’d know von Lappus cut us off. Put an armed guard on the spud locker.”
One of the few extant motorboats roared past, rocking the whaleboat with her wake. It sped toward the cluster of aircraft carriers. There were now six of the battered old queens anchored out, with perhaps a hundred makeshift planes between them. Not much of a strike force. Kurt wondered what the Australians had.
A bit later, as the whaleboat eased in to the foot of Jiiger’s accommodation ladder, planes began leaving one of the carriers. Kurt at first found the launch surprising. Fuel was too precious to waste on training.
The planes circled up and headed in the direction the rebel ships had fled. So, Kurt thought, they had outrun the limping battleship.
“What’s so interesting, Hans?”
“I’ve never seen planes like those. Where do you think they’re going?”
Kurt shrugged, said, “Who knows? Why don’t you ask High Command?”
Hans gave him a sharp look, then chuckled. “They never tell me anything. The other day I went up to look around. An old man with a machinegun ran me off without even telling me why.”
Hans stepped onto the platform at the base of the accommodation ladder. Kurt was a step behind. He quickly evaded Hans, once aboard, and hurried to the charthouse. There he mixed his novels in with the navigational publications. The dangerous book with the title The Beginnings of the Ritual War he locked in the safe. There would be time to look at it later.