“Quite right. Only the captain of a vessel can make a man – or woman – a warrant officer, and the Council reserved the legal right to appoint captains to themselves. They haven't signed off on Bill yet, so technically he's not yet captain of the Joan. But it's just a formality – he's bound to be confirmed in the post.” Or they'll have me to deal with, he thought but did not say aloud.
“Oh, and that reminds me,” Sam added with elaborate casualness, deciding that now was as good a time as any to break the news. “As of the first of the month, you are now Lieutenant (M) Marie Girard, a commissioned officer.” She stared at him in surprise.
“You may remember the little lecture I gave you when you first joined about the difference between warrant and commissioned officers – how one had to be qualified to captain a ship, and in the line of command, to be eligible for a commission? Well, we've created a new category of commissioned officers – staff officers, not line – who by virtue of their education and professional knowledge are given greater responsibilities than warrant officers, so a commission is justified.
“Congratulations, Marie. You are now the senior – and so far, the only – commissioned officer in the Navy's medical corps.” Marie blushed with pride and pleasure as Sam raised his after-dinner glass of rum-and-water in a toast.
“Thank you very much, Captain, for your confidence in me. It's a great honor, and I'll try to prove worthy of it.”
“I know you will, Marie. In fact, I'm sure of it.”
“Will Francois – Doctor Cheah – become a commissioned officer, as well?”
“Not right away. I'll approve his warrant, and then, if he displays officer-like qualities during a couple of cruises, I'll put through his promotion. I think a probationary training period is necessary – think of him as sort of a medical midshipman, although more senior, of course.
“And by the way: your promotion entails a very small raise in pay and a very large increase in workload. Cheah will be answerable to you, as senior MO, for the medical readiness of the Joan and the efficiency of her sick bay. You are also responsible for his professional development as a medical officer. These duties are, of course, additional to your current ones as MO of the Albatros.” And Sam grinned wickedly at her.
She laughed. “So my promotion is far from an empty honor, is it? Well, I'll try to cope. As far as the raise in salary – well, I'm fortunate enough not to have to live on my Navy pay – I'm the only child of rich and doting parents.”
“Oh? I didn't know that. What does your father do?”
“He's in partnership with two of my uncles as marine underwriters. You may have heard of the firm – Frères Girard et Cie?”
“Yes! Of course – one of French Port's leading marine insurers. I didn't make the connection with your name.”
“He's naturally very concerned about piracy – the firm has had to pay out large sums to owners of lost vessels, and has been forced to raise rates on vessels in the schooner trades. Needless to say, this was not a popular move with his customers, but all his competitors have had to do the same.
“By the way, he's mentioned several times how much he'd like to meet you – he's followed the career of the Albatros very closely in the papers, and has interrogated me about our battles until I was ready to scream. I can't make him understand that I'm always below, in sick bay, and know nothing about a battle except what the wounded tell me, and what I learn after it's over from my shipmates. He seems to envision me on deck in the thick of things, manning a gun. Perhaps you could come to dinner at my parent's house one afternoon, and he can hear all about it from you – it would be a great kindness to him. Of course, you would be free to bring a guest – Madame Dupree, perhaps?”
This wasn't the first hint Girard had dropped that suggested her intense curiosity about the nature of his relationship with Maddie Dupree. He had told Marie the truth as far as it went – that Maddie was the widow of his best friend, who had died in Sam's arms, a victim of the pirates, and that he felt a certain responsibility for her. He had kept his deeper feelings private.
“I'd be honored. If we have time before sailing, that is.” He didn't respond to the suggestion that Maddie should be his dinner date, in effect. When Sam failed to rise to this bait, Marie shifted the conversation to other things.
“This is the last night for our little dinners, isn't it, Skipper?
“Yes, I'm afraid so. The yard finished up today with a successful test of the motor-generator set and the new wiring. The port watch reports back aboard from leave tomorrow morning, and we'll then dead-shift back to the Long Pier to load stores.” They were quiet for a few moments then, both regretting the end of this short but pleasant interlude of busy days that concluded with cozy, intimate dinners and relaxed conversation. Sam wondered to himself at the speed with which they had become so close after months of barely-suppressed acrimony.
Sam was to wonder ever afterwards how exactly it had begun, which of them had made the first move. Marie had risen to clear the table, and Sam rose to help her. Their hands touched as they both reached for the same dish, standing very close. They looked into one another's eyes with a sudden awareness. The next instant, by a common impulse, she was in his arms and they were kissing; tentatively at first, then passionately.
We really, really shouldn't be doing this, Sam thought; how unwise it would be for a multitude of reasons, both professional and personal. He drew back from her and started to say this: “We shouldn't … “ was as far as he got. His hands, apparently beyond his conscious control, had strayed down her back to her small, rounded bottom, first stroking then squeezing. Marie uttered an involuntary sound like a low moan, pressing herself against him and kissing him fiercely. She removed her left arm from around his neck and her hand wandered down his front until it reached his bulging crotch, which she caressed gently.
Her touch, like an electric shock, drove every thought or emotion from Sam's mind except an overwhelming desire. He pulled her into his sleeping cabin, and, pulling at one another's clothing, they fell into his narrow bunk. There they kissed and fondled and gradually, somehow, managed to remove the multiple layers of clothing each wore, a process Sam found incredibly erotic.
There followed a night of passionate sex such as Sam had never previously experienced. All the emotional and hormonal back-pressure that had built up over a period of months, his strong physical attraction to Marie, his conflicted feelings and frustration about Maddie, combined to bring to his love-making a remarkable urgency. Marie responded with equal vigor and enthusiasm. After several bouts of love-making, each of which had ended with a shattering climax, they fell asleep in one another's arms.
After a few hours, Sam awoke when she arose and began to dress.
“Don't go yet,” he pleaded.
“Oh, Sam, what if we fall asleep again, and your steward returns from leave to find us in your bunk together? Imagine the scandal!” But she yielded willingly when he pulled her back down on the bed, and they began another round as passionate as their first.
Afterwards, they lay for a while in a sleepy post-coital embrace. Then she said firmly, “Sam, this time I really must go – it's almost dawn.” He released her, reluctantly, and watched her dress in the half-light of the shipyard floods filtered through his drawn porthole curtains.
Seen naked, her slight, small-breasted figure, and her complete lack of bodily hair – she apparently depilated her armpits and mons veneris – gave her the look of a barely-pubescent girl. But she was no timid young girl in bed. Sam would carry with him for a long time a contrasting image of Marie, atop and astride, riding him vigorously, her small, very firm breasts quivering as she moved, her head thrown back, eyes half-closed, face slack with abandon.
When she was dressed, she bent over the bunk and kissed him gently. “Good night, dear Sam – or perhaps I should say 'good morning'”. Then she was gone.
CHAPTER 13
The next day was such a busy one for both Captain and Medical Officer
that they had no opportunity for a private word. The port liberty section reported aboard just as the two little harbor tugs came alongside for the dead shift back to a berth at the Long Pier. Sam's new XO, Lieutenant Kendall, returned from leave early that morning, well ahead of schedule, and Sam gratefully accepted his help in overseeing the shift. Any damage to the schooner during the shift, however slight (such as a crushing of the plywood hull sheathing by too vigorous a contact of a tug against the vessel), was the responsibility of the tug company, but of course no tug master would never acknowledge his fault unless it was noted and logged as and when it happened. With two tugs, two responsible pairs of eyes were a great advantage.
Once the schooner was secured alongside the pier, and the tugs cast off, the day only got busier. A steady stream of stores for their next cruise – medical supplies, provisions, bosun's stores (paint, polish, cordage), bolts of sailcloth of differing weights and thicknesses, ammunition in four calibers and a dozen different types, sundry items for resale in the slop chest (the tiny ship's store, usually open for one hour a week and the responsibility of Mr. Weeks, the Purser) – all of the things needed by a ship for a voyage of indefinite length, with unpredictable opportunities for resupply, began to arrive at once, the drivers of the trucks they came in all clamoring to be unloaded first, claiming urgent duties elsewhere.
This was the same chaos a merchant vessel's master and mates had to deal with as sailing day approached, but on a much, much larger scale. At least Sam and Al didn't have to cope with the loading of outbound cargo at the same time. Nevertheless, they shared with the merchant marine the problem of having too few hands for too much work. The starboard liberty section would not return from leave until the next day. Only the port section was back aboard, and it was short-handed by virtue of the transfer of some seamen and petty officers to the Joan of Arc as an experienced cadre for her crew. The port section (the port watch plus half the “idlers”, or day workers, arbitrarily so assigned for purposes of leave and liberty) had enjoyed one day more liberty than the other in the Indian Ocean, on the last cruise, so the starboard section had been granted an additional day of leave to compensate.
The biggest headache was the delivery of a supply of vodka for the daily liquor issue – a considerable amount, since it was impossible to predict when operational requirements would allow them to call at an Indian Ocean port where rum was available. Kendall physically prevented the distiller's truck driver from beginning to unload the kegs onto the pier, where they would immediately become the Albatros's property – and her security problem. No seaman however honest could resist the temptation, if presented, of a free drink. The Purser, whose responsibility this would be in the normal course of things, would not return from leave until the next morning. His clerk (also named Weeks – an unmarried niece of his) was aboard, but she was a short, stout, middle-aged woman, almost pathologically shy; the idea of her guarding a number of kegs of vodka against a score of thirsty seamen was laughable.
Kendall solved the problem until the vodka could be loaded on board the schooner, and put securely under lock and key in the spirits locker, by posting the most reliable Leading Seaman of the larbowlines as a temporary guard, armed with a rifle (unloaded, but only Kendall and the LS knew that). He then left him to it, with a parting volley of dire threats: If a single keg is broached, if one milliliter of booze is missing, I'll not only bust you to Ordinary, I'll hang you from the bowsprit by your tiny dick. You got that, Leader? The young LS, eyes wide, assured the XO with great sincerity that he got it, and Kendall departed to deal with the half-dozen or so other crises that had arisen while he was dealing with this one.
Somehow, the stores were all loaded that day, an essential task, since even with a guard posted they could not be left on the pier overnight, exposed to the vagaries of Kerguelen's weather. In the interests of time, they were tumbled into the holds as they were hoisted aboard, in no kind of order. During the next few days, Kendall would have to oversee the complete restowing of the hold, in the interests of stability and access. But at least everything was safely below decks before dark, protected from the almost inevitable snow or rain squall the Rock could count on almost every day of the year.
That one day of frantic effort convinced Sam of the wisdom his choice of Kendall as XO. He seemed to be everywhere at once, Argus-eyed and remorseless, seeking out and chastising every slacker harshly and without favor or pity, correcting every error and anticipating every problem. He was the ideal second-in-command, the perfect right arm of a Captain, allowing the “old man” to play the benevolent philosopher-king, a wise and kindly father to his crew, but without sacrificing strict discipline, and seeing his orders executed to the letter. At the end of the day, Sam expressed a little mild approval: “You seem to have landed on your feet, XO; it's as if you've been in this job for an entire cruise rather than just twelve hours.”
“I learned at the feet of the master, skipper,” Kendall replied modestly. “Every time I was in doubt, I just asked myself: 'What would Bill Ennis do?' And the right thing came to me.” They both laughed.
“I hope Dave Schofield's working out as well for Bill, over on the Joan.”
“Dave's a terrific officer. I know he'll do well, once he gets a grip. Thing is, he's a mild-mannered sort – he'll have to learn that there's hardly ever time for gentle persuasion, that hands who go adrift need to be jerked up with a round turn, right sharpish, whether officer or seaman.”
“Well, he had the benefit of Bill's example, too, you know,” observed Sam. “I think there's plenty of steel at Dave's core – he just hides it well, normally.”
“No doubt you're right, Skipper,” replied Kendall diplomatically. But Sam could hear in his voice the conviction that he was right.
This exchange occurred across Sam's dining table. The XO was his only dinner guest – he had sent an invitation to sick bay to the Doctor to join them, but Smith returned the word that she was dining ashore. Sam felt a secret relief at this news, since he was not yet confident of his ability to relate to her as before, as if nothing had happened between them. Since both he and Al were too tired to bother with small talk, and nothing but the ship was on their minds, the rule prohibiting shop talk at table was tacitly suspended.
They were dining on food brought from the galley, the same meal the crew was eating. Cookie – a Mrs. Wilson, another relation of the Purser, this one a widowed sister-in-law – was in the starboard leave section, and wouldn't return until the next day. Ritchie was covering for her. The meal was the usual shipboard fare of fish, cabbage, and potatoes, but the fish and cabbage were fresh, since they were in port, and everything had been given the Ritchie touch: seasonings from the captain's private stores “borrowed” and used with an expert and subtle hand. Sam and Al found it delicious, and both were famished from a long day's work on nothing but a quick bite grabbed at noon, so they sent to the galley for seconds.
But the next morning, Sam overheard the enthusiastic welcome offered by those hands who were on deck to Mrs. Wilson as she ascended the forward gangway, wearing a clanking garland of pots, pans, and utensils she had brought from her own kitchen to supplement those in the galley. Mixed with welcomes were complaints about Ritchie's cooking – and apparently sincere complaints, not just implied flattery of Mrs. Wilson's cuisine. He reflected that sailors were a conservative bunch; they liked what they were used to, and they were used to Cookie's plain, wholesome fare.
But before that, Sam had been on deck at first light, as usual, and met the Doctor as she returned aboard, very early, still in shore-going rig – in her case, the daytime street wear of a fashionable French Port lady.
“Good morning, Doctor,” he said formally, for the benefit of the gangway watchman. “I hope your evening ashore was a pleasant one.”
“Good morning, Captain. Very pleasant, thank you.”
When they were closer, he said softly, “Marie, when you're at liberty, could we have a quiet word? A personal word?”
/> “Certainly, Sam. Now's as good a time as any.”
Sam led the way down to his day cabin, and closed the door firmly after them. He took both her hands in his, and paused, thinking carefully about what he would say. She looked like a person bracing herself for bad news. He finally said “Marie, mon amour, the night before last was très heureux, très joyeux – the most wonderful evening of my life. But I hope you understand that, under the circumstances, it was very unwise of us. So long as we're together aboard this ship, we must not repeat it. I hope you understand.”
“I do understand, Sam. It was what I intended to say to you, at the first opportunity. Perhaps, to make it easier for us both, I should exchange into the Joan of Arc. You would find Doctor Cheah very satisfactory as MO of the Albatros, I'm sure.”
Sam looked grieved at this suggestion.
“I would regret that very much, Marie. I would miss you not only as our doctor, but as a very dear friend, and the entire ship's company would miss you, too. Still, if you feel you must, I'll approve the exchange.”
There was a long pause, as Marie looked down at the deck, not meeting Sam's eye. Then she said, “Very well, Sam. I would hate to leave the dear Albatros and all my shipmates. We can make it work – we'll just have to be adults about it.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a hundred things to do in sick bay.”
She hurried away before he could see the tears in her eyes. If Sam had expressed the slightest desire to find some way to continue an intimate relationship, she would have instantly volunteered to resign her commission, if necessary – as much as she loved the Navy – and wait for him ashore, whether as his wife or his mistress. She felt, too, that it was foolish in the extreme for her to remain on the Albatros; she was afraid that Sam had only to ask and she would return to his bed. Indeed, she was quite confident of her ability to manipulate him into asking her, but not at all sure that she could resist the temptation to do so. She knew that the right, the only sensible thing to do to save them both much pain, was to exchange into the Joan, but she had found herself unable to insist on this in the face of Sam's obvious reluctance to have her leave the Albatros.
The Cruise of the Albatros Page 22