Read Ebook: The admiral's walk by Merwin Sam Kiemle H W Henry William Illustrator

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Ebook has 130 lines and 8026 words, and 3 pages

THE ADMIRAL'S WALK

The thin little man in the blue coat with the tarnished gold braid sat at the desk in his cabin and wished for fatigue to overwhelm him. He was tired, tired with a fatigue which had been creeping slowly upon him in recent years--and had come on apace in the past few months. Now it was in his very bones.

It was the cold fatigue of an old man--and he was far from old as the world counted years.

He eyed the gleaming bottle of black West Indian rum that stood in its barricaded tray on the table to his left, and his blue eyes lit with a gleam of purpose. Forgetfulness, even sleep, lay in its turbid depths.

But such sleep was not for him with the night already so far spent. The morrow lay close upon him, the morrow toward which his every faculty had been sternly impelled for so many long and unrewarding months. And behind those months lay the many weary years.

Actually, until the issue was joined, there was little he could do. To show himself on deck would reveal a nervousness that might result in a disastrous echo among the men who relied upon him for victory.

His senses hyper-acute, he heard the slap of brine against the waterline, its rhythm never twice the same, yet never varied, so that a man could pick out the difference. He watched idly as the swaying cabin lamp made the shadow of the bottle on the table dance a minuet.

All around him was the wakeful dormancy of a mighty ship asleep--as other ships lay in similar unreal quiescence fore and aft, ships whose commanders were bound by oath to obey his every whim, bound by oath and the fealty his reputation inspired.

It was terrible to hold supreme command on the eve of battle; terrible and frightening. The light supper he had eaten lay heavy on his stomach.

Despite the battles he had fought, the victories he had won, such malaise had never failed to visit him when action loomed close. It was twenty-five years since he had first felt it.

Then he had led a malaria-ridden crew against the well-fortified defenses of San Juan in Nicaragua. It was a comparatively minor mission, one suited to a twenty-two-year-old commander on his first independent assignment. He had thought never again to be troubled with it once the victory was won.

Four times more he felt its sickness seize his vitals--at Cadiz, where he had first been wounded in a disastrous combined operations assault; in Aboukir Bay, where the foe had let him sink their warships one by one, like sheep awaiting helplessly the wolf; in the Kattegatt, and at Kronstadt, where for once no shot had been fired.

Now he felt its grip and his restless fighter's soul demanded some sort of action to prevent it from controlling him entirely. It was odd that he should feel it so keenly, for once action was joined, only icy water flowed in his veins.

He rose then, adapting his motions to the roll of the Atlantic beneath his ship like the veteran sailor he was. A short, angular, indomitable figure, he strode across his cabin to the admiral's walk aft. He was an admiral, was he not? Who had a better right to use it?

The sky was cloudy above the restless black velvet of the sea, and the shipboard sounds were clearer. Somewhere below one horizon lay the coast of Spain and the port of Cadiz where he had suffered the anguish of a shattered elbow. And somewhere below the other horizon lay the foe, the elusive foe he had pursued so long and so vainly.

It was a chase that had begun in January, just nine months before to the day. It had crossed the ocean twice, from Toulon to Cadiz, from Cadiz to Martinique, from Martinique to Cape Finisterre, from Finisterre back to Cadiz.

And now at last that he was within reach of his quarry, he feared their strength, for they outnumbered him by twenty-five per cent in capital ships alone. He wondered how best to overcome this advantage, for if he let them slip he might never get another chance as good.

He saw then that the ship behind his own was out of line and frowned. Were blunders by individual commanders, the bane of all fleet admirals, to begin already? And then he saw that not only the next ship but those behind it were well to starboard as he stood.

His own ship must be in disorder. He lifted his head before turning back to go on deck and give the necessary orders, heard the yaw of the ship beneath him as it swung a few degrees to get back in position. He smiled, issuing a self-reprimand for taking it upon himself even in thought, to correct the proper captain of the ship. An admiral, after all, was merely a guest on the flagship.

Lightning played through the clouds above him and he watched it, listening for the rumble of thunder that would inevitably follow. It sounded like the man-made thunder that was sure to roar and rumble on the morrow. Even the gods....

Suddenly, the whole sky seemed to light up in a blinding, terrifying glare. He thought it must have struck the ship, as his frail body was picked up and tossed through the air like a wisp of straw. And then his senses failed him and he no longer saw anything at all....

When he recovered consciousness he was lying in a corridor so strange that it might well have been heaven or hell. It was definitely not of any world he knew.

It was shining white and utterly bare of decoration. Light came from curious glowing rods set at intervals where wall and ceiling met. The floor, of some curious composition substance, was hard beneath his sorely bruised body.

Silently he cursed to himself, aware only with the ingrained habit of years of stern discipline, that he was not on his ship when he was needed most. Not until he had managed to stand upright by supporting himself against the wall did he reflect that he might no longer have a ship or a fleet to be needed upon.

He was surely the victim of some inexplicable catastrophe. Standing unaided, he rubbed his aching forehead.

Then, because to stand still was not in his nature, he began to walk along the corridor. He ignored the round-cornered doors, painted white like the walls, that appeared at intervals. At the end of the passage was a companionway and its steps offered escape, or at least observation.

Slowly he climbed it and then another stairway and nowhere did man appear to stop his progress or to offer information as to his whereabouts. Beneath the white paint the wall was hard, unyielding, metallic to the touch of his left hand. He climbed still another companionway, came to an open door and entered it.

He was in a medium-sized, square chamber, furnished with strange chairs and tables of shining metal and leather. Though he needed urgently to rest himself, he glanced at their proffered comforts only briefly. His keen blue eyes had spotted a bookcase against the far wall.

His light brows drew together as he studied the titles on their backs. They were in English, but the titles were as unfamiliar to him as were the bindings upon which they were printed. There were a book on navigation by a man named Bowditch, a set of volumes on sea power by an Admiral Mahan, a nest of volumes on something called radar by a man with an unpronounceable name.

From them, alien as they were, he derived some satisfaction. He was either on a fantastic sort of a ship or in some place where ship lore was a topic of discussion. He looked further and his blue eyes bulged. His own name stared back at him in letters of gold leaf.

Plucking the book out, he leafed it open incredulously, sat down on the nearest alien metal and leather chair--which proved surprisingly comfortable as it gave just enough beneath his weight. Using his left hand dextrously, he turned to the contents page.

It was then that voices at the open doorway caused him to look up abruptly.

"... no actual damage done beyond what we have already suffered, sir," said one of them. "But it was close."

"We should be out of the pattern, Smithers," said another, deeper voice. "Once we're out of the area we may be able to dock her ourselves. So at least our mission has been accomplished."

"Then we're definitely doomed, sir?" the first voice inquired. Like the other, he spoke incisive English, but in accents unlike any the listener had ever heard.

"The Geiger counters tell the story and it's all bad," came the reply. "It's all right for you and me--but when I think of the men ... well, I'm not sorry we gave the devils what we did. They had it coming to them."

"They did indeed, sir. It's odd about the men. Mass hysteria is the last thing I'd have figured on, even under the present circumstances."

"Such things are not new to the sea, Smithers. But the men who reported it didn't seem hysterical."

"But reporting sight of a fleet of square-riggers, sir--square-riggers under full sail--twenty or thirty of them. It's way beyond me, sir."

"Beyond me too, Smithers. Good night."

Retreating footsteps sounded outside and then the door was shut as a tall, burly man with a heavily sunburned face stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

He moved to a wall shelf behind whose gleaming twin rails stood a carafe and glasses and poured himself a drink. He wore khaki trousers, a khaki shirt, open at the neck, with four little stars at the collar, and a strange headgear, like a skullcap with a long crimson brim.

He poured himself a glass of water, drank it with relish, put the glass down, turned--and saw his visitor.

"Omigosh!" he exclaimed, passed a hand over his eyes and looked again. He came halfway across the room, staring as if at a ghost.

"Omigosh!" he breathed again. "Are you real?"

"I begin to wonder," said the little man, rising from his chair. "Who are you?" The unconscious arrogance of years of command was in his voice.

The big man with the stars on his collar came swiftly forward, put a hand on Nelson's shoulder as if to make sure that he was real, and stared at him. As an afterthought he pinched himself hard.

"Square rigged ships in the light of the blast--and Horatio Nelson in my cabin!" he muttered.

"Since you know my name, why do you persist in doubting my reality?" the one-armed admiral asked with a trace of impatience.

Without answering the other went to a wall cupboard, opened it and took out a bottle. He got the pitcher and glasses from the railed shelf and put the collection down on the table in the center of the room.

"Say when," he said. "I think we both need this. I'm Admiral Edward Kirkham of the United States Navy. Your health, Admiral. And don't bother to drink mine. I haven't any, you see."

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