Westerly Gales by E. C. Williams

Author:E. C. Williams [Williams, E. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Published: 2011-07-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

“No rest for the weary,” remarked the XO philosophically, as he and his Captain watched the tired, dirty seamen completing the necessary repairs to the Albatros, while, a mile to leeward, a detachment was doing the same on board the Darling Companion. All hands had been given a hasty meal, preceded by a double ration of vodka—gratefully received—than had turned to again.

The motor sloop, with an armed crew, had then been sent up the winding creek from which the pirates had attacked both the Kiasu and the Albatros. If any resistance were encountered, she would set off a red rocket, to summon Albatros to her aid; otherwise, she was to investigate whatever was to be found there. Sam particularly hoped she would find and liberate the captives taken in the Mauritius raid.

They walked forward, to where bosun’s mates were reverently sewing their dead shipmates up in their hammocks, in preparation for a burial service. (The dead pirates had either gone down with the lugger, or had been thrown without ceremony over the side of Darling Companion.)

Sam forced himself to look at the face of each dead man, recalling his name and something about him—some aspect of his personality. He paused in shock when he saw the face of Midshipman Vanderveer, so recently a guest at his table. Usually so serious and competent that he seemed older, the lad’s face, in death, showed his true age; a mere boy, tragically young to die by violence. Vanderveer had promised to be an outstanding officer, and Sam had liked him very much; he was deeply grieved.

He surreptitiously wiped his eyes and proceeded down the line of corpses without a word. Vanderveer was the only officer dead, but there was a high proportion of petty officers. He and Bill would have to promote some hands to replace them—perhaps be forced to move people into positions of responsibility for which they were not yet ready.

Sam and Bill then went below to sick bay, which had been screened off from a forward corner of number one tween deck—most of which was now the berthing and mess deck for the starboard watch—to visit the wounded and check on their progress.

Sick bay was a place as bright and clean as Dr. Girard could make it, and as comfortable, too, for her patients. At her urging, the carpenter’s mates had run up hanging cots to replace hammocks – more comfortable for a sick or injured man, and more convenient and efficient for the interns in attending to them. The inboard fore-and-aft partition had been knocked down from its original position and moved further inboard, both to create more space, and to include a centerline ventilator, to bring down fresh air. The entire space was painted white, an exception to Sam’s no-paint rule that he had grudgingly allowed when the doctor had insisted that painted surfaces would be much easier to clean and sanitize than unpainted ones. She especially could not allow, she said, daily wire-brushing of exposed steel beams, disturbing the repose of her patients and generating clouds of fine iron-oxide.

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