Taylor Anderson: Rising Tides

“Why?”

“Many sit on the Courts of Governors and Proprietors. They are part of the government.”

“So? Look, Your Majesty, you’re at war. A lot of people have died. They’re still dying! Civilians, sir!” He pointed at the sea. “And out there! Damn it, my people on my ship, may be dying for your country! Too many of my Marines have already died! Don’t… lie there and tell me you won’t… inconvenience a few shady politicians! You can sort the good guys from the bad guys later, but right now you have to catch everybody who might have had a part in this before they get a chance to scram.” Matt looked around the room and shook his head. “Our plane, our… flying machine… must have gone down, otherwise it would have returned here to make a direct observation report. We don’t know what’s going on beyond your ’scope, so you need to get lookouts to all high elevations, here and anywhere you can communicate with, to watch for other landings.”

“Do you believe there will be more?”

“I don’t know. I would’ve made ’em everywhere I could at once, if it was me, but from what we’re learning about their plan, they may not have thought it necessary. Regardless, all those troops at the dueling ground and all those ships out there came from somewhere. It had to be someplace close enough for them to reach with that dispatch ship that left last week.”

“Good God, he’s right!” the Governor-Emperor said. “They must have been preparing nearby! Commodore, you must divine the location of the enemy base of preparation!”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Finally,” Matt continued, “you need to get all those officers off the porch. Put ’em to work or send them away, but your people don’t need to see a bunch of their leaders sitting around, goofing off after an attack like the one today, and with a naval battle still raging just offshore. Act like you’ve got everything under control and you know what you’re doing even if you don’t have any idea.”

Those remaining in the room were quiet for a moment. Thoughtful.

“Is there anything else, Captain Reddy?” asked the Governor-Emperor’s wife. Her tone said that he’d just voiced much of what had been on her own mind.

“Yes, ma’am. With all due respect, I’d get these learned witch doctors and their probes, saws, and nasty hands the hell out of here-and find Lieutenant Selass-Fris-Ar, if you want His Majesty to ever walk again.”

“A savage beast in here, tending His Majesty?” gasped one of the “witch doctors” in question.

“Not a savage beast, you fool!” Jenks stated harshly. “The only daughter of a respected figure in their Alliance-an alliance that has done no less than save our very Empire this day! What is presently more pertinent, she is also a practiced surgeon whom you’d do well to observe!” He looked at the woman kneeling beside his leader. “With your permission?”

Ruth McDonald hesitated only an instant before vigorously, tearfully, nodding her head.

“Please,” she said.

The Naval Battle of Scapa Flow lasted for the remainder of the afternoon and into the night as it degenerated into a seaborne version of the melee at the dueling ground. With the wind veering around and driving briskly out of the northeast, there was almost no sound other than a general rolling thunder that added to the impression that they were watching an intensely localized storm at sea. Lightning stabbed horizontally between vague, darkened shapes, and once there was a large, searing flash that signified the abrupt death of somebody’s ship and its entire crew. There was no way to tell whose it was. Several other ships burned like terrible beacons in the night until either they sank or their crews managed to extinguish the fires. It became impossible to discern how the battle fared. Matt never had been able to see Walker, and the bulk of the fighting appeared closer than she’d last been reported. Occasionally he saw ripples of gunfire much farther out to sea and hoped that meant she was still in the fight.

Matt and Harvey Jenks were both in a kind of hell, and paced back and forth between taking turns at the telescope to describe the action as best they could while an exhausted and harried Selass labored to save the Governor-Emperor’s legs. Gerald McDonald experienced almost miraculous relief when she applied the polta paste to his wounds, but his right leg in particular was badly damaged. She did what she could, but brusquely informed them that she might have to take it off in a few days, regardless. She couldn’t hide her resentment at being summoned from caring for the wounded at the dueling ground just to tend one man, no matter how important, and likely only his importance saved the House surgeons from injury several times when they made condescending remarks. Ultimately, exasperated by their unwillingness to credit any technique but their own, the Governor-Emperor himself sent the men away to ponder their futures.

Sean O’Casey (Bates) arrived near midnight and knelt beside the Governor-Emperor’s bed. Andrew Bates was gone. It was a tearful moment for many reasons, but the two old friends and playmates were reunited at last, and Matt got the distinct impression that Andrew’s position wouldn’t be vacant for long. He was glad, and hoped he was right. He’d finally figured out that Andrew was essentially Gerald McDonald’s “chief of staff” and the Governor-Emperor would need a good one in the times to come. Sean’s unique perspective would be invaluable.

Eventually Sean left, escorting Selass back to her other wounded. She’d done all she could, and now only time would tell. Despite his desire to see the battle end, Gerald drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning-an almost incontestable by-product of such a liberal dose of the curative paste-and Matt, Jenks, and an intermittently dozing Ruth McDonald were left alone to answer questions and pass instructions on behalf of the Governor-Emperor. Matt considered it almost surreal that he’d wound up in such a position, and Jenks probably felt the same way, yet it made sense too. The chaos of the previous afternoon was under control, and reports were returning from around the Home Islands. Not all the news was good, but things were being done.

By then, the sea battle had completely broken apart into widely separated duels between individual ships. Jenks was at a loss to explain the lack of any reports or dispatches from the fighting, but hoped it was a sign that the Imperial Fleet had managed to cut off any enemy retreat. It stood to reason, since the battle had lasted so long, so close to the island, with invasion now out of the question. If that was the case, the enemy would have been caught between the fleet and the crushing harbor defenses-but also in the path of any vessel bearing word.

Roughly two hours before dawn, Fitzhugh Gray was quietly escorted into the room by a Marine and a dark-skinned, matronly woman bearing a lamp. The woman gazed sternly at Matt and Jenks and checked on the sleeping Ruth. Clucking, she draped a light shawl across Ruth’s shoulders and eased into a chair behind her. Gray slumped exhaustedly into another chair, earning a disapproving glare of his own. He glared back, and then shrugged.

“Hell of a day,” he whispered gruffly.

“Yeah. Day and night,” Matt replied. “You okay?”

“Sure. A couple scratches. I should’a paid more attention to that jumped-up leatherneck Alden when he was passin’ out bayonet lessons.”

“Sorry I haven’t been down to see the fellas,” Matt said.

Gray waved it away. “You been busy, Skipper. Ever’body knows where you are, and what you been doin’.” He looked at Jenks. “A full-blown, man-sized war is a hell of a thing, ain’t it?”

It was a jab that went back a long way, but Jenks wasn’t offended. He’d now seen this kind of war himself before. “Yes, Mr. Gray. Yes, it is. Murdering noncombatants has never been our way, but like yours, it seems my people have now had a dose of a kind of war in which there are no noncombatants.”