"And She's not talking," Alston said. "Hmmm. Reserve buoyancy's low, too-hard to recover from being pooped."
Trudeau came to the defense of his ship. "Apart from shipping water over the bow, she's a honey with her paddles going. Very maneuverable."
Alston nodded. Unfortunately, that didn't solve their problem. Even burning coal, which could be gotten here in Alba, her engines were and would remain fuel hogs-reliable, and they gave her a good twelve knots, but useless for oceanic voyages. There was little point in having a steam ram-gunboat that arrived at the scene of action with her fuel bunkers dry, particularly when, for all her three masts and ship-rig, she wasn't too handy under sail.
"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to nurse her along," Alston said. The design had to be a compromise; the characteristics of a ram and a blue-water sailor just aren't all that compatible. "You got her heah across the North Atlantic. I've every confidence you'll be able to get her down the Bay of Biscay and to Gibraltar with us, God, Moon Woman, and the weather willing."
The two American-born touched wood; Swindapa made the Fiernan triple-touch gesture of reverence.
"And the dockyard's ready to help with the installation of the bow plating, Captain Trudeau," Alston went on.
Trudeau saluted. "Yes, ma'am-although that makes her even worse."
Swindapa sighed as he departed, then said, "It's time, love."
They went below, through the twitter of pipes and the ritual calls of an officer leaving the ship, into the great stern cabin. Dhinwarn sat on the big bunk, her daughter's adopted children on either side, looking up as she told a story with an arm around either shoulder. They looked slightly incongruous in sailor suits next to her Fiernan string skirt, which was what they'd been wearing for the past couple of months at the Great Wisdom-or less. The girls bounced to their feet as their mothers came in.
"Mom…"
"Mom…"
Heather and Lucy looked at each other, and visibly decided to give it one more try.
"Do we have to go?"
"Yes, you do," Marian said, forcing a gentle smile. Come on, woman, you're a commodore. You're not allowed to bawl. It'd scare the troops. It'll only be for a few months.
"Come on, now, you don't want to miss the tide," she said.
"Yes we do! We want to go with you!"
"We could stay below if there's trouble!"
"We could carry powder up from the magazine!"
Swindapa crouched and hugged Heather as the child ran to her, stroking the red head and its braids. "We want you safe," she said.
Marian nodded, cupping a hand under Lucy's chin. "We're going into action," she said. "You wouldn't want us worrying about you, now, would you?"
"Can't we stay with Grandma, then?" Lucy said, her great brown eyes filling with tears. "We'd be closer to you."
Dhinwarn laughed. "That would be dancing-rightly with me," she said in Fiernan; she understood English a lot better than she spoke it.
"No, sweetlin', because you'll have to be at school again soon," Marian said. "You'll be staying with Uncle Jared and Aunt Martha until we get home. That won't be too long, surely; perhaps we can be back for Christmas."
"Promise?" Heather said.
Marian kissed her brow. "No, because I can't be sure. Now come on, honey, sugar. Make us proud."
They took the girls' hands; both bravely stifled tears as they led them back to the quarterdeck. Their sea chests were there-sources of immense pride, with their names neatly stenciled on the sides, Guard-fashion: HEATHER ALSTON-KURLELO and LUCY ALSTON-KURLELO, and guard house, nantucket town underneath. So was the other luggage, souvenirs, boxed presents from their Kurlelo relatives, their favorite stuffed animals.
Captain Nguyen of the Eagle was there as well, saluting and then repeating the gesture smartly down at the two nine-year-olds. "Ready to go aboard?" he said.
The Alston-Kurlelo daughters looked at each other and shed a little of their solemnness. Uh-oh, Marian thought. It just occurred to them that they get a voyage without their mothers to squash the things they really like to do as too dangerous-and they think they can pull their charmer act on Nguyen.
"You might want to keep them in irons below until you make the Brandt Point Light," she said. "They're as mischievous as apes, the both of them, and what one doesn't think of to get into trouble the other will."
"Mom!" A wail of indignation.
Grinning sailors hoisted the luggage and went over the side and down the rope ladder to the Eagle's captain's gig. After a final exchange of hugs and kisses, so did Heather and Lucy. Nguyen shook their mothers' hands after his salute.
"Don't worry, Commodore, Ms. Swindapa. I'll see them and Eagle both home safely."
"I'm sure you will, Mr. Nguyen," Alston said.
Swindapa nodded silently, a single tear track running down the honey-tan of her cheek. It took more than rings on the cuffs to convince a Fiernan that they shouldn't cry when they were sad. The bosun's pipe twittered Nguyen over the side, and Marian stood with a hand shading her eyes. She smiled crookedly as her daughters swarmed up the side-they were agile as apes, and a summer spent rambling the countryside with their Fiernan cousins hadn't hurt a bit-and stood by the rail, waving again and again.
Orders echoed over the water, crisp and precise:
"Up and down!"
"Avast heaving!"
"Anchor at short stay!" There was a clatter of steel on steel, and the capstan crew paused.
Then: "Break out the anchor!" and they heaved again, slowly at first, and then suddenly no longer straining against the flukes' hold on the bottom.
"Anchors aweigh!"
Sail broke out from the bottom of the masts toward the top, and the ebbing tide and freshening offshore breeze took Eagle and heeled her slightly, a wave appearing at her bow.
"Shift colors!" came faint but clear, and the jack and ensign came on smartly; then the steaming ensign broke out on the gaff.
"Mr. Jenkins," Marian said.
He saluted, smiling, and turned to bark orders. The bosun's pipe twittered, and a team bent to the quarterdeck carronade.
Boom!, softer and deeper than a long gun, and the puff of smoke blew away to the south and leeward. The two girls jumped up and down as the signal gun saluted their departure, waving both arms from Eagle's fantail railing until all sight was lost.
"Fair voyaging," Swindapa said softly. "Always fair voyaging, and a fortunate star, and may partings never hurt them worse than this. And may they never have to sail to war."
"Amen," Marian Alston said, and settled her billed cap firmly on her head. She wished that with all her heart, but she suspected it wasn't very likely. "Final dining-in for the fleet captains tonight," she said.
Swindapa nodded. The Republic's fleet would sail to war as soon as the Farragut's final killing tool was installed, and there was a moa pit-roasting ashore for the last gathering of the commanders.
"So much has happened here," she said, looking ashore to where she'd been roped from her collar to a stake, naked and filthy and shivering, when the Eagle first arrived in these waters.
"We'll be back," Marian said. "And we'll be home, and this will be memories, too."
"The war isn't over yet," Swindapa said. "So much at stake."
"But we haven't lost yet either," Alston smiled. "And we're not going to."
For it is not the bright arrival planned
But in the journeying along the way
We find the Golden Road to Samarkand.