"Thus, thus," she said, giving the helm the new course. To the lieutenant: "Mr. Jenkins, topgallants and royals, if you please."
"Yes, ma'am."
He went to the rail and relayed the order; she could hear it echo across the deck until the mast captains' voices called, "Lay aloft and loose topgallants and royals!"
The ship heeled as more canvas blossomed out high above their heads, thuttering and cracking, and the standing rigging funneled the force of the wind to the hull. At Jenkins's unspoken question, she went on:
"I want sea room, Mr. Jenkins; we're too damned close to the southern end of Madagascar, if it comes on to blow."
"Rig for rough weather, ma'am?" he said.
"By all means. Lieutenant Commander Swindapa, message to the flotilla: Prepare for heavy weather, be ready to strike sail." The orders went out, and she added, "Oh, and get those two imps of satan down from the maintop."
He grinned a little at that and called to the tops. A dark head and a red one peered over the railing of the triangular platform, with one of the crew hovering behind them, ready to grab.
"Mom!" came a faint call; then, in a treble imitation of the lookout: "On deck, there! Can we slide down a backstay?"
"No, you cannot!"
The wind blew away the muttered complaints. They probably could slide down a backstay, she thought; they were nimble as apes after three months at sea. But not for a while; best to be cautious. After a moment, her mouth quirked. The definition of "cautious" had undergone some radical mutations, back here in the Bronze Age.
CHAPTER TEN
April, Year 9 A.E.
Lot of work," Kathryn Hollard said, looking up at the bulky three-step shape of the water-purifying works.
"Worth it," Clemens said fervently. "Come along-you should see this."
The base hospital's priority had been high enough that it was more or less finished. The walls were thick adobe brick, whitewashed inside, with a number of bays off a long I-shaped block and smooth tile floors. Light came from tall, narrow windows high in the walls, under the cross-timbers that supported the low-sloped tile roof. The wards were airy and cool; adobe made good insulation. Mostly they smelled of fresh mortar and new wood, and of disinfectant; but Major Hollard wrinkled her nose slightly as Clemens led her into one of the bays. An orderly pushed past with a basket of soiled cloth pads.
"Sorry, but there's only so much you can do when diarrhea hits."
They walked down the line of beds; a few near the door were Marines; the others, several dozen locals. Their faces were alike, though, drained and pale. Another orderly was pushing a wheeled cart down the row of bedsteads, stopping at each to make the occupant down a glass of what looked like water. Several of the locals were alive enough to try and reject the dose, squirming in mute terror. Their hair and beards had been shaved, a dreadful shaming thing to a Babylonian of this era.
"What is it?" Hollard asked.
"It's the reason we spent so much time on that slow-sand filter setup. Specifically? Damned if I know. It's a form of bacterial dysentery; I think I've isolated the causative agent. It's not cholera, but it works a lot like it. Rehydration with sugar-and-salt-laced water works fine, or by IV for the worst cases. A fair number died before we realized what was happening. The locals are afraid of our magic; I had to get a guard detail to bring some of these men in. That's what I thought you might help me with."
"You need a couple of squads?" Hollard asked.
Clemens shook his head, frustration turning his naturally sunny expression to a scowl. "No, what I need is help. More hands. I need some people who can be taught basics-changing bedpans, giving them the solution, getting them to the jakes if they're ambulatory. It would help if they could speak Akkadian. I thought of using some of the laborers, but they're too frightened-and the peasants… well, the term 'thick hick' might have been invented for them. They're even more ignorant and parochial than an Alban fresh off the boat."
Kathryn nodded. "I'm not surprised. Albans have to look after themselves, mostly. These peasants, they're pretty firmly under the thumbs of their bosses, and they don't encourage them to think, from what I've seen." Suddenly she grinned and snapped her fingers. "Tell you what-I think I can do something for you. Come on."
She turned and strode decisively away. Clemens followed, walking a little faster than he liked to keep up with the tall woman's stride, squinting under the brim of his floppy canvas campaign hat.
The tent they came to was theoretically the officers' mess; in practice, a lot of the work of the camp was done there, especially with most of the permanent buildings still under construction. Tables and benches stood under an awning, with the sides drawn up to let what breeze there was circulate. Clemens stopped and pointed to several plates of bread, cheese, and cold meat.
"There!" he said. "That's what I mean!"
Colonel Hollard and a pair of other officers were sitting talking to the councilor for foreign affairs and his assistant, with stacks of papers in front of them. The commander of the First Marine Regiment looked up at the doctor's outburst.
"What is, Lieutenant?" he asked mildly.
"That sort of thing is why we're having this problem with dysentery," he said. "Sir," he added after a moment, remembering hasty classes in military courtesy.
"I thought it was the water?"
"It's usually the water. But the locals won't dig the latrines deep enough, or remember to throw in dirt after they use them. Flies to feces to food-it's a wonder we don't have more than a couple of dozen down as it is."
"A wonder and your good work, Doctor," Hollard said. "What's this in aid of, Kat?"
Kathryn grinned, sat, and tossed her hat down, reaching for a pitcher of the weak, cloudy local beer and a straw. The Babylonians drank it that way, to avoid sucking in the sediment.
"Now I see why they avoid the water, after what Jus has been showing me," she said. "This rush of runny guts is overburdening his sick bay, and he needs some help. I thought it might kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."
"Ah, yes, the king's embarrassing generosity," Ian Arnstein said, stroking his beard.
Rumor made the councilor an absentminded polymath genius. Clemens hadn't seen much of him, apart from a few dinings-in with the commodore, but he suddenly wondered how much of that was a pose. The russet-brown eyes under the shaggy brows were disconcertingly shrewd.
"Generosity, Councilor?" he said.
Doreen Arnstein sighed, in chorus with Colonel Hollard; they looked at each other and chuckled. The Marine commander took it up: "King Shuriash decided to be really hospitable, so he just sent us two hundred palace servants," he said dryly. "Slaves, to be precise."
"Oh," Clemens said.
He knew the Republic's policy; they couldn't go crusading against slavery all over the planet-or a dozen other abominations-but the Islanders didn't tolerate it where they had the option. Ur Base was sovereign Nantucket territory, and there were severe penalties for any citizen who dabbled in slavery. Doing a Walker, it was called informally, the name for any sort of unethical dealings with the locals.
"At the same time," Ian said, obviously following his train of thought, "we can't just manumit them and turn them loose. For one thing the king would be mortally offended; for another, they'd starve or get re-enslaved or something of that nature right away."
"That is a problem," Clemens said. "Ah… sorry I hadn't heard about this, Colonel."
"We're all busy," Hollard said tolerantly. "As a matter of fact, we're all insanely busy. Kat?" He looked at the younger Hollard.
"Well, we've got them understanding that they're free," she said. "And they understand who does not work, does not eat; this place is run along those lines anyway. So when Jus explained his problem, it struck me that he could use fifty or sixty of them-start them off at fifty cents a day and keep, like the construction workers."