"He'll be welcome," Matt said through Tamatsu.
"Excellent. Now, noble as young Chack is, he is small recompense for your generosity. Is there nothing we can do for you? You mentioned supplies? And repairs?"
"Our supplies are fine for now, although if you can spare some of your fruit, we'd like to try it." Matt gestured around and shrugged. "As you can see, we don't have space for gardens. The only other thing that might ease my mind is if you can tell me where to find the black substance you use to coat your stays and shrouds and seal your seams. Is it available where we're going? At your settlement?"
Keje was silent as Tamatsu interpreted, but then looked about with surprise. "You have leaks? I was not aware you had a use for gish. Of course. We carry much, just for that purpose. And yes, it is abundant where we go." He made a chittering sound that Matt now recognized as a chuckle. "At the trading land, it bubbles from the ground!"
When Tamatsu finally interpreted Keje's words, via Adar, for the first time he could remember, he saw the captain's lips spread into a genuine grin.
"Well! In that case, why don't we all have another glass of tea?"
The next week involved backbreaking activity for some, as work parties constantly plied between Walker and the Lemurian ship, and abject boredom for others, as the destroyer described slow, fuel-efficient circles around the plodding behemoth. Only the number four boiler was lit, but it provided more than enough steam for the monotonous six-knot circuits. With only two wings Salissa—or Big Sal, as almost everyone called her now—could average only three or four knots herself. If Walker went that slow, in the long swells of the Java Sea, she'd barely have steerageway and would roll her guts out.
To Matt, it seemed that Chack was constantly nearby, always out of the way but always there. Watching. In reality, he spent more time with Sandra, Garrett, and Sergeant Alden. Matt had no time to teach him English, and certainly none to learn Lemurian, but Chack was learning fast from his other acquaintances, and Matt understood him better each day.
Some of the men spent a lot of time on the 'Cat ship as well. Bradford practically lived there, and the English lessons were well under way. A lot of the men came back using Lemurian words for things—which drove the Bosun nuts. He never complained about Chinese or Filipino words, but for some reason he took offense to the "jabbering away like a damn catmonkey." Only after Matt quietly explained that he wanted the men to learn the language did he relent.
Chack slept in the forward berthing compartment with the crew and ate what they ate and generally got along quite well. They'd adopted him, like a pet or mascot at first, but as he learned to speak English they began to realize he wasn't a pet, and that although he was small, he was probably as strong as Silva. His status was blurred. Not a pet and not a destroyerman—but he was becoming a shipmate.
In contrast to Chack's treatment, Shinya still faced open hostility, although his presence—and continued existence—had gained a meager level of acceptance. Strangely, that probably had as much to do with Silva and Alden as anyone. The two men didn't like the Jap, but a growing respect was evident. Matt hoped the men would lighten up eventually. Lieutenant Shinya was proving valuable, and not only as a translator. When not engaged as such, he often toiled with Sandison in the workshop on the condemned torpedoes. He wasn't a torpedoman, but he loved machines. Bernie actually did seem to like him. He certainly appreciated his help. If anyone could ever crack the ice between Shinya and the crew, the engaging torpedo officer from Idaho would be the one.
On the bridge, Matt glanced at his watch and looked at Lieutenant Garrett. "Sound general quarters, if you please."
"Aye, aye, sir. General quarters! General quarters!" the gunnery officer repeated in a raised voice. Electrician's Mate 3rd Class Mike Raymond activated the alarm and put on the headset at the talker's station, plunking a helmet on his head while the alarm reverberated through the ship. Chack, standing nearby, snatched a helmet and put it on as well. He looked slightly comical since it was much too large and covered his catlike ears. He grinned happily and blinked in excitement. Matt learned in one of his evening sessions with Bradford that Lemurians conveyed much the same meanings by blinking that humans did with eyebrow/facial expressions. It was like emotional Morse code. He wondered if they were born with the ability or had to learn it. At least it made more sense than Gray's theory that they all had a nervous tick, but he had no idea what the blinks meant, and except for their grins, Lemurian faces remained opaque and stony to his perception.
Chack cinched the chin strap and exuberantly scampered up the ladder to the fire-control platform and his "reserve lookout" post. There was no mistaking his body language—he was clearly enjoying himself. Seconds later, reports filtered in while Matt gazed at his watch. Finally, the last department reported and he smiled to himself. Better, he thought. Not great, but shorthanded as they were . . . He shrugged. Ever since the battle with the Grik he'd run twice-daily drills. Not only did it break the monotony and keep the crew on their toes, but it reminded them that USS Walker was still a United States Navy ship—wherever the rest of that Navy happened to be.
"Well done, Mr. Garrett. Pass the word; all departments have improved over their last time. You may secure from general quarters."
Spanky tapped a pressure gauge on number four and grunted noncommittally. Chief Harvey Donaghey, the assistant engineer, had reported for the division while he inspected the cantankerous boiler during the exercise. So far, it was operating perfectly. Number two was in reserve, and number three was cold for the first time since they'd made their dash from Surabaya. When he peeked inside, he wasn't at all happy about the condition of the firebricks. A near miss must've shaken stuff loose, he decided. He glanced up and saw that, as usual, the Mice were watching from the gloom. He sighed.
"Nothin' wrong with number four," Isak said. "Don't know why you don't like her. We gonna be somewhere we can tear down number three anytime soon?"
"We could do it now, but it wouldn't be easy." Gilbert glowered. "Would've been nice to put into Surabaya."
"Surabaya ain't there, boys," Spanky said—again. The Mice blinked at him.
"All he said was it would have been nice," Isak muttered.
They nearly had put in, the day after their first visit from the 'Cats. Not because they expected it to be there, but just to see. Captain Reddy finally decided against it, for several reasons. First, of course, was fuel. There was no use wasting it for a sightseeing trip. Second, Surabaya was inhabited, according to what Bradford had learned, but the people there weren't "of the sea," whatever that meant, and weren't necessarily friendly. It was strongly implied that if Walker steamed into the harbor unannounced, the consequences might be awkward. After all, even Big Sal 's people had thought Walker was some new Grik ship at first. Finally, there was the potential damage to morale to consider. Seeing someplace like Surabaya—or someplace where Surabaya should be—was yet another trauma that the captain would sooner put off.
Java was over there, though. Spanky had seen it receding on the horizon to the south. But even at a distance, he could tell it wasn't the Java he'd known. There were no picket ships or minelayers, no freighters loaded with weapons and supplies. No cranes and docks and filthy, oily water. No PBYs occasionally flying patrol and no haze from the industry—or smoke from fires caused by Japanese bombs. Of course, there weren't any Japs either.