"I have even an extra one in case the other should be lost, Herr Kapitan!" Von Muecke grinned.
"Trust a bachelor!" said von Mueller.
The church was already well filled when they entered, and the ushers—all of them shipmates of the groom, resplendent in stiff-starched, full-dress tropical whites smartly set off by black belts with Imperial brass buckles, gold-hilted dress swords in shiny patent-leather scabbards, bright-polished buttons, and gilt insignia of rank—were obviously well occupied seeing each guest to his or her proper place among the friends of the bride or the friends of the groom. Nevertheless, at the appearance of the two senior officers two of the ushers came for\vard. Quite evidently it had been well planned beforehand.
Karl von Mueller watched them approach with approval, and a certain pride. They carried themselves well, and behaved with assurance as well as decorum. They were a credit to the Emden and—he might be pardoned a twinge of pride —himself. The pair came to a halt before them, clicked their heels politely, and bowed. Doubtless that was as close to military punctilio as they could come in this place.
"Gentlemen!" Von Mueller and von Muecke together meticulously returned the salutation.
Von Mueller smiled a little, inwardly, to note that scrubbed, freshly shaved, and in full dress even monkey-browed, flat-faced Leutnant Rudi Voss, with his black shoe-brush haircut and bright black eyes—notoriously the ugliest, as well as the wealthiest, man on board—looked somehow impressive. Subleutnant Franz Josef von Hohenzollem, on the other hand, looked exactly as one would expect—suave, well groomed, carefully mannered; his uniform, expensively and carefully tailored in Berlin, had every extra flair that the regulations allowed. On another ship, von Mueller reflected, Franz would have sported a monocle. The eyepieces were much in vogue in certain circles of German society at the moment, and the only reason there were so few of them on board the Emden was that Kapitan von Mueller himself had refused to wear one.
He had explained it in the wardroom. "The only real reason for a monocle," he had said over a friendly glass of Pilsener, "is to correct the vision of one eye. Tell me if I am wrong, Herr Doktor Luther. If that is so, then to wear such a thing would be to admit that I do not have the perfect coordinate vision that, in my position, is expected of me. Following my next physical examination, I would probably be ordered to one desk or another in the Wilhelmstrasse. I would not like that, gentlemen. Would you?"
After that the only monocles aboard the Emden were those worn by the Stabsarzt, Herr Doktor Luther himself, the ships surgeon, and the Marine Oberzahlmeister Woychokowsky, the purser-paymaster, for neither of whom was perfect eye-sight considered requisite to their duties.
"Herr Kapitan! Herr Kapitanleutnant!" Though he was the junior officer present, Franz von Hohenzollern seemed easily to assume leadership here, and even von Mueller did not protest. Actually the boy was far from handsome. He had the large Hapsburg nose and small Hapsburg mouth and pale Hapsburg eyes. Yet because of his social-and it must be admitted. Imperial-connections he had been unanimously chosen president of the officers' mess and chief of officers' commissary. As such he was also the ship's social arbiter and was responsible for all of the cruiser's parties, from the serving of the food and wine to the music and dancing The success of all their occasions attested his ability and charm in that direction, while at the same time, curiously enough he was an excellent, efficient, and conscientious second torpedo officer, respected and liked by his men.
''We have been expecting you, gentlemen," he went on. "Kapitanleutnant von Muecke, the groom is waiting for you in the vestry. Leutnant Voss will take you there. Herr Kapitan, if you will follow me, please?"
Von Mueller suppressed a smile. "Thank you, Franz," he replied gravely, and fell in behind the younger officer.
Heads turned as they went, as well they might. For all his forty years Karl von MueUer was still a handsome man; tall, well built, blue-eyed, straight-nosed, and with a mouth that was wide enough to smile when it should, but still tight enough to be grim when necessary. In his starched, full-dress ""T' ,^T .^' "^^ ^^^ aiguillettes and epaulettes, ribbons and gold braid, he was a figure to command attention. In his position as senior officer present on the German East Asiatic Station, pro tem, he was of even greater interest.
The foremost pew left him still conspicuous, but at least there he felt a little more like a ship's commander on his own bridge. He made his proper genuflection and went through the wordless ritual of prayer, though all he could really think of at the moment was the disturbing news that kept coming from Berlin. If it was true, these youngsters might have a short start. For their sakes, if for none other, he hoped it was not so. Yet it was a fact that everyone—not just those on board ship, but everyone who in any way represented the Imperial house in the Rasz —had already accepted whatever destiny might have to offer. Their eyes were open. They had all sworn—even in their mothers' wombs, it seemed to him— to make the German Empire all-ruling; its power everywhere felt.
He had scarcely settled back in his pew when the organ burst into the wedding march, and everyone behind him stood up and turned to watch the bridal procession as it came down the aisle. Von Mueller did the same, and as he did so, out of the comer of his eye he saw young Lange emerge from the vestry, beside Helmuth von Muecke, followed by the starched and stiffly uniformed ushers.
The bride, he had to admit, was radiant beyond description. He did not recognize the flowers that she carried, for they were of some exotic oriental variety, but whatever they happened to be they were exquisite, and their strong shades of gold and coral and blue served admirably to set off the child's own delicate blonde loveliness. She seemed to have about her the freshness of spring, despite the midsummer heat of the China coast; the beauty of expectant seasons in a fairer land. If he had not been such a confirmed, determined bachelor himself, von Mueller reflected, he might even have found it in his heart to envy his young lieutenant. As it was, he had no difficulty hoping that they both would enjoy every good thing that life could offer.
The bride's father, the Governor, Baron von Meyer-Waldeck, he found rather less imposing, he realized with a small sense of guilt. After all, the Governor was, in a manner of speaking, his superior officer and as such deserved the same unswerving devotion and allegiance that was given to the Emperor. But somehow von Mueller could not quite bring himself to that state of mind. As they came down the aisle, it seemed to Kapitan von Mueller that the old gentleman looked rather like a pouter pigeon—all puffed up with pride. Pompous was the only single word von Mueller could think of to describe him, but he supposed with a certain charity that the Baron might really be excused. If the bridegroom had no von to his name, he was still no inconsiderable catch. Subleutnant Lange was a capable officer and should go far in the service—might even earn a title for himself. And in any case, it was scarcely an occasion that would be repeated often.
As the procession came to a slow halt before the altar, von Mueller turned in unison with the rest of the congregation to face the front of the church. As he did so, his eyes automatically swept over the members of the wedding party, almost unconsciously noting and identifying each in passing.
Subleutnant Lange, the groom, stood nearest—spare, sandy-haired, gray-eyed, and just at the moment deadly serious. Beyond him, on the other side of the aisle, his ushers, all fellow officers, ranged toward the vestry door, standing in order of rank. Kapitanleutnant Ludwig von Braun, tall, thin, slightly stooped, and graying a little, came first. As chief supply officer he did not exactly merit the place, but it had been assigned him out of deference to the fact that he was the oldest officer on board. Karl von Mueller wondered whether the man's wife, Alexandra, had deigned to come. He doubted it. The woman was practically a professional invalid, a chronic hypochondriac, thoroughly self-centered and incessantly whining. So far as the Captain was concerned, she was invaluable, for she was a constant reminder of the delights of bachelorhood, but he felt she would scarcely be missed at any such gathering as this.