Whatever their reasons, he vowed they weren’t going to keep him quiet. They’d shot Alexander for a franc-tireur. He hadn’t been one. McGregor was sure of that, down to the marrow of his bones. But in shooting him, they’d made themselves a franc-tireur, all right.
“I’m twenty years out of the Army,” he murmured. Maude stared at him. She would know what he was thinking. He didn’t care, not now he didn’t. He’d forgotten a lot of things over half a lifetime or so. If he had to use them again, though, he expected they’d come back soon enough.
Having wished that, after so long in river monitors, he might go back to sea, George Enos was repenting of his decision. He had gone to sea in fishing boats since before the time when he needed a razor. Going to sea in a destroyer was an altogether different business, as he was discovering day by day.
“It’s like you’ve ridden horses all your life, and they were the horses the brewery uses to haul beer barrels to the saloon,” he said to Andy Conkling, who had the bunk under his. “Then one day they put you on a thoroughbred and they tell you you’ll do fine because what the hell, it’s a horse.”
Conkling laughed at him. He had a round red face and a big Kaiser Bill mustache, so that he put George in mind of a clock with its hands pointing at ten minutes to two. He said, “Yeah, she does go pretty good, don’t she?”
“You might say so,” Enos answered, a New England understatement that made his new friend laugh again. To back it up, he went on, “She cruises-just idles along, mind you-at fifteen knots. No boat I’ve ever been on could do fifteen knots if you tied down the safety valve and stoked the engine till it blew up.”
“Not brewery horses,” Conkling said. “Mules. Maybe donkeys.”
“Yeah,” George said. “And the Ericsson gives us what, going flat out? Thirty knots?”
“Just under, at the trials. Some other boats in the class made it. But she’ll give twenty-eight easy,” Conkling told him.
Fifteen felt plenty fast to Enos. He stared out at the Atlantic racing past under the destroyer’s keel. The USS Ericsson was a bigger, more stable platform than any steam trawler he’d ever sailed, displacing over a thousand tons, but the waves hit her harder, too. And besides-“You’ve got to remember, I’m just off a river monitor. After that, any ocean sailing is rough business.”
“Those things are snapping turtles,” Andy Conkling said disdainfully. “This here is a shark.”
From what Enos had seen and heard, deep-sea sailors had nothing but scorn for the river-monitor fleet. From what he’d seen aboard the Punishment, the monitors didn’t deserve any such scorn. Trying to convince shipmates of that struck him as a good way to waste his breath. He kept quiet.
In a thoughtful tone of voice, Conkling went on, “Of course, this here is a little shark. That’s why we need to be able to run so damn fast: to get away from the big sharks on the other side.”
“Yeah,” Enos said again. He looked out across the endless sweep of the Atlantic once more. That was no idle sightseeing-far from it. Spotting smoke on the horizon-or, worse, a periscope perilously close-might mean the difference between finishing the cruise and sliding under the waves as smoking refuse. “The limeys are out there looking for us, too.”
“You bet your ass they are, chum,” Conkling said. “They don’t want us running guns to the micks. They don’t want it in a really big way. If they can, they’re gonna keep us from doing it.”
“I know about micks,” Enos said. “Coming out of Boston, I’d damn well better know about micks. If the ones on our side of the ocean can’t stand England, what about all the poor bastards over there, living right next to it? No wonder they rose up.”
“No wonder at all, at all,” Conkling said, winking to make the brogue he’d put on seem funnier. He set a finger by the side of his nose. “And no wonder the good old Kaiser and us, we all got to give ’em as big a hand as we can.”
“Hell of a mess over there, if half what you read in the papers is true,” George said, though that was by no means guaranteed. “Shooting and sniping and bombs on the bridges and the Ulstermen massacring all the Catholics they can catch and the Catholics giving it right back to ’em and more limeys tied down there every day, sounds like.”
“England’s got to do it.” Now Andy Conkling made himself sound serious, as if he were a Navy Department bigwig back in Philadelphia. “They let the Irish go and we or the Germans put men in there, that’s curtains for the King, and they know it damn well.”
“I don’t know it,” Enos said. “The Kaiser can’t supply soldiers in Ireland. When the Germans send guns to the Irishmen, they have to do it by submarine. And look at us, sneaking in like we’re going to bed with somebody else’s wife. Don’t suppose we can go at it any other way, not in England’s back yard.”
“Say you’re right,” Conkling replied. “I don’t think so, but say you are. How come England’s making such a big to-do over something that can’t happen?”
“A lot of times people make a big to-do over things that didn’t happen.” For about the hundredth time, George wished he hadn’t had to tell Sylvia where he’d been going when the Punishment was wrecked. I was drunk when I went and I was drunk when I told her, he thought. That tells me I shouldn’t get drunk. She still blamed him for what he hadn’t done. She probably wouldn’t have been much angrier if he had gone and done it, which made part of him wish he had. Only part, though: Mehitabel, looked back on in memory rather than at with desire, wasn’t much.
Smoke poured from the Ericsson’s four stacks. George thought the design was ugly and clumsy, but nobody cared what a sailor thought. The destroyer picked up speed, fairly leaping over the ocean. “Getting close to wherever we’re going,” Conkling remarked.
“Yeah,” George answered. Nobody bothered telling sailors much of anything, either. Ireland the crew knew, but only a handful knew where they’d stand off the coast of the Emerald Isle.
Officers and petty officers went up and down the deck. “Be alert,” one of them said. “We need every pair of eyes we’ve got,” another added. A third, a grizzled CPO, growled, “If we hit a mine on account of one of you didn’t spot it, I’ll throw the son of a bitch in the brig.”
That drew a laugh from Conkling, and, a moment later, after he’d worked it through, one from Enos as well. He said, “If they’ve laid mines, how the devil can we spot ’em, going as fast as we are? The monitor I was on just crawled along the Mississippi, and we had a sweeper go in front of us when we thought the Rebs had mined the river.”
“Turtles,” Conkling said again. That didn’t answer George’s question. After a few seconds, he realized the question wasn’t going to get answered. That probably meant you couldn’t spot mines very well when you were going full speed ahead, an imperfectly reassuring idea.
“Land ho!” somebody shouted. George stared eastward. Sure enough, in a couple of minutes he saw a smudge on the horizon too big for a smoke plume and too steady to be a cloud. After a moment, he realized that, if he could see land, people on land could also see the Ericsson. Someone might be tapping on a wireless key or cranking a telephone even as he stood on the deck, in which case the boat would have visitors soon.
Moved by that same thought, Andy Conkling murmured, “The limeys on shore’ll take us for one of their own. Always have before.” Whether that was expectation or mere pious hope, George didn’t know. He did know it was his hope, pious or not.
“Landing parties to the boats,” a petty officer shouted. Enos hurried to the davits. He had more practice in small boats than most of the men aboard the Ericsson, and less experience on the destroyer herself. That made him a logical man for the landing party.