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Story / General Furry Art
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© 2018 Walter Reimer
The younger tiger seemed to shrink back a bit from the red-ruffed lemur, his tail fluffing slightly. A paw strayed to the dagger at his hip.
Francois’ smile widened. So, the kitten had claws? He thought to himself. Every man in the crew had a knife; it was a useful tool to have aboard a ship, whether for work or for fighting. After more than twenty years in the Emperor’s service, Francois had earned his fair share of scars. The Temeraire was two thousand feet altitude, and miles from land if it came to dumping a body over the rail.
“Bosun Ntsay?” The ship’s First Officer, a lean feline, called out.
His gaze never left the tiger. “Soor?”
“Escort the Prince to the quarterdeck.”
The lemur nodded. “Aye, Soor.” He stepped aside and gestured at the younger fur. “You speak any French, boy?” At his nod Francois said, “You heard the officer, then. Up you get.” He pointed, and took a step back as the prince moved past him, his striped tail switching back and forth as he adjusted to the slight motions of the deck. Francois followed him up the ladder to the quarterdeck.
Captain de Ville and the other two officers saluted, and Prince Jahan said in passable French, “Thank you for taking me aboard. My brothers would have k-killed me.”
“No one will kill you here,” and the bulldog eyed the lemur until Francois nodded. “You’re our guest. Mr. Villiers,” he said to the Officer of the Watch, “he’ll be bunking with you. Show him below. Where’s the nearest telegraph station?” he asked the First Officer while the greyhound escorted the prince to his quarters.
“Malé, sir, in the Maldives,” the calico said promptly. “It’s about two hundred miles. About four hours if we want to risk the engines.”
De Ville considered before shaking his head. “It’s urgent, but not that urgent. Rouse one of the midwatch and tell him to get ready. I’ll have a dispatch for him.” The feline left the quarterdeck and de Ville glanced at Francois. “Bosun.”
“Soor?”
“Come over here for a moment,” and the captain walked over to the aft rail and stood, looking out at the sky. Once the lemur had joined him the bulldog said, “I saw the look on your face, Ntsay.”
Francois looked out at the clouds, and the sea below them. He sighed. “Yes, Soor.”
“Look, I know I can trust you to control yourself – can I?” The bulldog saw the lemur nod. “Bon. I want you to keep an eye on him, and make sure the crew does nothing rash.” He faced Francois squarely. “Understood?”
The lemur nodded. “Aye, Soor. I’ll pass the word, and they’ll obey it.”
“Good.” De Ville went back to looking out at the sky. Sensing that Francois was still looking at him, one of the bulldog’s ears flicked and he asked, “Yes?”
“How long will we have him aboard, Soor?”
“Good question.” The corners of de Ville’s mouth quirked upward. “I guess that will depend on the Admiralty, and we won’t know that until I get a reply to our message. Meanwhile, we have a guest aboard, and you need to pass the word. Dismiss.”
Francois touched two fingers to his forehead. “Aye, Soor.” He went back down the ladder and went below to the crew quarters. He’d spread the word to the senior petty officers before telling the lower ranks. The midwatch were all going back to sleep, so they would be told later.
The master gunner was a red-ruffed lemur like Francois, and snorted when the bosun finished telling him. “So, the old Emperor got chopped?”
“That’s what I heard,” Francois said.
The gunner perched one hip on a gun carriage and spat out the open gun port. “And he’s a ‘guest.’”
“And I’m to keep an eye on him,” Francois said in a warning tone.
“I’ll tell my boys. You’ll get no trouble from us, Francois.” The two shook paws on it, and the bosun headed aft and went back topside.
He came up the quarterdeck ladder as Mr. Villiers said, “He only came aboard with the clothes on his back, Captain, and he’s about my size.” The lemur reached the top of the stairs and nearly laughed to see the young tiger dressed in one of the lieutenant’s uniforms. From the look and smell of it, not necessarily the best spare uniform either. The Prince’s muzzle was twisted in distaste, but he was stoically putting up with the greyhound’s scent embedded in the cloth.
Captain de Ville was trying hard to avoid smiling, nodding in approval. “Get with the ship’s tailor and see if he can run some clothes up for him. Now, where the devil’s that – ah! Bosun, did you see the messenger?”
“He’s coming up, Soor,” and after a moment a short, slim figure wearing what looked like a heavy backpack over a leather cape came up the ladder. He wore a slightly bulbous leather helmet with goggles and carried a message pad and a pen.
“Seaman de Vries, Captain,” the bat said as he saluted, blinking in the late-afternoon sunlight.
“Excellent. Ready for a flight, I see.”
“Aye, Soor.”
“Good. Take this down: ‘Advised that Mughal Emperor dead. Heirs fighting. Delhi Embassy believed destroyed. Emperor’s youngest son aboard. Please advise.’” He watched as the sailor finished writing. “Read it back to me,” and when de Vries had done so, de Ville said, “Your destination’s the telegraph station at Malé.”
“Right, Soor.” The bat put his helmet on and adjusted a set of dials, then crossed to the helm station. He selected a cable from a rack and slipped the connector into a socket on the side of the helmet. “Hmm . . . uh-huh . . . hmm.” He disconnected and went over to the aft rail. “I have it, Soor. Permission to leave the ship?”
“Granted,” and with that the bat leaped over the railing and plummeted out of sight.
The Captain, First Officer and Mr. Villiers all smiled tolerantly. Francois rolled his eyes.
De Vries always was a dreadful showoff.
The lemur saw a blur and grabbed Prince Jahan by the tail before the young tiger almost went over the side after the bat. “Easy, lad,” he said.
“But – but he jumped!”
“He’s a bat. They have wings,” and the lemur pointed to where de Vries was flapping along in a westerly direction. “Just watch.”
“H-He is going to Malé?” Jahan asked. “It will be too far for him.”
“That’s true,” the lemur said, “but he’s only making sure he’s a safe distance from the ship. Watch.”
About fifty meters away, the bat’s backpack unfurled into a set of wings that bore an octet of cylinders. The two closest to the center ignited, and with a gout of smoke and a spurt of flame, Seaman de Vries was quickly out of sight.
“We have bats on the crew,” Mr. Villiers explained. “They’re quite useful as scouts and messengers.”
“But how does he know which way to go?” the tiger asked.
“The apparatus in his helmet,” the feline said. “It matched our position with Malé’s, so he has a course to follow. Should be there in an hour or so.”
Prince Jahan continued gazing out at where the bat had gone, and when he turned back to the French officers there was an expression of awe on his face. “Don’t you have bats in your service, Prince?” Captain de Ville asked.
“Yes, but they only fly at night, and are unreliable,” the tiger admitted.
Francois wondered about that bit of information. The tiger might be young, and he might have spent his entire life behind walls and surrounded by the opulent court of the Mughals, but he might know things that could be useful.
Enough to keep his head on his neck, at the very least.
“Well, we have some time before he gets back with an answer,” Captain de Ville said. “Prince, if you will join me and my officers for dinner?
<NEXT>
<FIRST>
© 2018 Walter Reimer
The younger tiger seemed to shrink back a bit from the red-ruffed lemur, his tail fluffing slightly. A paw strayed to the dagger at his hip.
Francois’ smile widened. So, the kitten had claws? He thought to himself. Every man in the crew had a knife; it was a useful tool to have aboard a ship, whether for work or for fighting. After more than twenty years in the Emperor’s service, Francois had earned his fair share of scars. The Temeraire was two thousand feet altitude, and miles from land if it came to dumping a body over the rail.
“Bosun Ntsay?” The ship’s First Officer, a lean feline, called out.
His gaze never left the tiger. “Soor?”
“Escort the Prince to the quarterdeck.”
The lemur nodded. “Aye, Soor.” He stepped aside and gestured at the younger fur. “You speak any French, boy?” At his nod Francois said, “You heard the officer, then. Up you get.” He pointed, and took a step back as the prince moved past him, his striped tail switching back and forth as he adjusted to the slight motions of the deck. Francois followed him up the ladder to the quarterdeck.
Captain de Ville and the other two officers saluted, and Prince Jahan said in passable French, “Thank you for taking me aboard. My brothers would have k-killed me.”
“No one will kill you here,” and the bulldog eyed the lemur until Francois nodded. “You’re our guest. Mr. Villiers,” he said to the Officer of the Watch, “he’ll be bunking with you. Show him below. Where’s the nearest telegraph station?” he asked the First Officer while the greyhound escorted the prince to his quarters.
“Malé, sir, in the Maldives,” the calico said promptly. “It’s about two hundred miles. About four hours if we want to risk the engines.”
De Ville considered before shaking his head. “It’s urgent, but not that urgent. Rouse one of the midwatch and tell him to get ready. I’ll have a dispatch for him.” The feline left the quarterdeck and de Ville glanced at Francois. “Bosun.”
“Soor?”
“Come over here for a moment,” and the captain walked over to the aft rail and stood, looking out at the sky. Once the lemur had joined him the bulldog said, “I saw the look on your face, Ntsay.”
Francois looked out at the clouds, and the sea below them. He sighed. “Yes, Soor.”
“Look, I know I can trust you to control yourself – can I?” The bulldog saw the lemur nod. “Bon. I want you to keep an eye on him, and make sure the crew does nothing rash.” He faced Francois squarely. “Understood?”
The lemur nodded. “Aye, Soor. I’ll pass the word, and they’ll obey it.”
“Good.” De Ville went back to looking out at the sky. Sensing that Francois was still looking at him, one of the bulldog’s ears flicked and he asked, “Yes?”
“How long will we have him aboard, Soor?”
“Good question.” The corners of de Ville’s mouth quirked upward. “I guess that will depend on the Admiralty, and we won’t know that until I get a reply to our message. Meanwhile, we have a guest aboard, and you need to pass the word. Dismiss.”
Francois touched two fingers to his forehead. “Aye, Soor.” He went back down the ladder and went below to the crew quarters. He’d spread the word to the senior petty officers before telling the lower ranks. The midwatch were all going back to sleep, so they would be told later.
The master gunner was a red-ruffed lemur like Francois, and snorted when the bosun finished telling him. “So, the old Emperor got chopped?”
“That’s what I heard,” Francois said.
The gunner perched one hip on a gun carriage and spat out the open gun port. “And he’s a ‘guest.’”
“And I’m to keep an eye on him,” Francois said in a warning tone.
“I’ll tell my boys. You’ll get no trouble from us, Francois.” The two shook paws on it, and the bosun headed aft and went back topside.
He came up the quarterdeck ladder as Mr. Villiers said, “He only came aboard with the clothes on his back, Captain, and he’s about my size.” The lemur reached the top of the stairs and nearly laughed to see the young tiger dressed in one of the lieutenant’s uniforms. From the look and smell of it, not necessarily the best spare uniform either. The Prince’s muzzle was twisted in distaste, but he was stoically putting up with the greyhound’s scent embedded in the cloth.
Captain de Ville was trying hard to avoid smiling, nodding in approval. “Get with the ship’s tailor and see if he can run some clothes up for him. Now, where the devil’s that – ah! Bosun, did you see the messenger?”
“He’s coming up, Soor,” and after a moment a short, slim figure wearing what looked like a heavy backpack over a leather cape came up the ladder. He wore a slightly bulbous leather helmet with goggles and carried a message pad and a pen.
“Seaman de Vries, Captain,” the bat said as he saluted, blinking in the late-afternoon sunlight.
“Excellent. Ready for a flight, I see.”
“Aye, Soor.”
“Good. Take this down: ‘Advised that Mughal Emperor dead. Heirs fighting. Delhi Embassy believed destroyed. Emperor’s youngest son aboard. Please advise.’” He watched as the sailor finished writing. “Read it back to me,” and when de Vries had done so, de Ville said, “Your destination’s the telegraph station at Malé.”
“Right, Soor.” The bat put his helmet on and adjusted a set of dials, then crossed to the helm station. He selected a cable from a rack and slipped the connector into a socket on the side of the helmet. “Hmm . . . uh-huh . . . hmm.” He disconnected and went over to the aft rail. “I have it, Soor. Permission to leave the ship?”
“Granted,” and with that the bat leaped over the railing and plummeted out of sight.
The Captain, First Officer and Mr. Villiers all smiled tolerantly. Francois rolled his eyes.
De Vries always was a dreadful showoff.
The lemur saw a blur and grabbed Prince Jahan by the tail before the young tiger almost went over the side after the bat. “Easy, lad,” he said.
“But – but he jumped!”
“He’s a bat. They have wings,” and the lemur pointed to where de Vries was flapping along in a westerly direction. “Just watch.”
“H-He is going to Malé?” Jahan asked. “It will be too far for him.”
“That’s true,” the lemur said, “but he’s only making sure he’s a safe distance from the ship. Watch.”
About fifty meters away, the bat’s backpack unfurled into a set of wings that bore an octet of cylinders. The two closest to the center ignited, and with a gout of smoke and a spurt of flame, Seaman de Vries was quickly out of sight.
“We have bats on the crew,” Mr. Villiers explained. “They’re quite useful as scouts and messengers.”
“But how does he know which way to go?” the tiger asked.
“The apparatus in his helmet,” the feline said. “It matched our position with Malé’s, so he has a course to follow. Should be there in an hour or so.”
Prince Jahan continued gazing out at where the bat had gone, and when he turned back to the French officers there was an expression of awe on his face. “Don’t you have bats in your service, Prince?” Captain de Ville asked.
“Yes, but they only fly at night, and are unreliable,” the tiger admitted.
Francois wondered about that bit of information. The tiger might be young, and he might have spent his entire life behind walls and surrounded by the opulent court of the Mughals, but he might know things that could be useful.
Enough to keep his head on his neck, at the very least.
“Well, we have some time before he gets back with an answer,” Captain de Ville said. “Prince, if you will join me and my officers for dinner?
<NEXT>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Lemur
Size 120 x 87px
File Size 47.8 kB
Listed in Folders
(grin) Well, of course. I can see them getting together over moths. "Okay, my boss wants me to try to kill you, Jake, and intercept your message to Akbar. Who wins this time?"
"Your boss sucks, Bob. You want out of his employ, doncha?"
"Yeah. Someone got an opening down in Lahore? I don't get back from this mission, what a shame."
"Your boss sucks, Bob. You want out of his employ, doncha?"
"Yeah. Someone got an opening down in Lahore? I don't get back from this mission, what a shame."
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