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Three Bells
A Capital Ship story
©2018 by Walter Reimer
The Temeraire’s bell rang twice, then a half-second pause before the third ring.
Francois was awake before the third bell was struck, the red-ruffed lemur turning out of his hammock and landing on his feet automatically, adjusting to the slight motion of the ship. Around him, the rest of the day watch were starting to stir. The Bosun rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted at the mirror.
“Morning,” the Gunner said as he stretched and yawned, scratching himself. “Drink too much last night while you were carousing with the officers?”
“Not much of a carouse,” Francois said, setting a bowl under the tap and putting about a finger’s width of water in it. He stuck his face over the bowl and splashed water into his eyes and mouth, rubbed his eyes one more time and poured the water down the drain. “There was iced cream.”
The other lemur’s eyes widened. “Mon Dieu, that’s a treat. I had some once, when I served aboard the Victoire Volante. Very tasty, and I remember it had strawberries in it.” He took Francois’ place while the Bosun got out his furbrushes and stood in front of the steel mirror, starting to groom himself. Then it was a quick use of the head before getting into his uniform and heading to the galley for breakfast.
Breakfast was dried fruit and fish, coffee and bread, the carnivores in the crew looking a bit morose at the lack of meat. Meat was served at dinner, but the Captain would occasionally organize a shoot if the ship happened across a promising island.
After everyone had eaten and gotten ready, Francois led them up onto the main deck. They formed ranks, facing aft as the sun started to peek over the horizon behind them. The lemur counted heads before turning to face Mr. Villiers, who stepped down from the quarterdeck with Prince Jahan in tow. The tiger looked a tiny bit more comfortable in a Navy uniform.
Francois saluted just as five bells rang. “Day watch reporting for duty, Soor. Everyone accounted for, none on sick call.”
The greyhound returned the salute. “Excellent, Mr. Ntsay. The night watch had nothing to pass on, so dismiss the watch to their stations.” Francois saluted again and put his goggles on. He switched them on, studying the displayed information, before turning to see the junior petty officers lead their groups of ratings to their assigned tasks.
Francois was watching a quartet of sailors preparing to scale the mainmast when he heard the tiger clear his throat. “Bosun?”
The red-ruffed lemur partly turned to look at the tiger. Villiers had gone back to the quarterdeck. “Yes, Soor?” Francois asked, remembering that the Prince was a guest.
“I saw you eating – at dinner last night,” he said hastily. “Do you eat with the officers all the time?”
The lemur’s tail twitched. “No, I don’t. But I’ll say that you don’t spend twenty years watching the officers without picking up some of their manners.”
There was a pause. “What’s your job?”
Francois turned to fully face the tiger, who backed away a step. “My ‘job?’” The question was endowed with the tone the lemur usually reserved for errant recruits. He almost raised a paw, but remembered himself in time.
Jahan nodded, and the lemur huffed a breath through his nose. “All right,” and Francois turned and pointed at the mainmast. “See that fox up there? Yes? His job’s to make sure the rigging’s all in order and the sails are ready in case we need them. The furs manning the guns – that’s their job, and the furs tending the engines, that’s their job. A lot of them know more than one job. You remember that fellow in the white jacket at dinner? He’s the Captain’s valet, chief yeoman, and Dr. Mirabeau’s assistant. A lot of us know a few jobs.”
Francois stepped closer. “But me? I’m a Bosun, that’s short for ‘boatswain’s mate.’ My job is to know all of these furs’ jobs.”
“Even the officers’ jobs?” the tiger quavered.
“No, what they do is their business, and Captain de Ville’s one of the best.” The lemur didn’t say this out of a sense of loyalty. In his two decades in the Emperor’s service, he’d seen incompetent and sadistic captains and officers. De Ville trusted him, made sure he knew it, and Francois did his best to justify that trust. That extended to the rest of the crew as well, and they appreciated it.
Which is why he didn’t toss the Mughal prince overboard, right then and there; he had told the bulldog that he wouldn’t.
Changing the subject, Prince Jahan said, “I want to see the ship.” At the lemur’s raised brow he added, “I’ve never been aboard a ship before.”
“You’re a prince, and your uncle’s an admiral, and you’ve never been aboard?”
The tiger shook his head and grumbled, “I never saw the outside of my father’s harem until I was ten. I’m fifteen now,” and his voice almost broke, “and now I don’t even have a country.” He was young, but he was very manfully holding back his tears. He glanced behind himself and sat on the quarterdeck stairs, his tail hanging disconsolately.
Francois cocked an ear. “What about your brothers?”
“No matter which one wins, he’ll kill me to keep me from trying to take the throne away from him.”
The lemur was reminded of childhood fights between him and his siblings. He could almost feel the sting of the tattoo needle on the back of his head and ruthlessly stamped on any sympathy he started to feel for the tiger. “Still want to see the ship?”
Prince Jahan looked up, then got to his feet. “Yes.”
“All right. This is His Catholic Majesty’s Ship Temeraire, a third-rate ship of the line and part of the Empire’s Indian Ocean Flotilla,” Francois said crisply. “A third-rate only has sixty guns,” he added.
The tiger blinked for a moment. “How many would a first-rate have?”
“As many as a hundred and twenty,” the lemur replied, slightly impressed at the question. “Now, we have a full set of masts and sails, in case the Captain decides to give the engines a rest and let our feet get wet.” He refrained from telling him about the St. Elmo field. He’d report to Mr. Villiers and ask permission first. “Aft,” and he pointed toward the quarterdeck, “is the helm and the signals positions.”
“Yes, where your messenger set out,” Prince Jahan said. He appeared to be genuinely interested. “I thought you used flags. My uncle told me.”
“If the other ship’s close enough, yes. Last time we were in Kaapstad I heard there’s some clever sort somewhere trying to figure a way to send telegraph messages without using wires.” He snorted a sarcastic laugh. “I think it’s rubbish myself. We’ll go below now, and you can see the guns.” The younger tiger nodded and fell in behind the lemur.
The Gunner noted that a few of his crews weren’t paying much attention to what they were doing, but before he started bawling epithets he turned and took a surprised step back as Francois entered the upper gun deck, followed by the Mughal tiger. “Chief Gunner Rakotovao, this is Prince Jahan,” Francois said, giving the other red-ruffed lemur a warning glance. “He’s interested in seeing the guns,” adding hastily in their shared native language, “Aza milaza zavatra manokana.”
“Right. You lot, there, stand by your gun,” Rakotovao said, pointing seemingly at random. Francois knew that he’d chosen the crew deliberately. “Now, Highness, this here’s a FRFL 10-kilogramme electrocarronade. They’re built in France,” and he placed a paw on the Imperial Seal cast into the gun’s frame.
“’FRFL?’” Jahan asked.
“Fabrique Royale Franklin-Lavoisier,” the Gunner replied.
The gun itself was a curious-looking thing, conspicuously lacking the enclosed bronze or steel barrel; instead, there were four wire-wrapped steel bars extending perhaps two meters from a solid steel cylinder that bore a wide slot in its top. The carriage sat in tracks that were set in the deck, with two large cables plugged into the rear of the gun. “It fires these,” and one rating held up a round, a steel cylinder that tapered to a point and had four strips of copper that started at the pointed tip and spiraled down the length of the projectile. “Five rounds per clip, which goes here,” and his tail indicated the slot in the top of the breech.
Jahan’s muzzle hung open in an O. “How does it work?”
“Well, to put it very simply,” and the Gunner cocked an eye at Francois, “electricity spins the round and shoots it out of the barrel, and when it hits – boom!” He pantomimed an explosion with his paws and grinned as the ratings chuckled among themselves. “No recoil, no big clouds of smoke.”
“This is wonderful,” the Prince said. “I know we have something similar – “
“Those’d be English make,” Rakotovao said with a knowing nod. “Armstrong-Faraday, those are.”
“Maybe you’d like to see the helm station next,” and as Francois led the prince away he and the Gunner exchanged glances. The Bosun gave him a tiny nod of approval.
Rakotovao suddenly and loudly clapped his paws. “All right, you lot! None of you wet yourselves at the sight of royalty aboard, but if you think I’m going to kiss you for it you’ve got ordure for brains!”
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Capital Ship story
©2018 by Walter Reimer
The Temeraire’s bell rang twice, then a half-second pause before the third ring.
Francois was awake before the third bell was struck, the red-ruffed lemur turning out of his hammock and landing on his feet automatically, adjusting to the slight motion of the ship. Around him, the rest of the day watch were starting to stir. The Bosun rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted at the mirror.
“Morning,” the Gunner said as he stretched and yawned, scratching himself. “Drink too much last night while you were carousing with the officers?”
“Not much of a carouse,” Francois said, setting a bowl under the tap and putting about a finger’s width of water in it. He stuck his face over the bowl and splashed water into his eyes and mouth, rubbed his eyes one more time and poured the water down the drain. “There was iced cream.”
The other lemur’s eyes widened. “Mon Dieu, that’s a treat. I had some once, when I served aboard the Victoire Volante. Very tasty, and I remember it had strawberries in it.” He took Francois’ place while the Bosun got out his furbrushes and stood in front of the steel mirror, starting to groom himself. Then it was a quick use of the head before getting into his uniform and heading to the galley for breakfast.
Breakfast was dried fruit and fish, coffee and bread, the carnivores in the crew looking a bit morose at the lack of meat. Meat was served at dinner, but the Captain would occasionally organize a shoot if the ship happened across a promising island.
After everyone had eaten and gotten ready, Francois led them up onto the main deck. They formed ranks, facing aft as the sun started to peek over the horizon behind them. The lemur counted heads before turning to face Mr. Villiers, who stepped down from the quarterdeck with Prince Jahan in tow. The tiger looked a tiny bit more comfortable in a Navy uniform.
Francois saluted just as five bells rang. “Day watch reporting for duty, Soor. Everyone accounted for, none on sick call.”
The greyhound returned the salute. “Excellent, Mr. Ntsay. The night watch had nothing to pass on, so dismiss the watch to their stations.” Francois saluted again and put his goggles on. He switched them on, studying the displayed information, before turning to see the junior petty officers lead their groups of ratings to their assigned tasks.
Francois was watching a quartet of sailors preparing to scale the mainmast when he heard the tiger clear his throat. “Bosun?”
The red-ruffed lemur partly turned to look at the tiger. Villiers had gone back to the quarterdeck. “Yes, Soor?” Francois asked, remembering that the Prince was a guest.
“I saw you eating – at dinner last night,” he said hastily. “Do you eat with the officers all the time?”
The lemur’s tail twitched. “No, I don’t. But I’ll say that you don’t spend twenty years watching the officers without picking up some of their manners.”
There was a pause. “What’s your job?”
Francois turned to fully face the tiger, who backed away a step. “My ‘job?’” The question was endowed with the tone the lemur usually reserved for errant recruits. He almost raised a paw, but remembered himself in time.
Jahan nodded, and the lemur huffed a breath through his nose. “All right,” and Francois turned and pointed at the mainmast. “See that fox up there? Yes? His job’s to make sure the rigging’s all in order and the sails are ready in case we need them. The furs manning the guns – that’s their job, and the furs tending the engines, that’s their job. A lot of them know more than one job. You remember that fellow in the white jacket at dinner? He’s the Captain’s valet, chief yeoman, and Dr. Mirabeau’s assistant. A lot of us know a few jobs.”
Francois stepped closer. “But me? I’m a Bosun, that’s short for ‘boatswain’s mate.’ My job is to know all of these furs’ jobs.”
“Even the officers’ jobs?” the tiger quavered.
“No, what they do is their business, and Captain de Ville’s one of the best.” The lemur didn’t say this out of a sense of loyalty. In his two decades in the Emperor’s service, he’d seen incompetent and sadistic captains and officers. De Ville trusted him, made sure he knew it, and Francois did his best to justify that trust. That extended to the rest of the crew as well, and they appreciated it.
Which is why he didn’t toss the Mughal prince overboard, right then and there; he had told the bulldog that he wouldn’t.
Changing the subject, Prince Jahan said, “I want to see the ship.” At the lemur’s raised brow he added, “I’ve never been aboard a ship before.”
“You’re a prince, and your uncle’s an admiral, and you’ve never been aboard?”
The tiger shook his head and grumbled, “I never saw the outside of my father’s harem until I was ten. I’m fifteen now,” and his voice almost broke, “and now I don’t even have a country.” He was young, but he was very manfully holding back his tears. He glanced behind himself and sat on the quarterdeck stairs, his tail hanging disconsolately.
Francois cocked an ear. “What about your brothers?”
“No matter which one wins, he’ll kill me to keep me from trying to take the throne away from him.”
The lemur was reminded of childhood fights between him and his siblings. He could almost feel the sting of the tattoo needle on the back of his head and ruthlessly stamped on any sympathy he started to feel for the tiger. “Still want to see the ship?”
Prince Jahan looked up, then got to his feet. “Yes.”
“All right. This is His Catholic Majesty’s Ship Temeraire, a third-rate ship of the line and part of the Empire’s Indian Ocean Flotilla,” Francois said crisply. “A third-rate only has sixty guns,” he added.
The tiger blinked for a moment. “How many would a first-rate have?”
“As many as a hundred and twenty,” the lemur replied, slightly impressed at the question. “Now, we have a full set of masts and sails, in case the Captain decides to give the engines a rest and let our feet get wet.” He refrained from telling him about the St. Elmo field. He’d report to Mr. Villiers and ask permission first. “Aft,” and he pointed toward the quarterdeck, “is the helm and the signals positions.”
“Yes, where your messenger set out,” Prince Jahan said. He appeared to be genuinely interested. “I thought you used flags. My uncle told me.”
“If the other ship’s close enough, yes. Last time we were in Kaapstad I heard there’s some clever sort somewhere trying to figure a way to send telegraph messages without using wires.” He snorted a sarcastic laugh. “I think it’s rubbish myself. We’ll go below now, and you can see the guns.” The younger tiger nodded and fell in behind the lemur.
The Gunner noted that a few of his crews weren’t paying much attention to what they were doing, but before he started bawling epithets he turned and took a surprised step back as Francois entered the upper gun deck, followed by the Mughal tiger. “Chief Gunner Rakotovao, this is Prince Jahan,” Francois said, giving the other red-ruffed lemur a warning glance. “He’s interested in seeing the guns,” adding hastily in their shared native language, “Aza milaza zavatra manokana.”
“Right. You lot, there, stand by your gun,” Rakotovao said, pointing seemingly at random. Francois knew that he’d chosen the crew deliberately. “Now, Highness, this here’s a FRFL 10-kilogramme electrocarronade. They’re built in France,” and he placed a paw on the Imperial Seal cast into the gun’s frame.
“’FRFL?’” Jahan asked.
“Fabrique Royale Franklin-Lavoisier,” the Gunner replied.
The gun itself was a curious-looking thing, conspicuously lacking the enclosed bronze or steel barrel; instead, there were four wire-wrapped steel bars extending perhaps two meters from a solid steel cylinder that bore a wide slot in its top. The carriage sat in tracks that were set in the deck, with two large cables plugged into the rear of the gun. “It fires these,” and one rating held up a round, a steel cylinder that tapered to a point and had four strips of copper that started at the pointed tip and spiraled down the length of the projectile. “Five rounds per clip, which goes here,” and his tail indicated the slot in the top of the breech.
Jahan’s muzzle hung open in an O. “How does it work?”
“Well, to put it very simply,” and the Gunner cocked an eye at Francois, “electricity spins the round and shoots it out of the barrel, and when it hits – boom!” He pantomimed an explosion with his paws and grinned as the ratings chuckled among themselves. “No recoil, no big clouds of smoke.”
“This is wonderful,” the Prince said. “I know we have something similar – “
“Those’d be English make,” Rakotovao said with a knowing nod. “Armstrong-Faraday, those are.”
“Maybe you’d like to see the helm station next,” and as Francois led the prince away he and the Gunner exchanged glances. The Bosun gave him a tiny nod of approval.
Rakotovao suddenly and loudly clapped his paws. “All right, you lot! None of you wet yourselves at the sight of royalty aboard, but if you think I’m going to kiss you for it you’ve got ordure for brains!”
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Lemur
Size 120 x 87px
File Size 46.7 kB
Listed in Folders
Heh, reminded me of maintaining the trainers at Randolph AFB.
Had a captain I already knew bring a butter-bar out for his first look-see/first-flight in a T-37. Popped panels and walked around the bird pointing things out to him as the pilot and crew chief did their pre-flight. As we all got back together the butter-bar asked if I'd ever flown in one of them.
I stepped back as if he'd threatened me with bodily harm and said, "You're not getting me in one of those deathtraps! I know what kind of maintenance they get!"
Crew chief just grinned and butter-bar didn't look all that eager to get in after all.
Captain knew me well enough (I'd grounded one of his birds for possible problems and knew I wouldn't let them fly if I didn't expect them to be able to bring it back in one piece) and just muttered "Thanks a lot!"
We may not be 'officers', but the officers can't get anything done without us ...
Had a captain I already knew bring a butter-bar out for his first look-see/first-flight in a T-37. Popped panels and walked around the bird pointing things out to him as the pilot and crew chief did their pre-flight. As we all got back together the butter-bar asked if I'd ever flown in one of them.
I stepped back as if he'd threatened me with bodily harm and said, "You're not getting me in one of those deathtraps! I know what kind of maintenance they get!"
Crew chief just grinned and butter-bar didn't look all that eager to get in after all.
Captain knew me well enough (I'd grounded one of his birds for possible problems and knew I wouldn't let them fly if I didn't expect them to be able to bring it back in one piece) and just muttered "Thanks a lot!"
We may not be 'officers', but the officers can't get anything done without us ...
Fabrique Royale Franklin-Lavoisier
Oh-ho. And from that little hint, I surmise that the American Revolution failed, Franklin never went back to North America, and he and Lavoisier continued electrochemical research together. We already knew that the French Revolution failed/didn't happen...
Oh-ho. And from that little hint, I surmise that the American Revolution failed, Franklin never went back to North America, and he and Lavoisier continued electrochemical research together. We already knew that the French Revolution failed/didn't happen...
Kythra
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