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Lourenco Marques
A Capital Ship story
© 2019 by Walter Reimer
“Lookouts report land five kilometers off the port quarter, Captain. It’s Lourenco Marques,” the Helm said.
“Very well,” de Ville said crisply. “Bosun, have signal flags run up. My compliments to the Governor, and request we put in for provisioning and liberty.” Francois saluted and relayed the orders to several ratings as Prince Jahan pulled his goggles over his eyes and touched a few switches on his forearm to see what the lookouts had spotted.
What he saw, superimposed over his view of the main deck, the sails and the sea, was a low dark line on the horizon. Mr. Villiers, looking at the same image, said helpfully, “You can’t see them from here, but they’re there on the charts.” The tiger glanced at the greyhound, who added, “Harbor forts. Four of them.”
Jahan blinked. “Can they hit us? We’re still far out to sea.”
The First Officer cut in. “Oh yes, Midshipman. We’re about five kilometers out. The Portugese use Krupp-made 155 millimeter guns on their forts, with a range of nine kilometers.” The feline grinned. “But we’re not at war with Portugal or their empire, so we smile and exchange courtesies.”
“Would the St. Elmo field – “
“For a time, yes,” the senior officer replied, “but eventually . . . “ The feline gave a Gallic shrug and walked back to the quarterdeck.
The Temeraire entered the port city’s bay between the islands of Inhaca and Ilha Xafina Grande, the Portuguese flag flying alongside the Imperial tricolor. A salute was fired by the forts on the islands, and it was returned by the warship’s electrocarronades. Its southward route into the bay was halted by the arrival of a steam-powered tug carrying a pilot. The lithe gazelle clad in his country’s uniform clambered aboard, exchanged salutes with Captain de Ville and said in passable French with a heavy native accent, “The compliments of the Governor, Captain, and would he extend to you a invitation to dine.”
“I would be honored,” de Ville said, and the pilot gave orders to the Helm to bring the ship to a westerly heading, and after a short time he asked that the sails be furled. The tug then took the bigger ship under tow and Prince Jahan watched as the low-built city went past him.
Lourenco Marques was built on a hilly ridge that ran roughly north-northeast, and then sprawled out across the surrounding lower terrain. Its port was a long quay southwest of the city in the Umbuluzi River estuary. With a bit of effort on the part of the tug, the Temeraire was turned around and brought alongside the quay facing out toward the bay.
As soon as the gangway was in place a stocky lynx in Portuguese uniform with a lieutenant’s rank on his shoulders stepped aboard and saluted the two flags, then Captain de Ville. “Captain, welcome to Lourenco Marques.”
The bulldog returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He stepped aside as the pilot came up and whispered to the lynx, then saluted and walked down the gangway. “We’ve requested provisions and a few nights’ liberty.”
“Indeed, and permission has been granted by the Governor,” the lynx said with a toothy smile. “The pilot told me that you will dine with His Excellency?”
“As I told the pilot, it would be my honor.”
“May I have the honor of escorting you?”
“Of course.” De Ville turned to the First Officer. “You have command,” he said, and settling a paw on the hilt of his sword, the bulldog followed the lynx.
The First Officer held his salute until the captain had stepped onto the quay, then lowered his paw and turned to Francois. “Arrange a liberty schedule, Bosun. It’ll start after the provisions are all loaded.” The feline lowered his voice. “If Mr. Timuríde goes ashore, have Villiers go with him. He’s been here before, and can keep our guest out of trouble.”
Francois touched two fingers to his brow. “Yes, Soor.” He touched a few switches on his forearm and then put his fingers to his throat microphone to relay the orders.
Part of the provisioning in this part of the world meant having to deal with the small flock of children of all species who gathered along the quay to beg or steal. A small quantity of money to the local Beggar King was earmarked to keep the children away. It was a task considered beneath an officer’s station.
Which meant that the job fell to the most senior enlisted man aboard the Temeraire.
The red-ruffed lemur, escorted by two Marines, was led through the narrow, twisting streets just off the waterfront to a certain house, its whitewash fading to show the stucco underneath. Their guide, a small kitten with a wide, gap-toothed grin, swept open the door and ushered them inside.
An aged feline, probably the kitten’s grandfather based on their fur pattern, smiled at the lemur and greeted him as an old friend. Francois had been to the city before and also smiled as he returned the greetings.
Everyone stopped smiling as the haggling started.
To no one’s surprise, the cat spoke French. Not very well, but well enough to drive a hard bargain that resulted in accepting twenty francs for the privilege of the French vessel using the port without having items stolen before they reached the warship’s holds.
“Think we can trust him, Bosun?” one of the Marines asked as they made their way back to the quay.
Francois shrugged. “Old Joao’s a shifty old cat, but as long as he’s got what he thinks is a fair price, he’ll make sure we’re left alone.” He raised a finger as his tail swished. “But just because the beggars will leave us alone doesn’t mean you lot can relax.” They both nodded. “Good. Make sure the others know it as well.”
It took the better part of the day to get everything loaded aboard and secured within the ship, and many of the ratings looked eager to go spend some of their pay on cheap aguardente and cheaper women. As always, Dr. Mirabeau gave them all a lecture on the evils of the pox and drinking adulterated liquor. While a few of the crewmembers might ignore the doctor’s words, they listened a bit more attentively to Francois, who reminded them to stay in small groups to avoid getting attacked by thieves.
The sailors fairly stampeded over the gangway and fanned out for the taverns.
The two midshipmen paused to salute the flag before departing, and Francois saw the tiger wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Problem, Mr. Timuríde?”
“The smells here, Bosun,” Prince Jahan said. “They’re . . . awfully rich.”
The lemur laughed and Villiers smiled behind his paw. “Some folk will call that the smell of the sea, Soor. It’s not; it’s the smell of the land – waste, rotting plants,” and he waved a paw at the city, “and people. Just like being aloft in the rigging, it’s something you get used to,” he added with a reassuring smile. “Off you two go.”
He watched them take the road that led to the upper town, and almost didn’t see the Gunner coming up beside him. “Going ashore, Francois?” he asked. “I know this little place – “
“I’ve been there. I threw you through a window, if I remember,” the lemur laughed. “Let’s go.” The two senior petty officers saluted the Imperial flag before leaving the ship. A skeleton crew would stay behind to look after things, most of them hoping that some of their fellows would return early so that they could sample the delights of the city.
A few hours later Francois sat back from the table and belched. The tavern he and the gunner had entered was at the edge of the upper town, and offered food as well as drink, and one woman played a quiet fado song on a guitar. He and the other lemur had demanded beer and fended off the repeated offers of something stronger, recognizing an effort on the part of the owner to get them both drunk enough to roll without much fuss.
Their money was good, though, and that helped assuage the tapster’s disappointment.
The two stumbled out of the tavern sometime before midnight, judging by the bells from the cathedral at the top of the hill. “Well,” the Gunner slurred, “where to next?”
“Hmm – “
Ears perked as a scream tore through the night, shocking both lemurs out of their alcoholic haze.
The Gunner raised his head, ears swiveling, and pointed to the left. “That way!” They started to run, soon joined by a few other sailors, passers-by, and a pair of city guards.
Francois rounded a corner and paused, baring his teeth at the sight of a crumpled figure in a French naval uniform.
A midshipman’s uniform.
Furs gathered around as the red-ruffed lemur gently rolled the figure over as someone brought a lit torch.
It was Villiers.
The greyhound was soaked in his own blood.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Capital Ship story
© 2019 by Walter Reimer
“Lookouts report land five kilometers off the port quarter, Captain. It’s Lourenco Marques,” the Helm said.
“Very well,” de Ville said crisply. “Bosun, have signal flags run up. My compliments to the Governor, and request we put in for provisioning and liberty.” Francois saluted and relayed the orders to several ratings as Prince Jahan pulled his goggles over his eyes and touched a few switches on his forearm to see what the lookouts had spotted.
What he saw, superimposed over his view of the main deck, the sails and the sea, was a low dark line on the horizon. Mr. Villiers, looking at the same image, said helpfully, “You can’t see them from here, but they’re there on the charts.” The tiger glanced at the greyhound, who added, “Harbor forts. Four of them.”
Jahan blinked. “Can they hit us? We’re still far out to sea.”
The First Officer cut in. “Oh yes, Midshipman. We’re about five kilometers out. The Portugese use Krupp-made 155 millimeter guns on their forts, with a range of nine kilometers.” The feline grinned. “But we’re not at war with Portugal or their empire, so we smile and exchange courtesies.”
“Would the St. Elmo field – “
“For a time, yes,” the senior officer replied, “but eventually . . . “ The feline gave a Gallic shrug and walked back to the quarterdeck.
The Temeraire entered the port city’s bay between the islands of Inhaca and Ilha Xafina Grande, the Portuguese flag flying alongside the Imperial tricolor. A salute was fired by the forts on the islands, and it was returned by the warship’s electrocarronades. Its southward route into the bay was halted by the arrival of a steam-powered tug carrying a pilot. The lithe gazelle clad in his country’s uniform clambered aboard, exchanged salutes with Captain de Ville and said in passable French with a heavy native accent, “The compliments of the Governor, Captain, and would he extend to you a invitation to dine.”
“I would be honored,” de Ville said, and the pilot gave orders to the Helm to bring the ship to a westerly heading, and after a short time he asked that the sails be furled. The tug then took the bigger ship under tow and Prince Jahan watched as the low-built city went past him.
Lourenco Marques was built on a hilly ridge that ran roughly north-northeast, and then sprawled out across the surrounding lower terrain. Its port was a long quay southwest of the city in the Umbuluzi River estuary. With a bit of effort on the part of the tug, the Temeraire was turned around and brought alongside the quay facing out toward the bay.
As soon as the gangway was in place a stocky lynx in Portuguese uniform with a lieutenant’s rank on his shoulders stepped aboard and saluted the two flags, then Captain de Ville. “Captain, welcome to Lourenco Marques.”
The bulldog returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He stepped aside as the pilot came up and whispered to the lynx, then saluted and walked down the gangway. “We’ve requested provisions and a few nights’ liberty.”
“Indeed, and permission has been granted by the Governor,” the lynx said with a toothy smile. “The pilot told me that you will dine with His Excellency?”
“As I told the pilot, it would be my honor.”
“May I have the honor of escorting you?”
“Of course.” De Ville turned to the First Officer. “You have command,” he said, and settling a paw on the hilt of his sword, the bulldog followed the lynx.
The First Officer held his salute until the captain had stepped onto the quay, then lowered his paw and turned to Francois. “Arrange a liberty schedule, Bosun. It’ll start after the provisions are all loaded.” The feline lowered his voice. “If Mr. Timuríde goes ashore, have Villiers go with him. He’s been here before, and can keep our guest out of trouble.”
Francois touched two fingers to his brow. “Yes, Soor.” He touched a few switches on his forearm and then put his fingers to his throat microphone to relay the orders.
Part of the provisioning in this part of the world meant having to deal with the small flock of children of all species who gathered along the quay to beg or steal. A small quantity of money to the local Beggar King was earmarked to keep the children away. It was a task considered beneath an officer’s station.
Which meant that the job fell to the most senior enlisted man aboard the Temeraire.
The red-ruffed lemur, escorted by two Marines, was led through the narrow, twisting streets just off the waterfront to a certain house, its whitewash fading to show the stucco underneath. Their guide, a small kitten with a wide, gap-toothed grin, swept open the door and ushered them inside.
An aged feline, probably the kitten’s grandfather based on their fur pattern, smiled at the lemur and greeted him as an old friend. Francois had been to the city before and also smiled as he returned the greetings.
Everyone stopped smiling as the haggling started.
To no one’s surprise, the cat spoke French. Not very well, but well enough to drive a hard bargain that resulted in accepting twenty francs for the privilege of the French vessel using the port without having items stolen before they reached the warship’s holds.
“Think we can trust him, Bosun?” one of the Marines asked as they made their way back to the quay.
Francois shrugged. “Old Joao’s a shifty old cat, but as long as he’s got what he thinks is a fair price, he’ll make sure we’re left alone.” He raised a finger as his tail swished. “But just because the beggars will leave us alone doesn’t mean you lot can relax.” They both nodded. “Good. Make sure the others know it as well.”
It took the better part of the day to get everything loaded aboard and secured within the ship, and many of the ratings looked eager to go spend some of their pay on cheap aguardente and cheaper women. As always, Dr. Mirabeau gave them all a lecture on the evils of the pox and drinking adulterated liquor. While a few of the crewmembers might ignore the doctor’s words, they listened a bit more attentively to Francois, who reminded them to stay in small groups to avoid getting attacked by thieves.
The sailors fairly stampeded over the gangway and fanned out for the taverns.
The two midshipmen paused to salute the flag before departing, and Francois saw the tiger wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Problem, Mr. Timuríde?”
“The smells here, Bosun,” Prince Jahan said. “They’re . . . awfully rich.”
The lemur laughed and Villiers smiled behind his paw. “Some folk will call that the smell of the sea, Soor. It’s not; it’s the smell of the land – waste, rotting plants,” and he waved a paw at the city, “and people. Just like being aloft in the rigging, it’s something you get used to,” he added with a reassuring smile. “Off you two go.”
He watched them take the road that led to the upper town, and almost didn’t see the Gunner coming up beside him. “Going ashore, Francois?” he asked. “I know this little place – “
“I’ve been there. I threw you through a window, if I remember,” the lemur laughed. “Let’s go.” The two senior petty officers saluted the Imperial flag before leaving the ship. A skeleton crew would stay behind to look after things, most of them hoping that some of their fellows would return early so that they could sample the delights of the city.
A few hours later Francois sat back from the table and belched. The tavern he and the gunner had entered was at the edge of the upper town, and offered food as well as drink, and one woman played a quiet fado song on a guitar. He and the other lemur had demanded beer and fended off the repeated offers of something stronger, recognizing an effort on the part of the owner to get them both drunk enough to roll without much fuss.
Their money was good, though, and that helped assuage the tapster’s disappointment.
The two stumbled out of the tavern sometime before midnight, judging by the bells from the cathedral at the top of the hill. “Well,” the Gunner slurred, “where to next?”
“Hmm – “
Ears perked as a scream tore through the night, shocking both lemurs out of their alcoholic haze.
The Gunner raised his head, ears swiveling, and pointed to the left. “That way!” They started to run, soon joined by a few other sailors, passers-by, and a pair of city guards.
Francois rounded a corner and paused, baring his teeth at the sight of a crumpled figure in a French naval uniform.
A midshipman’s uniform.
Furs gathered around as the red-ruffed lemur gently rolled the figure over as someone brought a lit torch.
It was Villiers.
The greyhound was soaked in his own blood.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Lemur
Size 120 x 87px
File Size 45.6 kB
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