At the Midway Page 2

  The burning tents were another matter. The young male had never encountered fire before. When he ducked his head into the fire, the sensation was more peculiar than painful and he snapped at the flames again and again, mystified as to why he could not move them out of the way.

  Once the fires died down, however, the male forgot the strange phenomena and rushed into the woods to find the young female. He discovered her rubbing the length of her body against some trees. This action perplexed the male. The female hissed, rolled to her other side, and began rocking back and forth. Trees snapped and fell under her weight. She moved to the next rank of spruce and repeated the sequence.

  The male sniffed and lifted its head above the trees. In the early morning sunlight his skin took on an olive-gold tinge.

  Unlike the ancient reptiles that they superficially resembled, Tu-nel had prominent follicles of nasal hair. When the young male caught a whiff of smoke from the camp, his nose was tickled and he sneezed, revealing his teeth. Tu-nel teeth were long, sharp as coral, and socketed. They could slice through the thick shell of a giant marine turtle as easily as a boy bites into a cupcake.

  A series of loud cracks and another line of trees went down under the female. As the male lowered himself, he brushed against some spruce boughs and a peculiar tingle shot through him. He lifted himself again and came down on the trees in front of him, his skin rasping against the rough network of limbs. The tingle was multiplied a thousand times.

  More trees were felled as the male repeated the procedure. He began to emit little grunts of pleasure as he learned more and more about the art of scratching himself. Resting his chin against the crown of a tree, he slowly moved outward, laying himself and the spruce down in one long sliding motion as the branches scratched neck, body, cloaca and tail.

  Within an hour, the two young Tu-nel flattened nearly three acres.

  "Tooo... nel...."

  All morning long the female had ignored her mother's calls and, now that her thick skin was satiated, she began loping towards the river. Unwilling to be left alone, the male followed. On reaching the crest of the shallow slope where Hart and Cumiskey had lain, they fell to their stomachs and slid down, kicking out like otters on a mud slide. They plunged into the water and darted to the adult. She greeted the young female with a snort.

  The male was still excited from the morning's play, but he swam too close and his enthusiasm was rewarded with a sharp tail-slap from the mother. He fell behind the females and sulked, but things had improved At least now when he approached the mother did not try to tear out his throat.

  This trip on the Kiltik had been special to the young ones. The fresh water felt strange and clean on their skin. But the Tu-nel rarely went upriver anymore and the mother was feeling confined by the shallows.

  It had been an unintended journey, the result of a combination of misfortunes and one more consequence of the noise.

  After one hundred and thirty-five million years and untold tribulations, the Tu-nel had met their match. It was not something they could touch or smell. It was not something they could fight.

  It was the Age of Steam.

  The ocean had always been a noisy place. For one thing, it held the world's largest collection of ill-bred diners. Fish could be stupendously noisy eaters. Some made feeding sounds that would have reminded a man of a sawmill, and the mammals who shared the seas with them were no less indelicate. Gray whales plowed up large swatches of seabed while tearing through the tiny sand-tube houses of the shrimp-like creatures they preyed upon, making the ocean thud with avalanche sounds.

  And the songbook of the fish was endless. The drumfish Baridiella drummed with its swim bladder. The croaker Micropogon made frog sounds and peculiar snare-drum rolls. Leaning backward, sea horses joined the two bony projections at the back of their skulls and snap-snap-snapped.

  The fish had an infinite number of ways to create snorts, clacks, claps, ticks, squeaks, moans, tones, and groans. Percussive effects could be produced by hitting the ocean floor, each other, or themselves. Many fish sported sonic muscles. By burping gas from their swim bladders into their foreguts, such as the toadfish did, they could peep and burble to their hearts' content. Pufferfish ground their pharyngeal teeth as though they were undersea hurdy-gurdies. All to the accompaniment of crustacean castanets.

  Then there was whale song.

  There was a time when the singing whales rang the globe with their symphonies. Some could make themselves heard on the other side of the planet, setting up vibrations in the water to carry their news and intent. Those not graced with such talent could at least pass important messages along. All the whales in the world were in-the-know. Yet now, while it was a news service not yet matched by man, man had effectively scotched it. Because man had set upon the great currents engines which disrupted their long-distance communications.

  The Tu-nel also had girdled the planet with their songs. One hundred and thirty-five million years of evolution had given them a matchless repertoire. Their most common transmission, "tooo-nel," was fraught with nuances and meanings, which were taught slowly and patiently to all young Tu-nel. Their long necks and lateral temporal vacuities formed, in effect, magnificent Alpine horns. On land this instrument was fed directly from the lungs, but underwater the Tu-nel first transferred air to a special compression chamber near the base of the neck, circulating it for song while losing a minimal amount of oxygen. A glottal cavity was responsible for the hollow double-vowel sound preceding Tu-nel songs and all but erased the subtle consonant at the beginning. In ages past, under the right conditions, they could make themselves heard from sea to sea.

  No more.

  Disastrously for the Tu-nel, steam engines intruded directly upon the frequency of their songs. Even a small auxiliary engine could deafen them. The roar and ratchets did not hurt their sensitive ears. It was the sudden isolation that threw them into turmoil. They were accustomed to the constant hum and jump of sea music. The songs had provided them with consolation and news. A song could be a night cry or joyous birth. Songs told them where the food was, the best weather was, the enemy was. And now they were gone.

  Had they roamed in herds, the result would not have been so catastrophic, but the Tu-nel gathered in large groups only during the mating season. Every year they gathered around a few inconspicuous islands in the Aleutians. As they drew closer, the sounds of the engines grew less intrusive and they could hear each other with relative clarity. This was absolutely necessary, because the Tu-nel were always voracious and the surrounding sea was heavily depopulated during their gatherings. Battling males and choiring females worked up ferocious appetites. They had to stay in constant contact with the scouts who patrolled the outlying areas. On receiving a signal, a temporary truce would be sounded and the combatants would race out to the food the scouts had located. Once fed, the male rivals returned to the deadly scrimmage, while females violently jostled each other as they orbited the arena, determining status in their own particular pecking order. The scouts, old bulls who had given up the mating battles, resumed their vigil.

  In the 1800's whaling ships began plying the area regularly, sailing vessels that little troubled the Tu-nel. But as the century progressed, whalers converted to steam and became even more proficient at depopulating the ocean. The massacre of the fur seals on the Pribilof Islands was a blow. The Tu-nel had pursued the seals even as the seals chased after salmon and squid. A harsher loss was that of the reddish-brown walrus that had thrived in the Arctic. They had once been easy meals as they grazed for gapers and cockles on the sea bed. Now both seals and walruses were threatened with extinction.

  Infinitely worse, though, was that the whales themselves were on the verge of sharing their fate. The Tu-nel scouts had to range further and further away from the mating grounds to find sustenance. The Tu-nel were going hungry when they needed food the most, during the mating season. Occasionally they attacked lone whalers and revenue cutters that came their way, but sinking a large whalin
g ship expended precious energy, and drowning men were scrawny, meager repasts. There were never any survivors from these attacks because the Tu-nel had to pick out every morsel of meat they could find.

  And then the planet itself turned against them.

  Beginning in 1886, revenue cutters threading their way through the Aleutians began happening upon islands that appeared overnight, then just as quickly disappeared. For thirty years the island chain boiled in geologic upheaval. It was spooky enough for the sailors standing on the narrow cutter decks. For the Tu-nel it was catastrophic, because most of the activity took place in the vicinity of Bogoslof Island.

  The heart of their breeding ground.

  The ancient mating arenas now had a new topography. In the past, the Tu-nel would have established new arenas with an accommodating variation in song. But the grind of steam engines and the screech and blow of the earth caused males and females to miss connection. The birth rate dropped. There would be no Tu-nel left in fifty years--the average life span of the creature.

  The mother Tu-nel and the two young ones made their way slowly downriver. Once again they broke through Naupaktomiut fishing seines, but this time the men did not rush out to fix them, for there had been rumors of something terrible in the river. Villagers were missing. The Tu-nel had reached Kotzbue three months ago. It was night, as it had been when they first entered the sound. There was no need to attack the human settlements, for their guts were full of salmon. Still, they attacked two men in a dinghy who were shooting seals that were preying on salmon. The young Tu-nel knocked the boat over and toyed with the men a little before playfully biting them in half. Then they slaughtered two dozen seals that were great sport because of their agility.

  While lumbering over the shoals, they swallowed pebbles to aid in trituration--a bird-like habit they once shared with the plesiosaurs.

  Their accidental riverine foray was over. Accidental because the mother had become lost while searching for the mating arena. There was more noise in the area than ever before, for gold prospectors were arriving by the shipload. The steam engine cacophony had reached a crescendo and the earth itself had buckled and screeched like a mad woman, throwing the mother into deaf confusion.

  Already, far to the south, the prelude to this tectonic activity on the Pacific Rim had reduced a great city to fire and ruin.

  III

  December, 1907  37°02'N, 76°17'W

  From the Deck Log of the USS Florida:

  0800 Dressed Ship; Quartermaster Jno Smith rerated Schoolmaster; Landsman Jno Wm Watkins shipped at N. News; Ship's Baker Jos Sebastiane disrated Landsman, given 5 days bread and water for neglect of duty and insubordination; Seaman Gunner Chas McCoy discharged at Hampt.; Mast gave Pvt Handly (Marine) 20 hours extra duty for insolence; Mast gave Ship's cook 1/c 2 weeks restriction for drunkenness; Seamen Atchison and Russell, 3/c Petty Off Jenkins, and 2/c Machinist Anderson declared deserters.

  There was a shout as a stream of fire shot from the serpent's mouth. Smoke billowed and catastrophe seemed imminent. Ships churned the water and brought their big guns to bear. Crash after thundering crash followed hard and shook the Capes. But the monster was unimpressed and impervious as it drew closer to shore. The end was near. Sparks flew, smoke erupted, the populace screamed.

  The beast reached the shallows, let out a roar--then abruptly stopped. The side of the beast burst open and a score of sailors hopped out. They banked its fires and tossed out mooring lines. Amidst the applause of the spectators, they began to dismantle the dragon and pack it away.

  From the poop of the Mayflower, President Theodore Roosevelt clapped his hands and bully-bullied. The cannon puffs of breath that materialized in the cold December air made him seem like a miniature dragon himself.

  "Signal the rear admiral. I want to board the Connecticut."

  He stepped into the flag officer's barge. On the way across he surveyed the cheering crowds and watched the bright wakes as they unscrolled behind cutters and small craft zipping hither and thither across Hampton Roads. He thought he could hear the band on the Connecticut switch over from the Merry Widow Waltz to something more appropriate as the barge approached, then realized it must be his imagination. It was hard enough hearing the coxswain over the roar of the engine, let alone the musicians on the battleship ahead

  Raising his eyes, he saw red and yellow pennants dart up from the Connecticut's signal bridge. The shine and spangle was all fine, of course. But nothing matched this sight: the flagship and the fleet.

  And the prospect of the journey they were about to undertake.

  Over the summer, ships from all over the world had anchored off the mouth of the James. Guns and aigrettes bristled as battle squadrons from Britain, Japan, Germany, France, Austria-Hungary, Italy and a half dozen lesser powers puffed and pouted for the citizens attending the great Jamestown Exposition. The excitement had been grand, the competition fierce--not exactly a comity of nations, but who cared? Gathered in a mighty heap in Hampton Roads, it seemed Man could take on the universe. Eventually, though, the party ended. The fleets sailed home. Except, of course, the one that was already home. Norfolk was the sally port of the mighty Atlantic Fleet.

  There were twenty battleships in the Grand Atlantic Fleet. Sixteen of them were present, while the rest were in dry dock for repairs and maintenance. Hulls painted a dazzling white, they were like angels in metal studs--as much a boast of moral purity as of puissance.

  "And about as clear a row of sitting ducks as was ever set up for the shoot," said Dr. Singleton from the foredeck of the Indiana class Florida, in the Third Division.

  Midshipman Davis winced. The president himself was being ferried past them, and Singleton still could not hide his want of patriotism.

  The crew had manned the starboard rail for side honors and a cheer burst forth as Roosevelt waved at them from the barge. Up on the bridge, Captain Oates wondered how familiar the Chief Executive was with the Fleet's signal book, since every morning at four bells of the forenoon watch the ships hoisted flags indicating their number of sick and absentees. One of the fiercest rivalries between the captains manifested at this time, the winning ship showing the lowest number. As of yet, the Admiral had given no indication these flags should be lowered. Pride and shame were pennants for all to see. The Florida had come in second from the last--some consolation since that was better than usual.

  Oates frowned at the way his men abandoned themselves to the cheer. The lack of decorum bothered him. But he had it from Evans himself that the president preferred extravagant displays of enthusiasm from his men over dour obedience.

  One questioned the Rear Admiral at one's peril. "Fighting Bob" Evans had earned his sobriquet off the coast of South America in 1891. When the Chilean government aimed some rude noises at the United States, Robley D. Evans sailed into Valparaiso and threatened to blow up Chile's navy if they did not promptly apologize‑‑which they did.

  Chile! Captain Oates snorted inwardly. What a coup! What a magnificent victory!

  True, Evans had fought honorably in the Spanish‑American War, was even credited with destroying the enemy flagship at Santiago. But that was not where he had gotten his nickname.

  Chile! It said worlds about the Rear Admiral. He was not ashamed to use the big stick, no matter how small the prey. So when he told his captains to allow their bluejackets to engage in spontaneous shouting, cheering, frolicking and other foolish behavior that evinced good morale, the captains bit the bullet.

  Chile!

  Captain Oates saluted as the president waved. Below and forward, he spotted the peculiar straw hat Dr. Singleton always wore--one more care he did not want to count. The day Singleton came on board, Oates knew that the doctor was going to rub him the wrong way. One of the Navy's unwritten laws was that officers had their own personal spaces, as well as their private ways of getting there. The starboard side of the quarterdeck belonged to the captain. While there, no one was to approach unless he signaled them to do so. To p
ort other officers congregated, avoiding the captain's gaze but keen for his call. These wardroom officers had their own particular hatchway to use when going up to the quarterdeck, staying clear of the captain's personal companionway.

  That morning, as Oates ascended the short ladder, the companionway was suddenly blocked from above. He glanced up to see the swaying bottom of a pair of baggy trousers descending upon him and just managed to scamper down and out of the way before getting stepped on.

  "See here, sir," he protested when Singleton came to rest at the bottom of the ladder. "This happens to be reserved for the exclusive use of the ship's commander."

  "Even when there's a fire?" said Singleton breezily, then sauntered down the passageway.

  "A civilian," Oates thought grumpily as he went up. Yet as he stood looking out over the roadstead, he remembered being told Singleton had spent several months with the Special Service Squadron, so he was undoubtedly versed in maritime formalities. Had he come down the captain's hatch--on purpose? If so, why? There could be no other reason than to... than to....

  "Annoy me!" Oates struck the rail.

  They were going to sail around the world. That was why Roosevelt was here--to see them off. It was an exploit never before attempted by a major steam-driven fleet. The ill-fated Baltic Fleet had only managed half the distance. The technical, logistical and political problems that had to be surmounted seemed inconsequential next to the sheer physical endurance required of them. Not that the thing itself was impossible, but the officers of the Fleet were impossibly old. Oates himself was on the near side of seventy.

  And he'd been saddled with the oldest of the sixteen ships.

  Twelve years earlier, Congress had grown alarmed by what was happening across the Atlantic, where the European powers were battening the hatches for a prolonged arms race. In a trice, money was appropriated for a complete revamping of the U.S. Navy and among the first keels laid was that of the Florida. Unfortunately, it was hastily constructed, and was out of date within eight years. Newer ships of the Connecticut class carried prodigious armor shields that Oates' ship lacked and, naval diplomacy being nine-tenths appearance, the older ship was given a modern-looking exterior. From a distance, she looked as formidable as any man-of-war in the four divisions. But much of it was sham.