The Midshipman Prince Read Free Page B

following.
     
           It was a dark world inside that ship. There were no portholes to let in light or shafts for ventilation. The light and air that did get in came from the hatches and ladders leading from one deck to the other. The men that he could see were, as a group, fairly small men but, even so, many of them had to walk slightly bent over because the overheads were so low.
     
           They descended two decks into the orlop deck when Smith finally halted.
     
           “Whitney! Got some fresh meat for you,” Smith called.
     
           To Walker’s surprise, around the corner came a woman holding a curved knife in her hands.
     
           “Yes, sir,” she said acknowledging Smith and putting the knife into a case. “Ah, you must be the jack they fished out just now. All right, have a seat; let’s have a look at you.”
     
           She was short, not much above five feet tall, not thin but not overweight either. She had the kind of pleasant body that Walker thought of as designed to comfort a man, not seduce him. Her wiry brown hair was pulled back and tied off in a bun with the inevitable errant strands casting loose in odd places. But, the most amazing thing about her was her smile. It seemed to light up what was, in fact, a dark and dreary room.
     
           “What hurts,” she continued.
     
           “Look, I am fine. I bumped my head and my shoulder’s a bit sore.”
     
           “We’ll see about that. Take off that jacket.”
     
           She maneuvered his arm for a while with a gentleness that surprised Walker and finally grunted in satisfaction. “Arm’s all right. Your head...”
     
           “Is fine.”
     
           “...needs a little bit of St. Vincent’s Balm.” She reached into a nearby drawer and uncapped a jar of foul smelling unguent. Using a small damp cloth, she gently cleared away the blood, then smeared a bit of the ointment over the cut on Walker’s forehead. It stung like hell for a few seconds then, amazingly, seemed to go numb.
     
           “You’ll have a bit of a scar there, but that’ll just make you more attractive to the ladies. Where’s Mr. Smith?”  
     
           “Right here. And here are some dry clothes,” he said while dropping them at Walker’s feet rather than handing them to him. “Better change.”
     
           Walker, who was becoming more uncomfortable by the moment in his wet clothes eagerly agreed.
     
           “Are you hungry?” Smith inquired as he led Walker up one deck and walked aft.
     
           “No, not really,” Walker replied.
     
           “Good because we’d pay hell trying to rouse the cook to come up with some rations in-between meals.”
     
           “Lieutenant, I’ve got to ask. What’s a woman doing on board?”
     
           “There are women on board almost every ship in the fleet. Some are the wives of commissioned officers, some the wives of warrants, some tend to the Marines on board. We currently have three women on this ship. Susan Whitney, the person who just took care of you, was the wife of our ship’s gunner, but he was killed in action about a year ago.
     
           “And before you even think about it... keep your hands off. Those women perform important functions on this ship, and we don’t need the disruption of jealousies and intrigue.”
     
           They finally arrived at the aft part of the gun deck and Walker was led to the fourth door on the starboard side.
     
           “Here’s your cabin.”
     
           Walker looked into what he could only describe as a large closet. On one side was a wooden frame hanging by chains from the overhead rafter. On the frame were a straw mattress and a rather stained feather pillow. In the corner was a straight-backed wooden chair and, other than some hooks on the wall and a chamber pot. That was it.
     
           “Whitney