THE ADMIRAL'S WALK

The thin little man in the blue coat with the tarnished gold braid sat at the desk in his cabin and wished for fatigue to overwhelm him. He was tired, tired with a fatigue which had been creeping slowly upon him in recent years—and had come on apace in the past few months. Now it was in his very bones.

It was the cold fatigue of an old man—and he was far from old as the world counted years.

He eyed the gleaming bottle of black West Indian rum that stood in its barricaded tray on the table to his left, and his blue eyes lit with a gleam of purpose. Forgetfulness, even sleep, lay in its turbid depths.

But such sleep was not for him with the night already so far spent. The morrow lay close upon him, the morrow toward which his every faculty had been sternly impelled for so many long and unrewarding months. And behind those months lay the many weary years.

Actually, until the issue was joined, there was little he could do. To show himself on deck would reveal a nervousness that might result in a disastrous echo among the men who relied upon him for victory.

His senses hyper-acute, he heard the slap of brine against the waterline, its rhythm never twice the same, yet never varied, so that a man could pick out the difference. He watched idly as the swaying cabin lamp made the shadow of the bottle on the table dance a minuet.

All around him was the wakeful dormancy of a mighty ship asleep—as other ships lay in similar unreal quiescence fore and aft, ships whose commanders were bound by oath to obey his every whim, bound by oath and the fealty his reputation inspired.

It was terrible to hold supreme command on the eve of battle; terrible and frightening. The light supper he had eaten lay heavy on his stomach.

Despite the battles he had fought, the victories he had won, such malaise had never failed to visit him when action loomed close. It was twenty-five years since he had first felt it.

Then he had led a malaria-ridden crew against the well-fortified defenses of San Juan in Nicaragua. It was a comparatively minor mission, one suited to a twenty-two-year-old commander on his first independent assignment. He had thought never again to be troubled with it once the victory was won.

But it had been present fifteen years later when the combined fleets had chased him to the haven of Genoa; and again, two years thereafter, when he had planted the Captain between two enemy vessels and blasted them both to defeat.

Four times more he felt its sickness seize his vitals—at Cadiz, where he had first been wounded in a disastrous combined operations assault; in Aboukir Bay, where the foe had let him sink their warships one by one, like sheep awaiting helplessly the wolf; in the Kattegatt, and at Kronstadt, where for once no shot had been fired.

Now he felt its grip and his restless fighter's soul demanded some sort of action to prevent it from controlling him entirely. It was odd that he should feel it so keenly, for once action was joined, only icy water flowed in his veins.

He rose then, adapting his motions to the roll of the Atlantic beneath his ship like the veteran sailor he was. A short, angular, indomitable figure, he strode across his cabin to the admiral's walk aft. He was an admiral, was he not? Who had a better right to use it?

The sky was cloudy above the restless black velvet of the sea, and the shipboard sounds were clearer. Somewhere below one horizon lay the coast of Spain and the port of Cadiz where he had suffered the anguish of a shattered elbow. And somewhere below the other horizon lay the foe, the elusive foe he had pursued so long and so vainly.

It was a chase that had begun in January, just nine months before to the day. It had crossed the ocean twice, from Toulon to Cadiz, from Cadiz to Martinique, from Martinique to Cape Finisterre, from Finisterre back to Cadiz.

And now at last that he was within reach of his quarry, he feared their strength, for they outnumbered him by twenty-five per cent in capital ships alone. He wondered how best to overcome this advantage, for if he let them slip he might never get another chance as good.

He saw then that the ship behind his own was out of line and frowned. Were blunders by individual commanders, the bane of all fleet admirals, to begin already? And then he saw that not only the next ship but those behind it were well to starboard as he stood.

His own ship must be in disorder. He lifted his head before turning back to go on deck and give the necessary orders, heard the yaw of the ship beneath him as it swung a few degrees to get back in position. He smiled, issuing a self-reprimand for taking it upon himself even in thought, to correct the proper captain of the ship. An admiral, after all, was merely a guest on the flagship.

Lightning played through the clouds above him and he watched it, listening for the rumble of thunder that would inevitably follow. It sounded like the man-made thunder that was sure to roar and rumble on the morrow. Even the gods....

Suddenly, the whole sky seemed to light up in a blinding, terrifying glare. He thought it must have struck the ship, as his frail body was picked up and tossed through the air like a wisp of straw. And then his senses failed him and he no longer saw anything at all....

When he recovered consciousness he was lying in a corridor so strange that it might well have been heaven or hell. It was definitely not of any world he knew.

It was shining white and utterly bare of decoration. Light came from curious glowing rods set at intervals where wall and ceiling met. The floor, of some curious composition substance, was hard beneath his sorely bruised body.

Silently he cursed to himself, aware only with the ingrained habit of years of stern discipline, that he was not on his ship when he was needed most. Not until he had managed to stand upright by supporting himself against the wall did he reflect that he might no longer have a ship or a fleet to be needed upon.

He was surely the victim of some inexplicable catastrophe. Standing unaided, he rubbed his aching forehead.

Then, because to stand still was not in his nature, he began to walk along the corridor. He ignored the round-cornered doors, painted white like the walls, that appeared at intervals. At the end of the passage was a companionway and its steps offered escape, or at least observation.

Slowly he climbed it and then another stairway and nowhere did man appear to stop his progress or to offer information as to his whereabouts. Beneath the white paint the wall was hard, unyielding, metallic to the touch of his left hand. He climbed still another companionway, came to an open door and entered it.

He was in a medium-sized, square chamber, furnished with strange chairs and tables of shining metal and leather. Though he needed urgently to rest himself, he glanced at their proffered comforts only briefly. His keen blue eyes had spotted a bookcase against the far wall.

His light brows drew together as he studied the titles on their backs. They were in English, but the titles were as unfamiliar to him as were the bindings upon which they were printed. There were a book on navigation by a man named Bowditch, a set of volumes on sea power by an Admiral Mahan, a nest of volumes on something called radar by a man with an unpronounceable name.

From them, alien as they were, he derived some satisfaction. He was either on a fantastic sort of a ship or in some place where ship lore was a topic of discussion. He looked further and his blue eyes bulged. His own name stared back at him in letters of gold leaf.

Plucking the book out, he leafed it open incredulously, sat down on the nearest alien metal and leather chair—which proved surprisingly comfortable as it gave just enough beneath his weight. Using his left hand dextrously, he turned to the contents page.

It was then that voices at the open doorway caused him to look up abruptly.

"... no actual damage done beyond what we have already suffered, sir," said one of them. "But it was close."

"We should be out of the pattern, Smithers," said another, deeper voice. "Once we're out of the area we may be able to dock her ourselves. So at least our mission has been accomplished."

"Then we're definitely doomed, sir?" the first voice inquired. Like the other, he spoke incisive English, but in accents unlike any the listener had ever heard.

"The Geiger counters tell the story and it's all bad," came the reply. "It's all right for you and me—but when I think of the men ... well, I'm not sorry we gave the devils what we did. They had it coming to them."

"They did indeed, sir. It's odd about the men. Mass hysteria is the last thing I'd have figured on, even under the present circumstances."

"Such things are not new to the sea, Smithers. But the men who reported it didn't seem hysterical."

"But reporting sight of a fleet of square-riggers, sir—square-riggers under full sail—twenty or thirty of them. It's way beyond me, sir."

"Beyond me too, Smithers. Good night."

Retreating footsteps sounded outside and then the door was shut as a tall, burly man with a heavily sunburned face stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

He moved to a wall shelf behind whose gleaming twin rails stood a carafe and glasses and poured himself a drink. He wore khaki trousers, a khaki shirt, open at the neck, with four little stars at the collar, and a strange headgear, like a skullcap with a long crimson brim.

He poured himself a glass of water, drank it with relish, put the glass down, turned—and saw his visitor.

"Omigosh!" he exclaimed, passed a hand over his eyes and looked again. He came halfway across the room, staring as if at a ghost.

"Omigosh!" he breathed again. "Are you real?"

"I begin to wonder," said the little man, rising from his chair. "Who are you?" The unconscious arrogance of years of command was in his voice.

"Since this is my cabin, who in hades are you?" Then, after a silence that endured while the burly man in khaki studied the pale face of the man before him, the stringy ash-blond hair, the tarnished blue coat with its white facings and pinned-up right sleeve he muttered. "Don't tell me. I know."

"I have not the honor," Horatio Nelson replied. "And if you were in any way responsible for plucking me from the admiral's walk of the Victory on the eve of battle, I should greatly appreciate an explanation."

The big man with the stars on his collar came swiftly forward, put a hand on Nelson's shoulder as if to make sure that he was real, and stared at him. As an afterthought he pinched himself hard.

"Square rigged ships in the light of the blast—and Horatio Nelson in my cabin!" he muttered.

"Since you know my name, why do you persist in doubting my reality?" the one-armed admiral asked with a trace of impatience.

Without answering the other went to a wall cupboard, opened it and took out a bottle. He got the pitcher and glasses from the railed shelf and put the collection down on the table in the center of the room.

"Say when," he said. "I think we both need this. I'm Admiral Edward Kirkham of the United States Navy. Your health, Admiral. And don't bother to drink mine. I haven't any, you see."

"United States Navy," said Nelson, accepting the glass gratefully. "You have a brilliant man in Stephen Decatur, and your new frigates trounced the French soundly. But what do you in these waters since the Tripolitan pirates have been defeated?"

"Admiral," said Kirkham, sitting down and motioning Nelson to take the seat across from him, "explanations seem to be in order from both of us. How to begin?"

"At the beginning, perhaps," said Nelson with the ghost of a smile. However mad the circumstances, he could not but like this bluff flag officer. American or no, he was one of his own kind.

"That would take years," said Kirkham. "We have a saying at home which goes, 'The time, the place and the girl.' Its implications should be understandable to a man like yourself."

"Entirely," said Nelson with a faint smile.

"Well, Admiral, consider yourself the girl for the purpose of metaphor. We are roughly a hundred miles southwest of Cadiz, so the place and the girl are right—remember, you're the girl. It's the time that's cockeyed."

"Cockeyed?" said Nelson. Then, "Oh! And just why is it cockeyed, Admiral?"

"Because, dammit, you've been deader than a doornail for more than a hundred and fifty-five years. Look at that book in your hand. It tells the story, if you're man enough to take it! You died at Trafalgar on October twenty-first, eighteen hundred and five."

"And this is the night of October twentieth, nineteen-sixty!" mused Nelson. He shuddered briefly.

"Eh?" said Kirkham. He looked apologetic. "Sorry to give it to you so brutally, Admiral, but you're on a ship of men who have little longer to live. We've been washed by so much radioactive water our only hope is to get her back to port before we become derelict."

"Radioactive water?" said Nelson. Then he dismissed the question as of no account. He laid the book on the table without opening it and looked earnestly at his host.

"Tell me, Admiral, did we win?"

"You knocked them to pieces," said Kirkham. "Your twenty-seven ships of the line hit Villeneuve's thirty-three so hard, you forced eighteen to strike without the loss of a ship yourself."

"Tell me, Admiral," said Nelson. "What tactics did I employ to gain so signal a victory?"

"You smashed their line by attacking in double column. They failed to employ low raking fire and aimed as usual at your rigging. Once through, you had them."

Nelson sighed, but it was not with relief.

"Thank you, Admiral. You say it's all in here?" He tapped the book with his left hand.

"All there," said Kirkham.

"One thing troubles me, Admiral. How am I to fight this battle if I am not with my fleet?"

"Good heavens!" Kirkham stared at him open-mouthed. The enormity of what had happened seemed just to have sunk in upon him. "Then the ships my watch and radar-men reported must have been yours!"

"Exactly," said Nelson. "And perhaps you would be good enough to tell me how I was plucked from my own admiral's walk to the decks of this very strange vessel?"

"I'm no Einstein," said the American. Then he laughed. "I'm no scientific wizard, Admiral. But that last atom blast that nearly got us must have kicked the Earth right back on its own time trail for a second. It certainly made enough of a fuss. And we may get more any minute."

"What sort of war is this?" Nelson asked, disturbed. "You say you and your men are dying, you talk of earth-shaking 'atom' blasts, yet you fight in sealed cabins."

"Not sealed tightly enough," said Kirkham. "By the way, you are aboard the United States Battleship Kentucky, first capital ship in the world to mount major guided missiles instead of heavy guns. Perhaps this will help you."

He moved quickly to the bookcase, pulled out a few volumes and laid them on the table. They were illustrated histories of sea power, and in them he traced the development of warships from the sail-driven four-deckers of 1805 through the first steam frigates, the early breastwork monitors, the dreadnoughts and the mighty superdreadnoughts of World War Two, to the semi-submersible ships of the new conflict.

"We have them too," he stated, pointing to the last-named. "But we've had all these old-style ships like this wagon we're aboard, built and ready. So they sent us out as a raiding force to plant guided atomic missiles on the enemy's vitals from close inshore.

"There were only twenty-four of us to begin with—the Kentucky, the Missouri, the New Jersey, battleships; the Midway, the Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Coral Sea, carriers; the Alaska, Guam and Hawaii, large cruisers; three San Diegos, small cruisers; and a dozen of the big new destroyers.

"Our main attack is coming over the North Pole—airborne, and we were merely a diversion. We had luck and launched our missiles successfully. The troop landings are coming off almost without opposition according to the latest dispatches. But the enemy isn't through by a long shot. There's a lot of him and he's out to finish us."

"I can understand that," said Nelson, "though I confess much of your terminology is beyond me. But how can an incredible steel floating fortress of more than fifty thousand tons be damaged?"

"The answer to that lies in the fact that only this battleship, the Midway, the Alaska and Guam, one of the light cruisers and seven of the destroyers are still afloat. And of these, only the crews of one cruiser and three destroyers have not been doomed by radioactivity."

"What is this radioactivity you speak of, Admiral?"

Kirkham told him, crisply, graphically. At its conclusion his listener's face was even paler than its wont. He rose and saluted the American gravely.

"You and your crew deserve the salute of every sailor who ever lived"—he stumbled a little over the phrase, caught himself and went on—"and I am proud to salute you in their behalf. War has become a terrible thing."

"It always was," said Kirkham. He had reached for the glass to pour another pair of drinks when a buzzer sounded and he flipped the switch on a box at his elbow.

"Enemy plane sighted and destroyed fifty miles off port bow," came the report. Kirkham swore and closed the switch. He rose, looked at his strange visitor.

"Care to come up and see the fireworks?" he asked. "We've just been spotted by another plane."

Nelson rose quickly. His host started toward the door, then checked himself and came back.

"Better cover that costume of yours, Admiral," he said. "Since they saw your ships, the boys are a bit jumpy and they're in no mood for what they might think were gags. Here—put this raincoat on. It will cover you."

With the book clutched under his left elbow, Nelson followed Admiral Kirkham up through a bewildering series of corridors and companionways to an armored gallery high on the conning tower of the battleship. He stayed close to his host as suggested by the latter.

The Englishman's eyes widened at the spectacle that greeted him. From where he stood he had a view of the entire immense foredeck with its huge rocket launchers and tier upon tier of lesser weapons. Like a great steel monster it cut through the dark waters at incredible speed.

"Take these," said Kirkham, thrusting a pair of binoculars with complex attachments into his hand. "They're infra-red. You'll see the Midway off to starboard. Her night fighters are taking off now."

Without asking for explanations, Nelson stuck the book under his right armpit and handled the heavy binoculars awkwardly with his one good hand. Once he had them focussed he forgot their awkwardness and weight.

Through their lenses, which displayed the night as if it were daylight, and brought the horizon close, he saw the amazing sight no man of his era could ever have witnessed.

A mighty flat-decked vessel with a huge superstructure stood into the wind as Admiral Kirkham had predicted. From her deck, a small machine rose, dipped below the level of her towering square bow and then rose through the air with incredible speed. Another, another and another appeared, to vanish in the clouded heavens above.

"A lot of good they'll do," someone muttered close beside him. "The yellowbellies won't send over bombers and trying to stop their guided missiles with planes is like trying to stop a leak with tissue paper."

Nelson smiled faintly to himself. Though they were talking of weapons he had yet to understand, he understood the simile. He was glad he had not compared "iron men in wooden ships" to "wooden men in ships of steel," a paraphrase that had been on the tip of his tongue. These seamen were worthy of any navy in history—girding themselves to fight on, although their doom had been already sealed by some devilish mechanism devised by man to come.

He became aware that Kirkham was issuing rapid orders, that men were moving quietly about jobs they well knew from long practise. And though this monster under his feet was not a ship at all as he knew it, he yet rejoiced in the sense of discipline, of command, of power. Somehow he felt at home, almost as if he were on his own Victory.

So huge was the ship that at first he was not aware it had changed course. But the mighty flat-topped vessel to port was swinging about, as were the two lesser vessels within the range of the binoculars. The entire squadron was doubling back upon its course. Oh, to have ships so maneuverable without recourse to whim of wind and weather as these beneath him!

"They'll not be apt to drop a pattern where they've already sought us," Kirkham said in his ear. "So we'll move northeast before we swing back toward the west."

"Where is the British fleet?" Nelson asked.

"North of Scotland with our main body," said the American. "They're supporting the main troop landings to follow the airborne in. Those devils will wish they'd never driven us to fight them before we're through."

"I am glad we are allies," said Nelson.

It was then that a frightening voice came through a sort of horn overhead, announcing that missiles had been detected on their way. Kirkham barked terse orders. Suddenly the ship all around them blazed with fire.

Hundreds of rocket projectiles shot upward into the darkness, picking up speed as they rose. Seconds passed and then, far, far up in the heavens a huge flare of bright white light blazed and subsided.

Far up in the heavens a huge flare of bright white light blazed and subsided.

"Got that one," said Kirkham tersely. "But there'll be more, never fear."

Again rockets rose from the Kentucky and from the other ships of the squadron. Again, seconds later, they hit their target and again the skies were horribly bright. That man could cause such colossal explosions was terrifying and splendid at once. Nelson forgot about his own task, his own imminent death, his own victory, in the tautness of the strange battle being fought around him.

And then, once more, the world shook and an unbelievable brightness blazed and the Briton found himself flying through the air before his senses were blotted out.

He was lying once more on the admiral's walk of his flagship and the familiar creak of rope and mast and the slap of waves against wooden hull were the first sounds that registered through the numbness of his senses.

A considerable portion of the railing of the walk had been torn jaggedly loose and a corner of it slanted ominously downward, but it was still supporting him. He got to his feet unsteadily, passed a hand over his forehead and leaned against the woodwork for support.

Something pressed against his ribs on the right side and he looked down to see that the book from Admiral Kirkham's shelf was still lodged between the stump of his right arm and his ribs. He shook his head to clear it, but the book was still there. Staggering a little, he went on into his cabin, closed the door after him. Someone was knocking at the door, calling his name.

"Come in," he said wearily.

The lieutenant in charge of the watch entered and saluted fearfully. "We seem to have struck some sort of floating object twice within the last hour," he said.

"Is she filling?" Nelson asked sharply.

"No, sir," the younger officer replied.

"Then resume your watch. And keep this ship in line hereafter."

"Yes, sir," said the officer. He saluted and went out.

Nelson stared after him, then reached for the bottle of rum, poured himself a stout tot and opened the strange volume before him. Battle eve or no, he needed the reinforcement of alcohol just then. The very sight and reality of the book made it necessary. He opened it to the chapter near the end—frighteningly near the end—entitled Trafalgar.

He was still studying it when, hours later, a subordinate came in to inform him that the French and Spanish fleets had been sighted and seemed disposed to have it out.

"Very well," said Nelson. He rose, picked up his spyglass and started toward the door. Then, with a muttered excuse, he turned back into the room, picked up the volume, and tossed it over, into the South Atlantic.

The skies were blue and the thirty-three ships of the line of the enemy lay in perfect array ahead of him. Nelson studied them briefly through his spyglass.

He had a curious feeling of having been through this before—like a lad in school who has taken his Latin translation into class with him to cover his lack of talent for sight reading in the ancient tongue.

He gave crisp commands and, ignoring the expressions of surprise on those who obeyed them, watched the signal flags flutter to the mastheads, waited for the answering pennants to fly from Collingwood's flagship and the others.

Yes, he was outfoxing his own tactics with a vengeance, employing the bulldozing, line-smashing, headlong technique that the drunken Rodney had used to defeat de Grasse in the Battle of the Saints.

"Have no fear," he said to a trembling lieutenant at his elbow as they moved closer to the enemy. "We'll have broken him before he tries raking fire below our foremasts. He has no stomach for this style of war."

He stood, almost carelessly, on the quarterdeck as his fleet moved relentlessly in, ignoring the enemy's rigging fire and holding their own until they were in his midst. There would be time enough for gunnery in the ship-to-ship combats sure to follow.

Once or twice, although he knew it was folly, his eyes turned upward toward the sky—as if seeking a sign of some explosion beyond man's comprehension, or some strange, noisy object that carried men like birds. But no such sign was vouchsafed him.

When, as the huge French ship Redoubtable loomed up through the cotton-white smoke of her own broadsides, a mizzentop sniper's bullet struck him in the chest, he stood almost as one braced for the blow—as, in his heart of hearts, he was.

They carried him below and the battle roared on around him, a comforting lullaby for a man of war and the sea. He felt little pain, relapsed into a semi-coma that was not sleep but was wonderfully restful for all that.

Then, later, he emerged from the cloud to hear the surgeon muttering to a tearful junior officer who stood by him.

"... can't understand it," the surgeon said. "The wound itself is not serious. The bullet was deflected from the sternum and pierced no vital organ. But I can't stop the bleeding. It's as if the blood vessels themselves had broken down.

"Faith, I'd say the bullet was poisoned if I could name a poison that produced such curious results. The very cells inside the body seem to have collapsed."

Nelson heard him and turned away. The surgeon had never heard of radioactivity. He knew he was going, but he had an idea he'd have company wherever he went—company a man like himself could talk with, and drink with, and pass the time of day with.

He cared no longer about this battle which was already won—and then he thought of that sterner fight in which English sailors would be standing beside sailors from the new United States of America, sailors who had already proven their mettle. That was when they'd have to step to keep up—but England would expect every man to do his duty.

He sensed that his lips were moving and wondered if he had spoken aloud—and then, for the third time in less than twenty-four hours, darkness descended upon him. And this time it was absolute.