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 Unfortunately, it was hastily constructed, and was out of date within eight years.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.
Because much of it was wood. Wood that soaked up soot like a sponge. Wood that could hardly be cleaned or repainted.
Evans had expressed his displeasure the previous Monday--'Blue Monday', that day of the week reserved for Admiral's Inspection. Evans and his Board were piped on board with all the pomp of foreign dignitaries. They looked on stoically while the Florida's crew was put through foot drills, fire drills, abandon ship drills, division drills, and Colors. To the First Lieutenant, whose job it was to keep the Florida spotless, it seemed the men with white gloves inspected every inch of the old ship, from her trucks down to her double-bottoms. But the Admiral's chief complaint was on his lips before he even stepped on board:
"This... wood …."
Wood that Dr. Singleton harped on with the insistence of a dog mistaking a neighbor for a prowler and barking all through the night. The false armor would be useless if they were forced to do battle in the course of their journey.
Singleton was with the Fleet as a special correspondent for Scientific American. He was on the Florida as a special nuisance to Captain Oates. It was as if Evans had assigned him to the scruffiest ship they had just to give Singleton proof for his complaints. The Admiral seemed to be saying: "Here, you want to write reports on the inadequacy of my fleet? Then I give you the Florida , sorriest of the lot. That should give you copy, and be damned with you."
The credentials that gave him a berth with the Fleet were impressive--so impressive that the Navy had