“I look ridiculous and I think I will freeze to death,” Clotilde whined as the launch drew up to Howl. Boyle and Bethany had conspired to make her a sailcloth dress, so she could at last go on deck and, more importantly, come by a decent meal by accompanying the officers to Howl. It fit her well enough, but the cloth was rough, thin, and largely shapeless.

“When you proposed this I was under the impression you would lend me something to wear,” Clotilde went on.

“I have exactly one skirt with no bullet holes in it and besides, we’re too different in size. Even so, you’ll impress, none of these men have seen a girl anywhere but a cigarette card in at least, well, how many months?”

“In the case of Howl, six,” Farley answered.

The launch stopped, the battleship looming over it. A vast hatch in the hull swung out, bathing them in light and a rush of steam heat. It was close enough to the waterline that the guests could climb easily from the launch into the heart of the ship. Howl’s corridors would have been narrow for a house but they were grand for something at sea, though they were painted drab white the shining brash fittings in them whispered ‘flagship.’ They had been cleared of sailors, Bethany saw no one that was not a marine in parade uniform or a steward. One of each swung wide the teak doors to the officer’s mess. The room was low-ceilinged but long and wide, running half the ship’s beam. It was appointed like the second class dining room on a liner, the Navy would pay for fine wood and glass but drew the line at gold and silk.

The long table was mostly filled on both sides, Vice Admiral Locke standing at the head, in conversation with several packs of officers at once. He appeared the oldest man there, but not by much, and looked younger than Mr. Granger by at least ten years. His hair was graying but full enough under his peaked cap, his mustache recruiting poster neat. He had chosen to wear a sword, like Captain Vaux, who stood off to one side, making some point to his officers with sharp gestures, and looking somehow unlike all the others there.

After the group from Fletch took a few steps into the mess, Locke simply stopped speaking and faced them. In a moment the entire room was silent.

“This fête is long overdue and will not be enough to recognize the valor of your ship in the course of this war. You have borne our ensign into battle with greater distinction than ships nearly as large as my own. You deserve this for your actions at Kjell alone, to say nothing of your discovery and reconnoitering of the vile Bexarian airship and its nest. I regret the modesty of this celebration, and, moreover, the fact that I can never again shake hands with the architect of so much of this heroism, Mr. Granger.”

Locke paused and the officers applauded, some stamping their feet. The cry of “hear! hear!” went around. The Vice Admiral took the opportunity to approach Bethany and the others, frozen by the adoration. As the applause died away, he shook hands with Farley, “captain, a brilliant action at Hegalia.”

He went down the line, to Badrine next, then Clotilde, who’s hand he kissed. He halted, off balance, before Bethany. After considering her uniform for a moment he shook her hand instead. Locke led them to their chairs, drawn out from the table in unison by stewards.

Dinner was served quickly, almost rushed. With the exception of Fletch’s officers, all of the men there had known each other for some months and their conversations were routine. There was some talk of Fletch’s actions, all effusive, and a lieutenant from Sharp, expressed a desire to interview Farley at length, insisting on copies of his battle plans and all relevant charts. He intended to work them into a text on beach landings alongside reports from Sophie’s officers.

Bethany kept to herself and Clotilde, she understood much of what was being said, but had little interest in discussing the quality of the coal Despatch dispensed - apparently lesser - or postponed but likely imminent reform in the Admiralty pay structure. Between men of the same ship or old friends, wives and sweethearts, many men had one of each, were talked of.

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When the last course was cleared away Locke called for order.

“Now, those of you who have properly dug into our store of liquor will get this in a paper briefing in the morning, but I cannot help but review our plan of attack tonight. I promised it in the invitation, I mean to do it,” he began, sipping a drink himself. He motioned for a steward and the galley door was opened so a cart could rattle out. On it, overhanging the sides, was a large, flat cake. It was wheeled to the head of the table and plates were cleared so it could be put down before Locke. The officers gathered around it. It was mostly frosted blue, with Hegalia and its adjacent islands rendered in white and green. On a silver tray just beside it were eight ships made of some hard confection. The officers appraised it, murmuring until Locke spoke again.

“Thanks to Mr. Badrine’s superb report, we know that the airship will, in less than a week’s time, come to Hegalia expecting to take on more superheated water. We also know from Fletch’s observations, that the creature is shaped like a cigar. So, naturally...” Locke extracted a large cigar from his jacket. He thrust a toothpick into its center and the toothpick into the cake, over Hegalia “...we will represent it with one of Bray’s finest. When it comes to take on the water it must reduce its altitude greatly, and altitude is the only advantage it has, for, in order to be lighter than air Mr. Badrine tells us it must be of featherweight construction. We know it resisted shells from the privateer, but, recall, they were at the top of their arc, sapped of all velocity. Ours, on the other hand, will be fired from very short range. Now, understand, when it finds Hegalia deserted it will be perturbed, we must expect her to flee. This is where Despatch plays her role.”

Locke added the first confection ship to the cake, some distance from Hegalia.

“She will fly a Bexarian ensign and give the impression that the island has been subject to some sort of evacuation. She will signal for the airship’s attention with her lamp. When the airship inspects her closely she might see the deception but by then it will be too late. The body of the fleet will approach...” Locke added the ships of his fleet, but not the one representing Fletch, to the cake “...and fire to knock out her rudder at her stern and her turrets at her prow. Despatch, from directly beneath her, will make use of a line throwing gun to ensnare her, the collier’s mass being more than enough, I am told, to hold the craft but a few arshins from the sea if need be. At this point, with enough guns trained on it to destroy it in a stroke, the airship’s surrender will be demanded and she shall be boarded. If necessary it will be a hostile boarding, but it will be boarded, for I am under orders to take it intact if at all possible.”

“Intact, sir?” Vaux questioned.

“The Admiralty believes there are likely more of these airships in the Bexarian fleet. If not already underway then under construction. It would explain their paltry naval buildup despite knowing full well war was coming. They have put their resources in this depraved innovation instead. We must have one of our own, and this shall be it. The dockyards at Southwark are preparing even now to make improved copies if only they can inspect her structure.”

“What of Fletch?” Farley asked.

Locke placed Fletch magnanimously at the edge of the cake, “she will be our reserve ship. If heaven forbid one of ours is sunk she will be on hand to rescue survivors. I know it is not the highest honor but you are too small to be in the main force, we can expect that beast to shell us at least once. Howl will withstand it like it is rain but your ship, sir, is a yacht.”

A steward handed Locke a serving knife, he cut a square of ‘sea’ from the cake about each ship. “You may all collect your ship and whatever else you’d like, but I must lay claim to one thing first,” he beamed. He plucked the cigar-airship from its toothpick, bit off the closed end and lit the other. “We’ll have to try not to set the real one ablaze but heaven knows its what they deserve!” he laughed through the gathering smoke.

More drinks were served, the cake began to disappear, officers careful to pocket the confections of their ships save for Vaux, who ate his, and was admonished by all the others, half-sincerely, for dooming his command. There was a piano against the bulkhead and it was soon manned by a red-faced lieutenant from Valse. He started to play patriotic songs, drowned out by the conversations in the mess, but a swaying crowd began to gather around him.

“Look out, they’re going to start singing now...” Badrine whispered to Bethany with a smirk. They did, spontaneously taking up the lyrics of one song and, on its completion, demanding a bawdier tune.

“They’re like boys,” Clotilde mused.

“They are, and practically orphans too. They came up as midshipmen most of them, the average Lieutenant is only 22 and has not spent more than a month at a stretch with his family since he was but 10. They are good, most of them, but they have never had a civilian profession, run a house and what have you,” Badrine put in.

“Do they ever marry?” Clotilde wondered.

“Of course, their mothers or fathers are always on the lookout for a suitable lady and it is not very hard. Every father wishes to see a blue uniform opposite a white dress, if only because it guarantees a consistent salary. A married man is more promotable as well, of course, it proves he is not wild, and married men are afforded much more leave.”

A Lieutenant-Commander who had undone his collar staggered up to Badrine as he finished, he was holding a nearly empty cigar box and slurred “I was told these would interest you, my friend.”

Badrine reached into the box but the officer pulled it away, “no, no come and have them with us” he insisted, indicating a smoky corner of the mess, “you’ve done your duty entertaining the ladies leave that to somebody else.” The Chief Engineer hesitated until the officer clapped him on the back warmly and repeated his suggestion.

Badrine nodded to Bethany and Clotilde, “you’ll forgive me, I hope.”