立ち読み版：サンダーチャイルド最後の戦い

The Last Days of Thunder Child
by C A Powell
June 1898: From H.G.Wells WAR OF THE WORLDS They really came and this is the alternative history of that coming. Let us join the crew of H.M.S. Thunder Child as she prepares to embark upon her doomed voyage—before her demise and courageous battle with three Martian tripods at the River Blackwater in the county of Essex, England.

Chapter One
Embarkation amid Rumours

Above the quay where the ironclad was moored, seagulls swooped and squealed in the late summer afternoon’s June sky. It was as though the birds knew the vessel was about to embark across the shimmering swell, sparkling from sunbeams that burst with moments of brilliance. A sudden breeze swept brusquely across the bay—a surge that died as quickly as it had come, making the assembled crew almost stiffen to attention without the order being given. They held themselves in check, standing at ease before the fluttering Ensign. A Union Jack in the top corner of a Saint George cross.
Each man was in his own section, where sailors, stewards and stokers stood in neat rows behind their respected leaders. All uniforms had been thoroughly cleaned of the coal dust, as was the deck, which had been smothered the day before. All had been ordered to help bring the substance aboard and then the rest of the day had been dedicated to cleaning the ship from top to bottom.
The crew stood in summer dress, brought on parade at the recessed quarterdeck. Before them going amidship was the main deck, horseshoe-shaped by the quarterdeck’s lull, with a central stairway leading up to an array of officers, who stood beneath two mounted guns on a revolving turret. Their short, stubby muzzle-loading barrels barely protruded from the turret’s gun ports, but then Thunder Child was outdated by Royal Navy standards. She still displayed an elegant might, as though sentient of her service to Queen Victoria’s Royal Navy.
Such wonders were enough to hearten the spirits of Boy Seaman First Class Perry as he watched the higher ranks beneath the aft gun, waiting to welcome the new captain, who was rumoured to be an agreeable and sturdy Scottish fellow.
Perry had just arrived from H.M.S. Ganges training ship, where he had endured a year of harsh discipline. The excitement of his new posting added to his keen spirit and although ships made of iron had been about for many years, he was pleased when the civilian population stopped in their inquisitive groups to look in wonder at the ship.
H.M.S. Thunder Child was a mighty little ironclad indeed and at twenty-four years of age, having been completed in 1875, she was ready to be scrapped. However, the little ironclad had won a momentary reprieve. Why? No one knew and Perry was confused when he arrived aboard a ship where the crew couldn’t make out why he’d been sent. Not when her last voyage was for the breakers yard.
“Hope he gets here soon,” whispered Jolly, careful not to be spotted.
“Jolly, report to the quartermaster afterwards.” Chief Boatswain Pickles’ voice boomed from behind. The man had a knack of being in the right place at the wrong time where insubordinates were concerned.
Perry froze, hoping he wouldn’t be included in the punishment and gave a sigh of relief as the boatswain’s mate began piping the side and the stamp to attention of the entire crew followed—a single entity of discipline.
All watched as the resplendent and handsome looking Captain McIntosh stepped aboard and allowed the whistle to fade. The new captain stood waiting for the ceremony to commence and seemed pleased by the sturdy look of the crew waiting to greet him. Confident he would get along with such fine men—knowing he could get the best from them.
They went through the time-honoured tradition of handing command to the captain and when the formalities were out of the way, he stopped to address the crew.
Perry, like many of the sailors, took an instant liking to the man. It was as though he had an aura about him. He was in his mid-thirties with neatly cut black hair, clean-shaven and his uniform was immaculate. When he spoke, it was with a confident Edinburgh accent.
“It gladdens me to stand before such a fine-looking crew and it is with great pride and pleasure that I accept the command of H.M.S. Thunder Child. I have received fresh orders as to our new voyage, which is, of course, not the original destination we had planned. You will all know more in due course, but in the meantime, we shall put to sea immediately. Thank you.” He went off with the ship's officers, leaving the rest of the crew to fall out and attend their duties.
“Why do you think we’re going somewhere else?” asked Jolly as the assembled crewmen began to fall out and go about their functions.
“I don’t know.” Perry was bewildered. “First I’ve heard.”
“Well if you ask me, it doesn’t sound too good. I’m not one for a rumour, but…”
“Jolly!” yelled Boatswain Pickles.
“Oh no,” muttered Jolly. “Yes, Bosun.”
The boatswain stood rigid—his angry face looked as though it would explode. Ginger sideburns clung to his flushed skin like wild red ivy, meeting a huge moustache. He was the very picture of Victorian value. “Run along now, lad. The quartermaster will make sure you don’t talk on parade. By God, boy, he’ll teach a trumped up little guttersnipe like you how to behave, so help me God he will. Now move.”
“Yes, Bosun,” yelled Jolly, running to the hatch and into the companionways that would lead to the quartermaster’s stores, not daring to walk, even when out of the boatswain’s sight.
Perry watched him go, then looked to Pickles, who was staring straight back at him. He averted his gaze and was about to leave, when he was yelled at too.
“Boy Seaman Perry, stop there now.” He froze to attention while Pickles moved foreword. “Talking to you was he, boy?”
“Who, Bosun? Jolly?”
“Don’t play smart with me, boy,” he whispered, then yelled and Perry almost flinched expecting to be struck. It had happened on the odd occasion at the training school. “You know exactly who I mean.
Never in all my life have I heard such drivel. Follow him now and when you get there, tell the quartermaster you’re a little smart-ass and you need it knocked out of you. Now! Tell me what you say to the quartermaster, boy.”
“I’m a little smart-ass and I need it knocked out of me, Bosun.”
“Good. Run along then, there’s a good chap.”
Perry made off while the boatswain went about his business with a spring in his step, muttering to himself. “No one makes a horse’s ass out of Chief Boatswain Albert Sydney Pickles.” To him, the clear day with its serene sea held a surety that the coming voyage would be a good one, and certain in such beliefs, he indulged himself with a pause to look across the bay at some of the other vessels.
During his years of service, he had seen and done a great many things—never once regretting his time in Her Majesty’s Navy, although often he cursed the force, he never meant a word of it. He sighed, put his hands against his lapels and walked off with great aplomb.

* * *

Cursing his luck while making his way along the companionway, Perry knew the worst was yet to come. He was sure Bosun Pickles and Quartermaster Middleton had a scheme going where disorderly sailors were concerned, or at least what they decided was disorderly. As he knocked at the stores room and entered, he was greeted by the sight of the quartermaster, whose appearance was very much like Bosun Pickles, except his whiskers were brown with touches of grey. He was booming at the top of his voice at Jolly, who was standing at attention receiving a thorough dressing-down.
“I don’t know what this blooming navy is coming to, boy. When some little upstart like you comes along and thinks he can go about making his own rules. It won’t do, lad. Do you hear, it just won’t do at all.”
“No, Quartermaster,” replied Jolly. Jolly had told the quartermaster what he had done and had left nothing out, as he was sure Boatswain Pickles would throw further light on the matter when they were next in the mess drinking together.
The quartermaster looked to Perry. “What are you here for, lad?”
“The Bosun says I’m to report to you for being a smart-ass and that I need it knocked out of me, Quartermaster.”
Middleton’s chest cavity filled with hot air and it was hard to tell whether he was angry, or secretly pleased to have another urchin to deal with. “Did he now? Well, you may be very pleased to know that dealing with little smart-asses is a speciality of mine, lad, so don’t worry. I’ll knock it out of you good and proper. God help you, boy, I will.” He took a step back to look at both his sacrificial offerings. “Well this is cosy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Quartermaster,” replied Perry and Jolly.
Middleton clasped his hands with a thunderous clap and Perry realised that the man was indeed, enjoying himself. “Well,” he began. “Jolly I know, but you, lad, are one of the new boys. What’s the name then?”
“It’s Perry, Quartermaster. I arrived two days ago, sir.”
“Did you now?” Middleton liked saying ‘Did you now’ or ‘Is it now’. Perry had heard the other sailors doing impressions of the man during lighthearted moments when resting. Things were a lot more sinister when confronting him.
“Yes, Quartermaster.”
“What school, Boy Perry?”
“H.M.S. Ganges, Quartermaster.”
“Are you now, and you come trotting along as a smart-ass in the hope that serving aboard Thunder Child, we would make you a more honourable young man? Is this not so, lad?” He began to walk behind Perry, who was trembling, knowing Middleton was playing games. The young sailor knew he would have to go through the routine of saying ‘Yes’ to everything.
“Yes, Quartermaster,” he confirmed.
“Well now, isn’t this jolly?”
“Pardon, Quartermaster?” asked Ordinary Seaman Jolly.
“Shut your mouth and talk when you’re spoken to, Jolly. You can’t make mistakes for having a silly name. There’s no excuse for it, lad. Did you hear? No excuse.”
“Yes, Quartermaster.” Jolly then shut up, hoping Middleton would resume his interest in Perry. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Well now, young Perry. What should we do with you—who have the keenness to become an upright British boy, who can serve his Queen and country? You do love your Queen, don’t you, boy?”
“Yes, Quartermaster.”
“And you do love your country?”
“Yes, Quartermaster.”
“And you would be most grateful to any of the Queen’s men who try to put you straight on matters of correction, wouldn’t you, boy?”
“Yes, Quartermaster.”
“So.” He clapped his hands again and began rubbing them brusquely. “Any harsh punishment I administer is done so for your benefit, young man. It makes sure you function at a high standard while aboard this ship. It will make a good and upright citizen of you when you go forth into the trepidation of Civy Street. Therefore, you will be grateful for the punishment I’m about to bring upon you, won’t you, lad?”
“Yes, Quartermaster.”
“Not much conviction in that one, boy. Let’s have it with a bit of gusto now, come on, lad.”
“Yes, Quartermaster,” bellowed Perry, wanting to get on with it.
“Well now. Aren’t you a most splendid young sailor indeed? I’ve got a lot of time for a reluctant smart-ass who is determined to shake off his stupidity by doing lots of fatigues. All the time in the blooming world, boy.”
Perry stared back; unsure whether he was meant to respond, when Middleton stopped talking as though waiting for him to say something. “YYes, Quartermaster.”
“Right, you and Jolly follow me then.”
They complied as he led the way through a hatchway into another cabin with a counter halfway across the room. Behind it was another hatch leading to the stores, where rows of shelves were full of clothing and the other supplies necessary for running a ship. He lifted a part of the counter that was on hinges and smiled like Father Christmas allowing two boys into his grotto. “Well now, mustn’t keep you likely lads waiting, must we? In you jolly well go.”
“Pardon, Quarter…?” Jolly clenched his teeth, realising he had made the same mistake again.
“Shut your blooming mouth and speak when you’re spoken to, Jolly. I’ve told you not to confuse your stupid name with that exquisite word I like to use in lighthearted discourse. Now you want to buck your blooming ideas up, lad, because you and me are going to fall out bloody big time. Do you understand?”
“Sorry, Quartermaster,” replied Jolly.
“Are you, lad?” He acted like a poor, wretched man that was delighted by a new ray of hope. “Are you really sorry, lad?”
“Yes, Quartermaster.” Now Jolly began to worry, knowing he had to walk the path Middleton was laying before him. The insufferable man clenched his fist and stared intently at him as crocodile tears oozed from his wicked eyes—pretending to be overcome by the emotion of it all and like some stage-struck thespian, he played to his audience.
“You mean you don’t want to be a little guttersnipe who likes to make up his own rules anymore and you don’t want to confuse your stupid name with my exquisite word I like to use in buoyant chit-chat?”
“No, Quartermaster.”
He shook his head, overcome by the joy of it all.
“Glory be, Jolly. You can make me a very proud man. You know that, don’t you, boy?” “Yes, Quartermaster.” Jolly was beginning to get very worked up inside and wondered how such a devious and vindictive sod ever got to be born. He just wanted to do his punishment and get out of this wicked man’s sight. Oh how he wished he’d not behaved so stupidly during the boarding parade.
“You do want it stamped out of you, don’t you, boy?” said Middleton as though his lamb might be tricking him.
“Yes, Quartermaster.” Jolly wanted to scream with rage as he fought back the tears. How he would love to smash his fist in the quartermaster’s face, but it was more then he dared do.

End of the sample eBook