My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

14

“Admiral?” Sharkey asked as Chip and  I were going over the charts at the plot table in the Control Room. “Can I...um...see you for a moment? It’s kind of a...delicate matter.”

“For the last time, I’m not upset with Japan’s decision not to use my formula. Will you and everyone else aboard get that through your thick skulls?”

“Er...that’s not it sir. Cookie and me are having a little disagreement and I figured you might be able to help out.”

“Disagreement?” Chip asked.

“Yes sir. There’s something he wants to fix for dessert, in honor of the skipper’s visit to that distillery today.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“Well, the more traditional recipe calls for toasted oatmeal soaked in whiskey....”

“For dessert?” Chip asked, incredulous.

“Er, not what you think, sir. It’s something called Cranachan. It’s a kind of whipped cream parfait with fruit topped by the oatmeal, but it’s kind of a moot point, as we don’t exactly got any whiskey in the galley...and er...”

“You want to borrow some of mine, that it?” I asked, grinning.

“Well, er, yeah. That’s it sir...only...um...he really has his heart set on the traditional version...can’t soak the oatmeal overnight cause he just found the recipe, but...he’ll need about three to four bottles...if he wants to serve all one hundred twenty four of us...”

“Three to four bottles? Good God, man.  I certainly don’t have that many aboard!”

“No sir,” Sharkey said, relieved. “I told him it was a bad idea...”

“Can he get by with a bottle and a half?” I asked. “That’s all I have, Chief.”

“Well, some of the modern versions only sprinkle the oatmeal with it instead of soaking it...might not taste exactly like it should, but....”

“Chip,” I asked, “How long before we near Hawaii?”

“About three hours, two if we push it.”

“Set a course. We’ll stop at Pearl, and Cookie can go ashore and purchase some whiskey from the package store. The cheap stuff, tell him, Chief.”

“Er...”

“Well?” Chip asked, growing irritated.

“Cookie said it’s gotta’ be genuine Scottish whiskey. Nothing else will do, he thinks.”

“Well, it will have to if the package store doesn’t have any. I’ll even donate that bottle and a half that I have...”

“Gee, sir...that’s awful considerate of you.”

“Make the cook happy and you make the crew happy. Chip? You’d better plan on shore leave. I may not know much about culinary matters, but I don’t want to risk a tipsy crew while we’re sailing. Even if the beer in that Welsh Rabbit didn't affect anyone adversely.”

“Yes sir. By the way, the crew’s bulletin board’s getting a bit cluttered. I think we need to assign someone to be in charge of the skipper’s…notices and pictures. Store the older ones in folders or scrapbooks for future reference if he’d like to see them…er…I mean…his mother might like to see them.”

After Sharkey had left, Chip raised his eyebrow. “Ames is going to be furious about our change in plans.”

“I doubt if one day’s delay returning to Santa Barbara is going to put much of a dent in our turn around time for our mission to Alaska. By the way, about what time is Lee’s distillery tour anyway or has he already gotten soused?”

“Well,” Chip said, checking his watch, “ it’s almost 2200 there. Just about time for the BBC.”

“Well, what are we waiting for. Set your course to Pearl and have Sparks tune us in to the broadcast.”

International news was far more important, of course, and we had to wait, wondering if there would be anything about Lee at all.

The newscast moved to a photograph of a ruined castle.

“This is Morton Castle,” the reporter was saying. “The original castle was built in the 1300’s and dismantled as per an agreement between Scotland and England, then rebuilt in the 1400’s by the Mortons’. What is of most interest to us is that an oubliette, or a deep shaft, laced with sharpened stones, pikes and lances, designed to impale and cause incredible torment and death, was discovered here today.

“The ‘Cowboy Captain’, as Captain Nelson-Crane’s become known as for his penchant for fried rattlesnake, was touring the ancient edifice earlier today with his traveling companion Commander Jackson, when the muddy ground beneath him gave way. Falling more than thirty feet, he came to rest atop a pile of contorted skeletal remains. The worst of his wounds was caused by an ancient lance that impaled his left shoulder. When rescuers reached him, he was delirious, most probably doctors think,  from the naturally occurring toxins in the rusted metal. He seemed to be arguing with the skeleton beside him, calling it Chipee, and  telling it get back to his boat.

“When it was learned from Commander Jackson that ‘Chipee’ is a nickname that Captain Nelson-Crane sometimes uses for the acting captain of Seaview, Commander Chip Morton, well, psychic societies around the world and the Scottish Historical Society itself are wondering if Captain Nelson-Crane was actually having a psychic vision of a possible relative, albeit a skeleton, to Commander Morton. Why a Morton would have been tossed into the pit of death is unknown.

The image reformed to the hospital's covered exit, reporters snapping pictures, while the rain poured.

I couldn’t help wincing as Lee began to get up out of his wheelchair, assisted by Joe. There were stitches above and beside Lee’s left eyebrow, and on several shaved areas of scalp. He was still unshaven so I guessed he was trying to grow a beard or that it was just too much trouble to shave while he was on vacation. His left arm was in a sling, and I could see stitches in his wrist.  His other hand was badly bruised. I could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. He looked disheveled, and worn out.

“Captain,” a reporter began, “that was a close call.”

“Yeah, sure was,” Lee grinned. “My guardian angels didn’t know what they were getting into when they volunteered to cover me during my vacation. Bet they thought looking out for me would be a piece of cake this time,” he laughed.

“Was it a hallucination, like the doctors say,” another reporter asked, “or did you really think you saw Commander Morton or someone who looked like him in the pit?”

“You heard about that?”

“Hardly surprising, Lee,” Jackson said. “You were kind of spaced out. Things like that make news.”

“What I saw, if only in my mind, looked so much like Chip that I thought it must be him. Same eyes, same coloring and slightly receding hairline, except for a scraggly beard. Oh, and he was wearing a bracelet. Call it what you will, hallucination, vision, or ghost, Chip’s lookalike touched me right here with his fingers,” Lee said, touching the stitches above his eyebrow. “Hmm. That’s going to leave a scar. Anyway, he told me, pleaded with me, to seek justice. The doctors think I’m suffering from hallucinations. But I don't think so. The image left over from this man...was real. His need for justice is real. We need to find out who he was and what happened to him.”

“I think perhaps you should reconsider what the doctors said,” someone in the crowd said and swirled his fingers around in ‘crazy’ fashion.

“I think Captain Nelson-Crane should do whatever he damn well pleases,” Joe said. “And I think his previous paranormal experiences speak for themselves. C’mon, Lee. We don’t have to listen to this crap. Let’s go back into the hospital till the cab gets here.”

“It’s all right, Joe. I’m used to unbelievers. So, what’s next on our agenda?”

“We’re too late for the distillery. We’ll just have time to get to the hotel and catch the tour bus that's going to take us to the ferry for Oslo.”

“Then you’ll be continuing your culinary tour after this latest mishap?” the BBC reporter asked.

“Well,” Lee said, “we’re going to try to. I’m sure Mrs. Piccadilly is going to be rather annoyed with us for being tardy. Maybe we should pick up some flowers or candy for her by way of apology, Joe.”

“What about justice for your ghost?” someone asked.

“We’ve already been in touch with the Scottish Historical Society and Burke’s Peerage,” Lee said. “Hopefully they’ll consider what I 'saw' a legitimate reason to research the mystery. Forensic tests on the skeleton, records in the family, history books, etc.”

“And if they think it’s a bunch of hooey?” someone asked as the cab pulled up.

“Then I’ll hire some experts myself,” Lee said as he and Joe got into the taxi.

“Well,” the BBC reporter said as the taxi drove away, “it will be interesting to see what comes of this latest adventure in the life of Captain Nelson-Crane. Back to London....”

“Chip?” I asked as he had Sparks turn off the feed to the monitors. “If Cookie can’t find any decent Scottish whiskey in the package store, scout around, okay? I think we owe it to Lee’s Scottish tour to try for the best, don’t you?”

“I’d rather we take the flying sub, go get him and bring him home to Seaview where we can keep an eye on him.”

“Me too, but he’d never let us hear the end of it. Hurry us up to Pearl. The sooner we can get Cookie’s whiskey, the sooner we have a happy cook and happy crew...and that will make for a happy Lee.”

Sometime later, after we’d docked at Pearl (and a team of men specially selected to find and purchase six bottles of the finest Scotch whiskey had returned), Cookie  proudly sat the dessert at my place in the Wardroom.

It looked like any housewife’s version of a whipped cream parfait, sprinkled through with thawed out strawberries and raspberries, layered and topped with oatmeal.

As I dug my spoon into it, tasted a truly divine creation,  I lifted my spoon in tribute, “To Scotland!”

As others in the Wardroom dug in to the delightful concoction, O’Brien, who probably had more right to honor his family’s homeland than anyone aboard, smacked his lips, and raised his spoon. “To the skipper!”

I think I had four helpings, but don’t remember now.

Good thing we’d ordered shore leave.