He looked carefully at his first mate. Lord he looked bad. He didn't look defiant, or angry. Just tired. His dark hair hung limp and loose. His usually florid face was pale. He probably hadn't slept for a very long time. "Mr. Fielder, how long until we will be ready to set sail?"
"I think it will be about another hour, sir."
"Very good." Now for a situation report. "Give me a sitrep."
"Chips has established commo with our new Ship. She appears to be willing to tolerate us for now. The carpenter's mates have no significant problems in preparing the Ship to sail, since we only fired grape and canister at her."
Good. At least that part of his plan worked. He nodded for Fielder to continue.
"Guns has most of our 12-pounders on board. They're lashed down but we haven't begun to cut gun ports yet. I wanted to check with you first."
"Good. No immediate rush on that. We'll give it careful consideration. Tell Guns to prepare a recommendation."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Hans has the rigging and sails in order. He says he's ready to go. He still has to finish loading the last two cutters onto the deck. There should just be enough room for them."
"Good."
"Lieutenant Broadax has the enemy prisoners in the lower hold, well away from the Keel." Fielder's face was a steely, emotionless mask, but you could see his mask slip and a sneer slithered out when he mentioned the Dwarrowdelf's name. Well, that problem could wait. Odds were that Broadax could take care of herself. They were technically the same rank now. Melville nodded for him to continue.
"Mr. Petreckski says that there is adequate supply of water and food, even if some of the curs' chow might not be to our liking."
"Good." One less problem to worry about. They'd brought the cutters over with full water barrels and lots of food, but it wouldn't have been sufficient if there wasn't an adequate supply already on the enemy Ship.
"And the surgeon has the wounded in the lower quarterdeck cabin. All wounded from ashore have been brought aboard and our dead have been buried. Lady Elphinstone insisted that we not wake you up, so I proceeded with the burial." No apology there. Just a statement of fact. Overall, Fielder's actions and his demeanor were about as good as Melville could have asked for. Indeed, a compliment was in order.
"Well done, Daniel. Well done. Now I'm going to go ashore. I'll be right back." Fielder nodded and Melville left.
He was lowered onto Broadax's World in a bosun's chair; then he walked down to the graves. It was a blur of pain, both physical and emotional. McAndrews stood beside him. Melville dropped to his knees before the graves of his shipmates. So many, many graves. God, if he could only stay drunk with combat. Duty. He'd done his duty. A dirty, four-lettered word. Like kill. Like hell. Like damn.
It was raining. The new graves were slick mounds of wet earth. The graves of those killed by the apes already had grass sprouting from them. Young boys and old salts rested here. Some he knew well, many he didn't.
Melville generally disliked poetry that didn't rhyme. Somehow it struck him as cheating. But if that was so, then Walt Whitman cheated and got away with it. Privately, with only McAndrews and a small guard of marines there, Melville said Whitman's benediction upon his friends.
"A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me
with full hands . . .
I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord . . .
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut
hair of graves.
"Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts
of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have
loved them . . .
It may be you are from old people, or
offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
"What do you think has become of the young
and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women
and children?
"They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death . . .
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."
Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck. They were moving out toward Stolsh space to warn them of the vast, slow moving Guldur fleet that was approaching. He'd sent Fielder and the middies to bed for four hours. Each of the sections also bedded down everyone they could, keeping only a skeleton crew on duty. For four hours Melville stood on the quarterdeck of his Ship (his Ship!) and rejoiced. He forced himself to eat and drink. His body ached. His soul ached, but the naval officer that was his core, his Keel, was rejoicing.
Above him the off-white sails were like clouds blocking the view of the starry heavens. The mizzenmast, mainmast and foremast all had three sails spread. Beneath the sails he could see the bowsprit pointing the way toward their navigation mark. Beneath the bowsprit another sail was spread.
There was little for him to do as he watched the sand trickle out for four turns of the hourglass. Every hour the glass was turned and they calculated their speed by the age-old process of casting the log. He wanted to test the new guns, but not now. He wanted to play with the sails and rigging, but not now, not with this skeleton crew. It seemed that every living creature who wasn't on duty was sleeping. Mostly he listened to the beautiful distant music, the song of Flatland, and just . . . was.
In four hours Fielder relieved him, the skeleton crew was rotated, and the men continued to sleep. Melville made a short visit to the hospital, where Elphinstone and Vodi escorted him as he visited the wounded.
Heavy gravity could be deadly to injured men, so it was vital to get them as far up above the plain of Flatland as reasonably possible. So they'd put the hospital in the cabin below the lower quarterdeck. The great windows in the stern looked out on the beautiful constellations of two-space, which was a balm to the soul of every sailor. They lay stacked up on pallets, wrapped in blankets.
They were hurt so very badly, these warriors of his. Many had lost limbs and were now destined to live a maimed and crippled life. Some might not last through the day. In the corner, slightly out of the way, removed from the others, one sailor was gasping out his last few breaths. They were brave, but in the end they were so frail, so very fragile.
Too delicate is flesh to be
The shield that nations interpose
'Twixt red ambition and his foes —
The bastion of liberty.
Their efforts had saved all their lives, had given them victory in battle against a base, cowardly foe. But somehow, at moments like this it all seemed so hollow. Melville found himself overwhelmed with affection for these men, these brave men, these noble warriors, this "delicate flesh" that had followed him into battle and made their victory possible.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
The men were in remarkably good spirits. They seemed to take particular joy from his monkey. Cats and dogs were there to keep them constant company, but they considered the monkeys to be a particular talisman of luck and success. Wild tales of the monkeys' contribution to their battles were already circulating. Melville's monkey seemed to take the cautious stroking and petting as its rightful due.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.
The hardest part was knowing that they would probably have to do it again. These men, of whom so much had already been asked, would have more to do. They would mend and heal their bodies, only to do it all again. Worse yet, their enemy could attack them at any moment, before they were healed, and the
se brave men would have to huddle helplessly in the hospital, where death could still find them.
His job was to protect them. How could he take them into harm's way again?
And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.
Melville moved to the corner, where he knelt and held the hand of the dying sailor. It seemed like a very long time as the sailor shuddered out his last few minutes of life.
* * *
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Opened mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony!
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
He held the cold, dead hand for another moment, then let go, as Lady Elphinstone moved to cover the sailor's face. The room was silent, dead silent, as her assistants removed the body.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
The warriors of Westerness dreaded burial in the cold vacuum of space. This body would be lovingly sewn into a sailcloth bag, and then lowered on a line into the "sea," into interstellar space. Sometimes there was a whole "stringer" of these strange, sad, frozen fish, to be hauled up and buried upon landfall.
The sailors gave a few last loving strokes to his little monkey. Others held their dogs and cats, pups and kittens, nurturing and treasuring the lives in their hands, as death went past. There were a few last words. Inconsequential words, comforting, supporting words. Then he left. He went to his cabin and wept . . . and slept.
It was eight hours later when he awoke. Most people go through a kind of panicky, preconsciousness checklist upon awakening. "Who am I?" "Where am I?" (And, upon occasion, "Good god, who is she?") Perhaps this is because they exist in a miasma of constant doubt and dread. Doubt and fear were what propelled them through life.
Melville had developed an ability common in most successful sailors and soldiers. With the exception of last time, when he'd been put to bed while unconscious, he woke up every morning knowing exactly who he was, where he was, and what he had to do that day.
He lived completely in the present. He knew where he was yesterday, he damn sure knew where he was today, and he had a pretty good idea where he'd be tomorrow. If you wanted anything more than that he'd have to check his log books or calendar.
He never had to "find himself" when he woke up in the mornings because he knew exactly who he was. He was, by God, the man in charge.
Again he made a trip to the head in the quarter-gallery, and again McAndrews had a cup of tea ready for him. Lots of sugar and lemon, just as he liked it. He still ached, but when he saw McAndrews there and smelled the tea, he was willing to suffer the portly, unctuous steward to live another day. Periodically his monkey stretched its neck out and took a drink of the tea. It closed its eyes and shuddered comically with the first sip, then it came back for more.
The cutters had been loaded with everything from the old Kestrel that they thought might be needed. Melville had tossed in a small bag of his own personal gear. Some books, tea bags, and a bottle of lemon juice. Somehow his steward had found the bag and put the contents to good use. Yes, Melville thought, I might just permit him to live a while longer. With McAndrews' help he managed to get dressed and went out on the deck, just in time to join the day watch for breakfast.
Over the centuries a rhythm had developed in the Ships of the Westerness Navy. The sailors on the "day" watch slept on the deck while the "night" watch was up and about for twelve hours. The night watch did most of the daily maintenance in the hold, worked silently, and respected their shipmates' sleep.
Then the "day" watch went on duty, and the sailors on the "night" watch slept in the hold or gundeck for twelve hours. Their new Ship had no separate gundeck, so the night watch all slept in the upper hold, while the marines and the Guldur prisoners were berthed in the lower hold. The day watch was boisterous and loud as they worked in the rigging. They did all the maintenance on the deck, and tried to limit how much they disturbed their shipmates in the hold.
Twelve hours could be a long shift, but a sailor's life was usually an easy, paced life, with plenty of time for breaks, and all three meals taken on duty. Out on the maindeck, in preparation for breakfast and dinner meals, their old cook, Roxy, would have her mates set up their "burners." These were yet another special adaptation of a Keel, which were designed, in this case, to release their energy as heat.
One day Cookie would set up on the upper maindeck, and the next day she'd set up on the lower maindeck. This made the upper and lower crews socialize during meals, which contributed to the cohesion of the whole Ship. The only meal that wasn't served on the maindeck was the night watch's lunch, when the cooks set the kitchen up in the hold, so as to avoid bothering the day watch as they slept on the deck.
The watches "blended" into their duties at shift change. First the day watch formed up for duty and were inspected by their section chiefs. Then half of them had breakfast on deck, while half the night watch ate dinner at the same time. Finally the other half of the watches had their meals. At the end of the watch the process was reversed. This permitted the day and night watches to constantly intermingle and cross-level information.
Even with all these shared meals, if the captain wasn't careful, the "upper" and "lower" crews could become almost two separate ships. In order to prevent this, a constant rotation was in place. Periodically the lower night watch would become the upper night watch. In a few days the upper day watch would trade off with the lower day watch.
Westerness officers sometimes ate, or "messed," with their sailors out on the deck, but in the normal process of duty they preferred to eat in the wardroom. The petty officers and marine NCOs also ate together in a separate mess. The captain often ate alone in his cabin, in splendid solitude. Soon they'd set up an area in the hold to use as a wardroom. For now Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck, eating some kind of scrambled breakfast concoction with Lieutenant Fielder, Lieutenant Broadax, his surgeon, his midshipmen, his two rangers (who were accounted by the captain as officers on this Ship), and his four warrant officers.
The crew was lounging around on the unfamiliar maindeck. Messmates gathered in groups around the guns, clusters tucked into corners, and clumps sprawled out on the deck, as they began the process of making themselves at home. They were enjoying a leisurely meal, and during the meal they went about the age-old process of "debriefing" after combat. With each telling of the events of the battle they "multiplied their joy," emphasizing the valor, the courage, the sacrifice, the professionalism of their mates, living and dead. And they "divided their pain," working through the memories and "delinking" them from the physiological arousal.
Some would imagine that these sessions would be a kind of "koom-by-yah sob-fest," but nothing could be further from the truth. Across the centuries, warriors learned that the men who grew weepy and could not control their emotions were the ones who would not be there the next year. It was okay to weep, to mourn briefly and intensely at the funeral of a friend, but it was not acceptable for a warrior to weep at the memory of combat. Perhaps you would weep the first time, but you were ashamed of your weeping, and the next time (and the next, and the next) it was expected that you would talk about your combat experiences and remain calm. You must talk, and you must remain calm, in order to "make friends" with the memory.
Across the countless centuries warriors have taken their cues from the "Old Sarge." There was always an Old Sarge. He was the veteran of twenty battles, and he was calm. Weeping and becoming emotional at the memory of combat was not acceptable because, across the countless centuries, warriors found that the way to continue performing the desperate, wretched, debasing, dirty job
of combat was by controlling your emotions, dividing your pain, and making friends with the memories. Every night, around the campfire, or over hot food with their messmates, this age-old process continued.
In these sessions the men also sorted out what had actually happened. In Alexis Artwohl's twenty-first-century law enforcement research, almost a quarter of the combat veterans she interviewed had memory distortions. They actually "remembered," sometimes with vivid intensity, something that did not happen. And half of these veterans had experienced memory loss, with significant gaps in the memory of what happened. Left to their own devices, there was a tendency to "fill in the gaps" with guilt-laden acceptance of responsibility, sometimes even a greatly exaggerated sense of guilt. "Its all my fault." "I let my buddies down." "I was a failure." These were the kinds of responses felt by many men after combat. Only their mates, the ones who shared the event with them, could help them fill in the holes accurately. And only their friends, their comrades who had shared the searing experience of combat, only they could give understanding, acceptance, and forgiveness of the events that had occurred.
Every day, day after day, this is what occurred. This is what warriors did.
* * *
Melville's left arm was slung securely to his side, but his left hand was free. He held the plate in his left hand, propped on a railing as he spooned the mystery glop into his mouth with his good right arm. Periodically, as a spoonful was on its way to his mouth, his monkey would reach out a three-fingered paw with amazing speed and dexterity to snag a handful. Sometimes Melville would lift up a spoonful and be momentarily disoriented when it arrived empty at his mouth. The other crew members with monkeys were experiencing the same thing. No one seemed to begrudge the little creatures their small tariff on the goods that went from plate to mouth.
Two Space War Page 15