"Shipmates," Melville began. "We have a course and a mission, so now I think the first order of duty is to establish the name for our new Ship. Mr. Petreckski, I understand you have been interviewing the Guldur prisoners. What did they call this Ship?"
"Well, sir," replied the purser, leaning against the railing in his brown robes, "I think I can show you better than I can tell you. Valandil, if I may use your dog as a demonstrator?"
"Certainly," replied the ranger, looking down at his dog with mild bemusement.
Petreckski dropped down on one knee and patted the dog on the side. "Cinder, I need to show the captain your teeth, please."
Cinder, thought Melville to himself, her name is Cinder. Why didn't I know that?
The Sylvan dog looked up at Petreckski in amiable compliance, as the purser peeled back her lips and showed the captain her teeth. "Do you see this lower right canine tooth?"
"They named the Ship after a fang?"
"No sir, not a fang, although they have a specific word for each of the four fangs, two upper and two lower. Actually, the Guldur have a very specific word for every single tooth in their head. Their teeth are very important to them. Do you see the little gripper teeth in between the two lower canines?"
"Yesss . . ."
"Well, sir, the second one from the left is what this Ship is named after. Apparently this whole class of Ships has each been named after one of these little gripper teeth."
"Hmm, I don't think that we can name our Ship 'Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' Ship, the Second Little Gripper Tooth in from the Canine.' Since we only have one of these Ships, instead of a whole class of them, I propose that we shall name her Fang. Does anyone see a reason why this would be a problem?"
"No sir," responded Mr. Barlet, the gunnery warrant, "but that still leaves open the class of Ship she represents. I think that the cannonball these big guns fires is close to a 24-pounder, so may I suggest that we call her 'Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' 24-Pounder Frigate, Fang."
"Very good," responded the young captain with a smile, "and so it shall be!"
Of course, he didn't have the authority to take this action. It would have to be approved by the Admiralty. When the time came his actions would be judged, and his only real defense would sound something like, "Hey, it followed me home. Can't I please keep it?" But right now, what other option did they have?
"Chips," Melville went on, looking at his carpenter, "at the end of the day watch I intend to go down and talk to the Ship. Would you be so kind as to come with me then?"
"Aye, sir," Mr. Tibbits replied. He appeared benumbed, still in deep shock and mourning from the loss of Kestrel. It reminded Melville of an Edgar Allen Poe poem,
For, alas, alas, with me
The light of life is o'er!
"No more—no more—no more—"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
Truly something ancient and magnificent had been lost. The stricken falcon would soar no more, no more. She was lost to mankind, and lost to the Kestrel's old crew. But Tibbits had been in close daily telepathic contact with the Ship for many long years. For him it was like losing a spouse, a soul mate. Only the duty of coordinating with this new Ship seemed to be keeping him afloat.
"Now, gentlemen, there is one more task I want to take care of before we begin our first full day watch aboard our new Ship. A happy task. I'm going to give Midshipman Archer and Midshipman Crater field commissions to acting lieutenant. Lieutenant Fielder will have the night watch and I will take the day watch. Each of us will now have a lieutenant to command the lower quarterdeck, while we command the upper deck."
Melville looked at the two young men. Jarad Crater was a tall broad-shouldered lad with an open grin and a scraggly wisp of beard on his chin. He'd seen Crater in action and the boy was very good, but he still managed to communicate an image of gangly awkwardness. Buckley Archer was a slender lad of average size, with brown hair, and elegant red sideburns and goatee. He carried himself with an air of self-confidence and poise, but there was always an underlying note of wary concern. They were both academy graduates and extraordinary young men. They were fully proven. Given their skills and the current circumstances, Melville felt completely justified in giving them field commissions.
"Lieutenant Archer. Lieutenant Crater," he said, looking them each in the eye and shaking their hands as he said their names. "My congratulations to both of you. You understand that this commission may not be approved upon our return to Admiralty authority, but regardless, it will look good on your records." They both nodded their stunned reply.
"My friends," he continued, looking at his officers, "now we must replenish the ranks of our midshipmen. Look for ship's boys that you can nominate to be midshipmen. Give me your suggestions at the end of the watch. We'll put them right to work and begin training them immediately. When we get the chance, we'll nominate them for the academy."
Melville looked around at his officers and could see that they were thinking about the young men under their command. "We should also draw from our seamen and perhaps even our petty officers for midshipmen. Most of you know that I began my career as a seaman and a young petty officer, before being selected for the academy. Mr. Fielder also spent some years as a seaman before being selected as a midshipman and then receiving a field promotion to lieutenant. I think," Melville continued with a grin and a glance at Fielder, "that we can agree that some quality officers can come from the ranks."
Melville looked at young Midshipman Aquinar. He could guess the boy's thoughts. Archer and Crater were promoted to lieutenant. Midshipman Faisal was in the hospital and Midshipman Chang was dead. Aquinar was now the senior midshipman.
The monkeys had developed a habit of stretching out their accordion necks and placing the top of their heads on their master's shoulder so that their upside-down face was now right-side-up. Perhaps this was an attempt to look more like their friends, or simply their impish sense of humor. The result was that it appeared as though a small, second head was growing from your shoulder. Now Aquinar's monkey was doing that, and it was mildly disconcerting as both heads looked at their captain with wide eyes.
"Mr. Aquinar, you are now the senior midshipman. The midshipman berth will be empty except for you, but it will fill up soon. Some of them will be quite a bit older than you, but I expect you to remain in charge. If you need any assistance, don't hesitate to ask any of the officers." Both heads looked at him and both nodded in solemn, silent understanding.
Melville looked over at his own monkey's face. It was resting on his shoulder just like Aquinar's, and he could swear that its right-side-up face winked at him as it also nodded.
" . . ." Blink. " . . . Yes, well, then let us get to work. This is the beginning of day watch. Mr. Crater, you take command of the lower quarterdeck. Mr. Aquinar, you'll be assigned to assist the carpenter in his duties; tomorrow you'll have a new crew of midshipmen to break in. Mr. Fielder, Mr. Archer, you have the night watch, we'll see you in twelve hours. Sleep well."
Melville stood and rejoiced in his first full watch as captain. He stood beside a young helmsman, who stood at the Ship's wheel. Under the watchful eye of the quartermaster, the boy was looking carefully across the maindeck, keeping the Ship on course by keeping the bowsprit pointed at a specific star. Melville still ached, but his body was young, as was his soul. Body and spirit seemed to be working together, in spite of his wounds, to find some enthusiasm for his duties.
At the beginning of the watch they'd measured the Ship's speed by heaving the log. Melville, as the officer on duty, stood holding a timer. He said "Go," and turned over the small half-minute glass. The "log" consisted of a small piece of Keel attached to a line, since anything other than a Keel wouldn't remain in two-space but would sink into interstellar space. On his command the quartermaster threw the log off the back
of the quarterdeck. The log hit the sea, bobbed once and began to recede into the distance as the Ship sailed away. A young quartermaster's mate stood holding the reel as the line raced off, marked periodically by knots in the cord. When the last grain of sand ran out of the tiny glass, Melville said, "Stop," and the young sailor stopped the cord.
"Just a tad under ten knots, sir," said the quartermaster, looking down at the reel. The quartermaster's mate began to reel the log back in as the quartermaster looked up at his captain. "Not near as fast as old Kestrel, sir, but not too bad. As we tweak the rigging, hopefully we can do a bit better than that."
Hans, in his role as sailing master, was working hard to get every bit of speed out of their new Ship. "Aye, sir," he told his young captain as he handed up a chunk of chewing tobacco for his monkey to bite a chaw off of, "the ticks is piss-poor sailors. Damned fine topmen, mind ya, but their idee of arrangin' sails 'as got no finesse, no art to it, if ya take my meanin'."
A two-space Ship typically had ten sails. A mainsail, topsail, and topgallant sail on each mast, and a spritsail on the bowsprit. They all ran perpendicular to the length of the Ship. The strange "wind" or gravity effect of two-space was caught by the sails. Since it always came from directly above there was never any need to shift the angle of the sails, which made their rigging quite a bit simpler than it was in the old sailing vessels. Which was good, because any kind of pulley, as would be found in a block and tackle, was quickly made useless by the technology-eroding effects of Flatland.
Spankers and jibs, sails that ran more parallel to the length of the ship, contributed little to the forward movement of a Ship. So they were used only rarely, to facilitate sudden direction changes.
"The curs made a damned fine Ship, sir," added Hans during one of his periodic consultations with Melville. These conferences were really more diplomatically conducted education sessions than consultation, as the master sailor explained what he was doing to his young captain. He and his monkey spit streams of tobacco juice over the side of the railing as he continued. "She has some o' the strongest masts I've ever seen on a Ship. By God, I think 'er sticks are stout enough 'at she might be able ta stand some royals and a spritsail-topsail, if we do it real careful like. We might work on those later, but fer now we have at least a week's worth o' work in front of us, sorting out this rats' nest of a riggin' the ticks 'ave been usin'."
Every turn of the Ship's glass marked an hour, and each hour the bell was rung, up to twelve bells. Then the night watch would begin the cycle again. At one bell they heaved the log again. "Just a hair over ten knots this time," the quartermaster said with a satisfied grin.
Shortly thereafter a nervous young ship's boy approached the quarterdeck. "Beg pardon sir," the young man said. "But Mr. Petreckski and Lady Elphinstone say there's som't'n int'restin happenin' in the surg'ry, if the Cap'in has time to come look."
"Thank you. Tell them I need to speak with Mr. Barlet first and then I will be there directly."
"Aye, sir! You'll be with Mr. Barlet and then to the surg'ry direc'ly." The boy saluted and scurried off as Melville turned to the quartermaster on duty. "Do you feel that all is well here?"
"Aye, sir," he replied with a confident grin. "All is well." Above them Mr. Hans' sailors were working like a great, chattering flock of dirty white birds, adjusting the sails and coordinating well with the quartermaster throughout the process. Hans respectfully coordinated with his captain, but it was immediately obvious to Melville that the new sailing master (and ex-chief) had a mastery of sails and rigging that he would probably never equal. Melville resigned himself to the fact that he'd never be a Jack Aubrey, tweaking the sails of a Ship to get the greatest possible speed. He counted himself lucky to have Hans as a sailing master and was content to leave such things to the real expert.
"She's a sweet Ship," the quartermaster continued, "if a little slow and sluggish compared to Kestrel. Some of the changes Chief, er, Mr. Hans is making will make her even sweeter."
The quartermasters were all experienced and trusted petty officers, assisted by two mates, one of whom served as the helmsman. As a former petty officer himself, Melville remembered how much he enjoyed it when the officers left him in charge. It was rare that there wasn't at least a midshipman in nominal "command" and the quartermasters were enjoying their moment in the sun. Melville hoped to find a few good midshipmen from among the ranks. Although technically a promotion, it was often hard to convince a good career NCO to take the step from godlike NCO powers to lowly midshipman. It was sometimes easier to move them to a warrant position, as he had done with Chief Hans, but even then it was hard to get a good NCO to step "down" from being the big frog in his comfortable little pond, to being a middle-sized frog in a bigger pond.
Melville returned the young petty officer's grin. "Very good. I'm going to coordinate briefly with Mr. Barlet, then I'll be down in the surgery."
* * *
It wasn't hard to find the gunnery officer. He, Gunny Von Rito, and their mates were on the lower gundeck, crawling all over the big guns that Barlet had designated as 24-pounders. "Guns," said Melville as he walked up, "what do you think of these cannon?"
"Sir, they're simply magnificent," replied the gunnery officer, with joy shining from his dark face. "Did you know that they were actually brass under this black coating the curs put on their guns? Brass cannons, by the Lady!"
He scowled and continued, "But the sighting system stinks! It's like building the biggest, finest ship ever imagined, out of the finest possible material, and then not putting a rudder on her. It's just like the curs, but I can't really blame it all on their stupid, slam-bam-thankee-ma'am tactics. The problem is that this gun is too big to lean over and sight down when you fire it, and anyone who stands behind it when you touch her off will be crushed. So you have to sight her from behind the barrel, step back, tap the Keel charge, then jump back fast. Bottom line is that whenever you shoot, you're always firing from old data."
Then he grinned with the joy of a true craftsman, the feral grin of a master gunner facing a problem that he was born to solve. "I think I have a solution. It'll be tricky but I think we'll be able to use these guns in a way the Guldur never dreamed possible."
"Good!" Melville responded. "That's our top priority. Let me know what you need to get the mission accomplished. I'm also eager to do some test firing, so let me know when you're ready. Our second priority is to get the 12-pounders we brought from Kestrel into position. Do you have a suggestion as to their placement?"
"Yes sir, I do. I think we can put a pair of 12-pounders forward of each pair of 24-pounders, two above, two below, on both the green and red sides. If we do it right, then on the upper green-side and the lower red-side we can swing the for'ard-most gun around and use her for a bow chaser at need."
"That will account for eight of them, what of the remaining four?"
"Well, sir, I'd like to put two each in the cabin right below the quarterdeck, above and below, as stern chasers." His brows furrowed and he looked askance at his captain, warily, judgingly. "The only problem is that you'd have to give up a lot of space in your cabin."
Melville laughed out loud. It was plain to see that in Barlet's eyes this was a test of the new captain's character, but for Melville it was no test at all. "Aye, Guns, great minds do think alike. That's exactly the solution I came up with. I don't give a hoot in hell about space in my cabin! But what I do want is to give a load of grief to anyone who chases us. I figure with a Ship this slow we're more apt to be the chasee than the chaser. So having some firepower back there may be useful. Tell Chips where you want the gun ports put, and make it happen! We have the wounded in the lower quarterdeck cabin, so do that last, and give the surgeon plenty of warning before you do it."
"Aye, sir!" Barlet nodded happily as Melville turned and strode toward the surgery. If only all of his tests were that simple. If only all of his men were that easy to please. His good mood evaporated instantly and anxiety gripped his stomach as
he thought about the fact that there would be times when he'd have to make hard decisions, decisions that they wouldn't like. All their support and amiable nods might dry up in an instant in the face of their young, inexperienced captain.
The glow of the Elbereth Moss provided steady light. Within the Ship, if nothing was placed in the way, the combined light from the ceiling, bulkheads and floor could be almost as bright as daylight. But it was rare to have a room with nothing in the way of the Moss. Usually there was furniture, great quantities of equipment hanging on the bulkheads, and hatches in various bulkheads and decks.
The surgery was a walk-in closet, just off the lower quarterdeck cabin, where the glow of Lady Elbereth's Gift flowed freely. Nothing was hung on the bulkheads. There was no furniture except a table and no hatches except for one small door. Outside this small door was the hospital, where many of the wounded were stacked up in stretchers.
Many of them were sitting up in their pallets to peer into the surgery. A large bloody bundle sat outside the door and Doc Etzen, the day watch corpsman, stood outside the door. A strong stench of decaying flesh was in the air.
The captain ducked into the surgery. As he bent over to go in it became clear that the putrid smell was from the bundle sitting outside the door, and from inside as well. The strange, constant, downward "wind" of two-space drove their sails. It also pulled a draft down through vents in every room, then exited the Ship from vents just above the sea. Even with this constant flow of air, the smell was almost overwhelming. Gagging slightly at the stench, he found Petreckski, Lady Elphinstone, and her assistant, Mrs. Vodi, gathered around the operating table, the latter two with their usual small cloud of cats at their feet.
The Sylvan was wearing her traditional buttercup yellow dress with grass green sash. Her long blond hair was braided behind her. Her hands were covered with blood and ichor, but her garments were spotless.
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