And always at his side there was Ulrich, his killer cox'in. If Melville was a counterpart to his ship, Ulrich was a living analog to his feral, malignant cannons. As his 24-pounders fell completely under his dominion in their lust to kill, like dogs obeying a master who will take them to the hunt, so too did Ulrich fall completely under his captain's sway upon that day.
Also making a special contribution were Melville's two rangers, Josiah and Valandil. They operated on the lower deck, while Melville fought mostly from the upper deck. Although they had to man a cannon upon occasion, they were always quickly relieved and sent back to what they did best. Many an enemy officer, or quartermaster standing at the wheel, or topman adjusting sails, became painfully aware, at a critical moment, that they were facing two of the finest rifle marksmen in the known galaxy. A brief, fleeting, final awareness in many cases.
Cinder sat beside them, barking with feral joy every time their musket balls struck home. A group of ship's boys clustered round them, loading double-barreled muskets for them and echoing Cinder's savage pleasure every time an enemy topman fell, spinning down with balletic grace. The two rangers shared calmly in the pleasure, with the deep satisfaction of a true professional, quietly calling out targets, and congratulating each other's better shots.
Together Melville, his crew, his Ship, and his guns formed a team so superior to his foes that the enemy fell everywhere they turned. Some snipers or tank crews in World War II on Old Earth accomplished such a state of superiority, reportedly racking up hundreds of kills. More famous than that were the fighter aces of World War I and World War II, some of them killing over a hundred, two hundred, three hundred and, in one case, as many as 353 enemy aircraft.
The vast majority of the fighter pilots never shot anyone down. Many never got the opportunity, and those who did often found out, too late, that they didn't have the killer spirit. One of the greatest fighter aces of all said that most of the time he killed men who never knew he was in the sky with them. This is what it must have felt like. The finest pilot in the finest machine with the finest crew, all utterly devoted to death. Completely committed to killing. Death incarnate, sweeping down. Melville laughed aloud. Laughed with joy. Joy of victory, joy of life. They were truly "Lords of helm and sail, tried in tempest and gale."
But each time, the enemy got in a few hits before they died. They always went down fighting, doing as much damage as they could.
His gun crews took tragic casualties. There wasn't a gun that didn't have at least one marine or a purser's mate filling in for dead and wounded comrades. When the captain wasn't there to fire the gun, and the majority of the time he couldn't be, then the crewmen fired them, and fired them well. But they could never match the preternatural, lethal accuracy of their captain, his Ship, and his guns working together as one.
His topmen also suffered dearly, yet their ever-thinning ranks performed feats to rival Melville and the gun crews on the deck. When the upper mizzen topmast was shot away, they made heroic efforts to rapidly clear the debris, while calling down through the voice tubes. These were hollow tubes running beside the masts, from upper to lower decks, and down these tubes came the orders for the lower mizzen topsails to hang free, so that the sails' thrust was equal. When the lower maintop was shot off, the lower mizzen topsails were pulled taut again so they would pull again and balance the thrust. Again and again they performed such balancing acts, all while hacking away the hanging, dangling debris, and taking incoming fire.
Finally there were no more enemy to kill. The foe were fleeing, fleeing. Even as they fled Melville turned Fang to sink one last ship, to mercilessly, ruthlessly send a few hundred more sentient beings into the frigid embrace of outer space. And then, when there was nothing left to kill, he stopped, reeling and staggering like a drunk man. On his back, his monkey gave a feeble, "eek." Bits of flesh and blood splattered them. Some of it was his blood. He tested his body. Everything seemed to be working. Just minor wounds from flying wood splinters and falling debris, things his monkey couldn't block. They began to ache. Have to see the doc soon, he thought. She'll help.
He stood on the gundeck and looked around at the tattered remnants of his beautiful ship and his proud crew in stunned, amazed horror. . . .
Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains,
And the paint-work all was spatter-dashed with other people's brains . . .
His shell-shocked crew stood around him, looking at him in silence, with stunned, thousand-yard stares. Duty, he told himself. There was solace in doing his duty. He was obeying orders, protecting his nation's allies from a foul invader, preventing tyranny and oppression. It was his duty.
No heed he gave to the flying ball,
No heed to the bursting shell;
His duty was something more than life,
And he strove to do it well.
He staggered up the steps to the quarterdeck. Damn. Damn, damn, damn, thought Melville, looking down at the crumpled, still form of Midshipman Ngobe at his feet. Ngobe's monkey was a smear of blood and fur mixed in with the midshipman's body. The little creature had died trying to deflect the cannonball that had killed his master.
Melville's monkey crooned softly, mournfully. Melville sunk to his knees with tears welling up in his eyes. Duty. Here is the price of duty. Here is the price of victory. . . .
Victory! Victory! . . .
And there at the captain's feet, among the dead and dying,
The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying.
There in his uniform!
Once he stood, buoyant and eager-eyed,
By the brave captain's side . . .
Into the battle storm!
There in his country's uniform.
Laurels and tears for thee, boy,
Laurels and tears for thee!
Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew . . .
And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;
And laurels of light, and tears of truth,
And the mantle of immortality;
And the flowers of love and immortal youth,
And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth—
And the everlasting victory . . .
Dear warrior-boy for thee.
Chapter the 11th
Siege: Hark to the Call of War!
Far and near, high and clear,
Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
War! War! War!
"The Call"
Robert Service
Melville and Fielder stopped as they came down from their ship and looked out from the bluffs where the Pier was located. As always the transition from star-swept Flatland skies to a sunlit world was sudden and dramatic. In this case it was a sweltering tropical world, under a clear, brass colored sky. The visual impact of the light and the physical blow of the heat were joined by the additional sensory impact of a veritable nasal explosion of smells.
Before them, across the River Grottem, was the vast, low, teeming city of Ee. On their side of the river, high on the bluffs, encompassed by gray city walls and fortifications, was Ai, nicknamed "Bluff City," with its vast Pier, lofty villas, and proud municipal buildings. Both cities were swollen with refugees from Scrotche, the city surrounding Ambergris' Lower Pier, several hundred miles away and now conquered by the Stolsh invaders. All around them the twin cities swarmed and bustled with mobilization and preparation for war.
"There it is," said Melville with a sardonic smile. "Proud Ai and pestilent Ee. AiEe, pearl of cities!"
"Oh, aye, sir," replied Fielder. "This is indeed an annoying impurity, covered with the slimy secretions of an irritated, mindless sea creature. If I ever saw one, this is it."
Melville grinned. "Our lovely refuge in a storm doesn't appeal to you, Daniel?"
"I'll say this for it, sir.
I've traveled the galaxy, man and boy, and I've seen prettier cities, and I've seen bigger cities, but no city can rival fair AiEe for its smell. Ancient Katmandu and far Qualth were ripe indeed, but even these classic samples of olfactory poetry were mere doggerel when set against the full gagging glory of AiEe." Looking down at a region of fetid sludge at the bottom of the bluff he continued. "And behold the River Grottem, which oozes between the proud twin cities. Reservoir, sewer and morgue, it serves each citizen from womb to tomb. Hastening the journey considerably in many cases."
"Aye, Daniel, and if the Westerness consul tells us to, we will fight for it unto the death."
"Damn," said Fielder, with a scowl, "I hate it when you talk like that. We've been shot to hell, sir. Twice. No, dammit, three times! Four if we count your battle on Broadax's World! Now we've accomplished a feat unprecedented in the annals of modern warfare. You yourself received a dozen minor wounds, and there are few men on board ship who aren't at least lightly wounded. We've done enough, sir. It's time for us to go home."
Then, for just an instant, Fielder looked into the eyes of a man who wasn't quite human, and he suppressed a shudder. Melville had grown. Leadership responsibilities and combat experience had forged him into a warrior. His deep communion with his Ship and cannons had also left a lasting mark, changing him into a killer. He'd "swapped moss," exchanging neurons with savage, exotic beings, and the thoughts of alien, feral creatures now echoed in Melville's brain. There is a streak of madness in anyone who spends quality time inside an alien mind. Only the demands of duty kept him on the slender rails of sanity, and the call of duty carved into his haunted soul was all that balanced the lust for blood. No living creature would keep him from his duty. If his duty was to kill, then that was good. That was very good.
Melville's coxswain, Ulrich, stood glowering beside him. They'd become virtually inseparable in the short period since the battle. Ulrich always made Fielder's blood run cold. The "murderous little killer of a hater" was as efficient and eager a killer as a sociopathic mongoose, and now he'd found his master. Fielder realized with a chill that the man who mastered such a killer was the one who truly deserved to be feared.
The butcher's bill wasn't as bad this time. Less than when they'd been ambushed by the Guldur. Far less than resulted from their boarding action. Most of their casualties were wounded, with only a handful of dead. It would have been much worse if AiEe's superb medical facilities had not been immediately available. Although Ambergris was a low-tech world, AiEe's upper city did have some superb mid-tech medical facilities, facilities which Lady Elphinstone was already putting to full use. Also, high up on the Pier, where the gravity was light, a hospital had been established where the wounded could recover in a low-gravity environment. Combining mid-tech medical treatment with low-gravity recovery facilities created a powerful, lifesaving synergy.
"Start getting the ship in order, and find us some replacements, Daniel," said Melville quietly. "There are humans here, many of them sailors who may be willing to sign on with us. Perhaps some Sylvans could be convinced to join. We know that they make great topmen. Meanwhile, I will talk with the port admiral. I'll pass on the message from Pearl, and try to get support for our repairs." He added with a sardonic smile, "They will hopefully feel grateful to us."
"Aye, sir. Aye they should," his first officer replied with a fierce scowl.
"After that I'll go to the consul. If he tells us to fight, then we will fight, and that's all there is to it."
High and low, all must go:
Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A sabre instead of a scythe to wield:
War! Red War!
Corporal Kobbsven was the commander of Melville's small escort as he went to make his visits. In this case that meant that Kobbsven was the battering ram, flanked by two large marines, punching a path through the fear-maddened, refugee-clogged streets of a city preparing for war. Women wept, children cheered, men marched or cheered or wept, and insanity reigned. In the background a cacophony of bells, bugles and horns proclaimed, "War! War! War!"
Melville stayed right behind Kobbsven and his two flankers, while Westminster and Valandil, his two rangers, stayed behind their captain in a kind of wishbone formation, with Cinder trotting between them. They were ready to serve as countersnipers, or as a reserve force if need be. Immediately behind them were Gunny Von Rito and Ulrich protecting their rear. Von Rito was here in his capacity as the ship's armorer. If all went well, there would be a need for him.
It was a rather large entourage, but Melville wasn't in the mood to take any chances. He was developing what some would call paranoid tendencies, but in the mind of a warrior this was the kind of SOP, or standard operating procedures, that would keep you, and the people around you, alive.
They had just returned from the funeral for young Midshipman Ngobe and the others who had died in their approach to Ambergris. They'd also buried the handful of shipmates who had died in sickbay since their last planetfall. Those corpses had been kept in cold storage, towed along behind their ship in interstellar space. Now they had been pulled up and lovingly planted in the living earth of Ambergris. Melville and the crew had grieved intensely but briefly for these shipmates, and now they were ready to get on with business. The first order of business was a visit to the port admiral.
They pushed through the crowds to the port office, and Melville was shown directly in to the admiral. His entourage waited outside, Ulrich and his monkey making a fine game of staring down and intimidating everyone in the outer office, while Melville was escorted in to the admiral. He found himself in a spacious, sunny, corner office high upon a prominence. In one direction it looked out upon the immense expanse of the port, a seemingly endless orchard of Pier pilings, ropes, stairways and ladders, all disappearing up into nothing. In the other direction a wide window looked down upon the vast, teeming, lower city of Ee across the river.
The Sylvan fleet admiral was already there, slender and elegant, his long blond hair streaked with gray, standing in fine green silks with intricate yellow and red piping. His Stolsh counterpart sat behind an ornate desk, a tall, dark, dour individual swathed in complex layers of blue, green, white and brown, the colors of a world as seen from space. His look of calm and dignified control was belied by the steady pulsing of his gills. Both officers carried swords at their hips. Swords with well-worn, sweat-stained hilts.
A servant brought in a tray of refreshments, with two huge chairdogs trotting obediently behind him. The dogs curled up and Melville and the Sylvan admiral each took a seat. Melville was grateful for the opportunity to relax his battered body into the perfectly adjusting contours of the big, plush, warm, contented beast. His monkey delighted in the new experience of the chairdog, and the little creature was even further distracted by the fine Stolsh cheeses and Sylvan wines that were served. Then Melville made his requests.
It was as though some demigod had descended from above. There was nothing he could ask for that they weren't willing to give. The gratitude of these two battle-hardened old sailors was sincere and gratifying.
"No one can be completely sure," said the Sylvan admiral, "but we believe that thou hast personally destroyed over a dozen enemy frigates, and damaged at least as many more. The ships that followed thee in thy line of battle destroyed several more. There can be no doubt that the enemy abandoned the attack because of thy actions."
The Sylvans had the bulk of the naval forces around Ambergris, and the Sylvan seemed to accept it as his responsibility to personally acknowledge and thank Melville. "We were cut off by their 24-pounder frigates, as thou hast termed them, and probably could not have escaped. The Osgil fleet, and our Stolsh allies here in Ambergris, were all facing certain doom. We had reconciled ourselves to our deaths when thee didst descend upon them like a hawk among crows, turning our greatest defeat into our mightiest victory. Truly, we owe thee a
debt of gratitude that can never be repaid."
Melville and his monkey both nodded somberly in response. Then Melville replied simply, "I am honored to have been of service in your hour of need." He was just too weary to think of anything else to say.
The two admirals didn't know what to make of this heavily bandaged young barbarian who had come to succor them, literally out of the blue, in their darkest hour. He was an enigma sitting before them in his faded, tattered uniform, with his strange pet beast sniffing and peering into the patient chairdog's eyes, ears, nose and mouth while periodically stealing tidbits and sips of wine. But they were warriors, veterans of many battles and skirmishes in distant corners of the galaxy. They understood that here was something beyond the ken of past experience. Something to be appreciated, supported, and perhaps even placated. Every resource of the vast dockyard was extended to him, and they also agreed to help find human sailors to fill out his crew. The Sylvan admiral even promised a draft of crack Sylvan topmen.
Prince and page, sot and sage,
Hark to the roar of War!
Poet, professor and circus clown,
Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town,
Into the pot and be melted down:
Into the pot of War!
His ship and men cared for, Melville and his entourage then fought their way through the weeping, cheering, cursing masses to the Westerness Consulate. Again Ulrich and his monkey very successfully performed their intimidation act in the outer lobby while Melville was shown directly to the consul. A bald, potbellied, bespectacled little man in a drab black, pinstripe suit sat behind his desk in a wide, expansive office. No seat was offered, no refreshments provided. It was like a house in mourning. The drapes were drawn on all the windows, as though that would protect them from the hostile world outside.
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