Everywhere Melville went he was greeted by cheering Shipmates, and his heart was lifted. The support of his men and his Ship made it easier to live with what he had to do. They cheered because their captain had once again saved them against long odds. And, like the Ship and her guns, they yearned to finish the job.
A bloodlust was upon them all, and Ulrich spoke for most of the crew when he said, "Le's go back and furnish da baskards!" They were back on the upper quarterdeck, in their original battle stations. Standing beside Ulrich was Grenoble, the captain's other bodyguard, who nodded in rare agreement with the vicious little coxswain. The rest of the quarterdeck crew roared their agreement.
"Shut yer yaps!" said Lt. Broadax, turning the concentrated essence of her snarl upon them all. "The cap'n 'll make 'is own damned decisions, an' if 'e needs any crap from ye I'll crack yer thick skulls an' squeeze it out fer 'im!"
All around them the Ship was bustling with crew members making repairs. The damage to the mizzenmast on their upperside would require a Shipyard to fully repair, but the rest of the damage could be put to rights. The upper quarterdeck was especially busy, as the sailing master and bosun directed the placement of a temporary mizzenmast. It would only go high enough to rig the mizzen mainsail and a small mizzen topsail, but that was a significant improvement over their current state.
"Aye, Cap'n," reported old Hans. The lanky, gray-bearded sailing master was standing beside Melville on the quarterdeck, directing the placement of the jury-rigged replacement mast. "We'll 'ave ta do without a mizzen topgallent an' royal on the upperside," and then he and his monkey spit a stream of tobacco into two-space for emphasis. "But this jury mast, combined with the mending an' patching o' sails an' riggin', should bring us up to around eighty-five percent thrust."
Melville nodded his thanks. He was no "Captain Jack" with a mystical understanding of sails and rigging. He had to depend on Hans and his other experts in that area, but he knew he could trust the old ex-NCO's estimate without hesitation.
Then Hans winked at Broadax. The Dwarrowdelf officer smiled back (if that distortion of the gristle and hair on her face could be called a smile) and winked one beady, bloodshot eye back at him. On land the two of them were bizarrely mismatched lovers. Or at least, they appeared to be lovers, but after one look at Broadax no one really wanted to know... whatever there was to know. Aboard Ship they were professionals who were content to give each other winks, leers, and admiring glances. Not for the first time Melville thought of Longfellow's lines when he saw Broadax and Hans together.
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Melville considered the situation carefully. Two crippled enemy Ships sat waiting for him to gobble them up. But they would not go down without a fight.
Those Ships and their guns were extraordinarily valuable resources just waiting to be snatched. But it would cost him lives, the precious lives of his Shipmates.
War was coming, and he knew deep in his gut that those Ships and those guns might turn the tide in some future battle. But the Admiralty would not thank him for it.
It would really tick off the Admiralty if he took these Ships. Westerness' policy was dedicated to avoiding an involvement in the affairs of the Elder Races. But Melville (and the Sylvan, the Stolsh, and the Dwarrowdelf) knew that, sooner or later, Westerness would be on the receiving end of the kind of brutal, genocidal attack he had personally witnessed being inflicted upon the Stolsh.
Everything he had done up until now was undeniably an act of self-defense. According to the laws of the sea, when those Guldur Ships attacked him it was either an act of war or an act of piracy, and either way he had the right to hunt those Ships down and capture or destroy them. But the timid souls who were currently in command at the Westerness Admiralty would not see it that way.
Well, hell, thought Melville, how could I possibly be in any more trouble than I already am?
On the one hand there was his personal desire. He wanted more guns for his Ship and, damnit, he wanted to teach the Guldur a lesson. He had a score to settle with those bastards and most of all, for himself, he wanted the honor and the glory. That was what had motivated old King Henry V:
The fewer men, the greater share of honour...
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor Care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it is a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
On the other hand, as Master and Commander of a Ship, he could never let himself be driven by his personal desires or his lust for glory. If he tried to capture those Ships it would cost him lives, and all the glory and honor in the world was not worth the life of a single one of his precious, beloved Shipmates. And it would probably make trouble with the Admiralty—maybe even more trouble than he already had, hard as that might be to imagine.
On the gripping hand, there was glory and guns for his men and his Ship, glory and guns that would help them survive in the political and physical battles yet to come. And those guns and Ships would help Westerness survive the brutal, genocidal assault that he knew was coming. It was his duty to get those guns for his men, his Ship, and his nation. Duty: that fierce, harsh, insatiable mistress of his who could rightfully consume as many lives as she desired.
For once, duty and desire were in agreement.
"Turn us about," he said to the quartermaster. "We have unfinished business to attend to."
He had never felt more alive in his life. And that makes sense, he thought, because...
We live in deeds, not years;
In thoughts not breaths.
CHAPTER THE 4TH
Close Approach:
"Be Steady Boys, be Steady"
Stand to your guns, my hearts of oak,
Let not a word onboard be spoke,
Victory soon will crown the joke;
Be silent and be ready.
Ram down your guns and spunge them well,
Let us be sure that the balls will tell,
The cannons' roar shall sound their knell;
Be steady boys, be steady.
"Sterret's Sea Fight"
Anon. (originally published in broadside format in 1801)
It was time for breakfast. They had fought for many long hours, and the crew was tired. Not exhausted, not at the end of their rope, but they were tired and a meal would be refreshing. They had pulled out of sight of the two Guldur Ships, and the tension was great as they broke their fast and headed back, the prey turning upon its predators.
Today's meals would normally have been served on the upperside, but the upper deck was a shambles so the lowerside was hosting meals again. The lunch meal for the night shift had been skipped, and those worthies were particularly hungry, although almost everyone aboard had a hearty appetite.
Almost everyone. Cuthbert Asquith XVI could not understand how the crew could eat under these circumstances. Right beside him was Lt. Archer, who would soon be leading men in battle. The young lieutenant would probably be the first to die, yet he was eating with great zest, wolfing down his meal while walking around and making sure that his men had been taken care of and were eating well.
Archer looked over at the earthling. "Adrenaline!" he said with a broad grin as he scarfed down his scrambled eggs. "The breakfast of champions."
Asquith was baffled by this young man, and all the others like him. He had existed in a constant state of tension, unable to eat anything since they first encountered the enemy Ships.
Meanwhile, the Ship's routine continued in a placid, surreal manner. At this moment, in the background Asquith heard that age-old chant: "Sweepers. Sweepers, man your brooms. Give the Ship a clean sweep-down fore and aft. Sweep down all lower decks, ladder backs, and passageways. Throw all tras
h clear of the stern... Now sweepers... "
Having been completely rebuffed at any attempt to give spiritual consolation to Asquith, Brother Theo Petreckski was espousing the "finite heartbeat theory" to him.
"We each have been allocated a finite number of heartbeats, and when we use them up, then our brief span of existence in this world is complete. Thus, agitation, irritation, consternation, and all perspiration resulting from unnecessarily vigorous operation of your body only serves to use up your heartbeats needlessly."
Brother Theo was full-bellied, with a think blond tonsure and a round, red face that spoke of a soul long traveled under alien suns and often wrapped around exotic wines. He had twinkling blue eyes, and an expression around his eyes and lips that hinted of pending outbursts of song and laughter.
As he continued to pontificate, Lt. Fielder cut in. "Your stream of consciousness is definitely overflowing its banks."
"Ah, Brother Daniel," Theo replied with a look of mock piety, "at moments such as this I can't help but contemplate the uncertainty of the future. Think of how little time there may be left. How few heartbeats, and how each one must be nurtured, preserved, and cherished."
"Uh-huh," the sardonic first officer replied. "Well, I'm saving mine up for sex and fleeing from irate husbands."
"Daniel," said Theo with a kind smile and a shake of his head, "you are a truly twisted man. When you die, they will probably have to screw you into the ground."
"I have to admit," Fielder growled, "you are bringing religion into my life. I don't think I ever really believed in hell until I met you."
"Ah, well, I'm just God's humble servant, doing the best I can," the monk replied with a mischievous grin.
"God, please save me from your followers!" muttered the first officer in mock dismay.
Asquith was baffled by all this banter. But he was slowly beginning to understand that it was entertainment intended for one-and-all. Fielder and Theo derived pleasure and reassurance from restating some well-established and well-worn positions. And everyone on the quarterdeck took pride and satisfaction in knowing that they were warriors who could pontificate, philosophize, and remain true to themselves even in the face of death.
The enemy Ship came into sight.
They were plodding determinedly after the Fang with full thrust from the sails on their one remaining mast on the lowerside, as the ticks swarmed in the rigging, trying to make repairs. The canine derived Guldur "curs" were the definition of "doggedly determined."
On the enemy's upperside there was still a full compliment of masts, but the sails on two of them had to be slacked to balance the thrust. The enemy was feverishly working on a jury lower mainmast but their repairs had not progressed as far as the Fang's.
Fielder had come up to join Melville and Broadax on the upper quarterdeck. Broadax's battle station was with her marines beside the upper quarterdeck, and it was normal for her to move over and join the captain.
"Just for the record, sir," said the first officer quietly, "I recommend against this."
"Noted," replied Melville. "So noted."
Broadax just chuckled and twirled her ax, while her monkey capered atop her helmet.
"How do you intend to go at her, then, sir," said Fielder resignedly.
"I'll tell you, but I want Hans to hear this as well."
Then he called up to the sailing master in the rigging, "Mr. Hans, if you have a moment?"
In seconds Hans slid down a backstay, landing with a gentle thump. He and his monkey spit tobacco juice over the side and he said, "Aye, sir?"
Gesturing at the enemy Ship Melville said, "We'll go at her and blast away any scrap of sail on the lowerside that can still give her steerage. After that we'll pound the hell out of her from one side until she bleeds from her gunports. Then we'll blast her some more, getting closer and giving her plenty of canister and grape after we've dismounted her guns. I intend to be sure that we've pounded her to a bloody pulp. We'll hammer her as best as we can without sinking her into three-space, and then we'll board."
"Well, sir, if it must be done, then I certainly approve of doing it that way," said Fielder.
"Aye, sir," agreed Hans. "By the Lady, thas my ideer of a fair fight."
"Damn straight," agreed Broadax, spinning her ax between her fingers like a profoundly ugly majorette twirling her baton. For today's work the Fang's sweet mistress of the ax had selected a vicious, double-edged chopper with a thick blond haft that was three feet in length, properly rawhide wrapped, and a head that weighed twelve pounds. It had a nice, pointy, six-inch spike on the top, so it could slice, dice, chop, and, when necessary, stab straight ahead.
"Aye," Melville replied. "Hans, we may be needing a jib and a spanker for rapid turning. Any problem with that?"
"No, sir," the sailing master replied. "The jury mizzenmast on the upperside shouldn't 'ave any trouble takin' a spanker, and there's no problem ta speak of anywhere else."
The "winds" of two-space were constantly downward, so there was no use for jibs and spankers (sails that ran parallel to the Keel of the Ship) except to provide thrust for rapid turns when placed at the bow and stern of the Ship. The Fang had used these before in battle, and the old sailing master looked forward to using them again.
With a big grin and another synchronized spit of tobacco juice, Hans added, "Proper use o' a jib and a spanker'll spin us on a dime so's we can bring all our guns inta play. An' that'll show the damn curs what real sailin's about. By the Lady, them stewpid bastards made one hell of a mistake when they decided to come after us!"
This last line was greeted with growls of approval from the quarterdeck crew. Then Fielder went to take command of the lower quarterdeck and Melville went to the lower bow gun. The Guldur's remaining mast would go down soon, and then the bowsprit. After that the enemy would be stripped clean of sails on the lowerside, and largely immobile. The Fang could come at them from one direction, dismount the guns on that side, and hammer the Guldur with impunity. Or at least that was the plan.
Again Melville waited by Cuddles, the lower bow gun, with his assortment of witnesses.
"Shipmates," Melville said, looking at the group with a wry grin, "it is possible that this might all have been a misunderstanding." That was received with cynical smirks from most of his audience. "Now that we are safe, I intend to go back to the surviving Guldur and try to find out why they attacked us. I hope to be able to explain to them that we mean no harm, that this was all a mistake, and that I intend to offer assistance."
The response among his audience ranged from total confusion in the case of Asquith, to serene inscrutability on the part of Lady Elphinstone, to conspiratorial nods and winks among most of the remainder. Everyone except Asquith understood that their captain had the right to go and attack these Ships, but he was going out of his way to make it clear that he had given the enemy a second opportunity to avoid the fight.
"However," continued Melville, "if they insist upon attacking us, then we will defend ourselves."
They only had to wait a few minutes until, at maximum range, the enemy's bow guns opened fire.
"Well," drawled Westminster, "It was worth a try. But you know what they say, 'Never pet a burning dog.'"
"Aye," replied Melville, "now everyone to their duty stations."
This time the enemy was not firing at their rigging. Previously the Guldur had aimed to slow them down, so that all four Ships could gang up on them. Now there weren't any other Guldur Ships in sight, and the enemy was aiming for their Keel, trying to make a kill shot. Fortunately they didn't have Melville's precision. For them it was a one-in-a-hundred chance... but they did have a chance. Everyone aboard the Fang knew that death could come for them this day.
Every heart was pounding with fear and anticipation. On the upperside the first enemy shot was low. A second later the shot from the enemy's lowerside smashed into the hull. The Fang reverberated from the impact of the big 24-pound ball and the deck shuddered beneath their feet.
<
br /> The captain returned fire with Cuddles, and the battle was on.
Melville and Cuddles were able to make steady hits on the Guldur's remaining mast. The best the enemy could do was to put about a quarter of their shots into the Fang's hull, but each hit made the big Ship ring like a gong, and each strike of that gong could be their death knell.
On the upperside Mr. Barlet, the master gunner, was working with Sudden Death to slam cannonball after cannonball into the enemy hull. Barlet was intentionally keeping the ball high. He wanted to avoid making a kill shot into the Guldur's Keel, and there was no real value in hitting the rigging since the enemy would—hopefully—soon be dismasted on the other side. Barlet wasn't out to dismast or sink the enemy Ship. His goal was to dismount the enemy's bow gun and kill their crew. The huge 24-pound cannonballs were deadly, but the real slaughter was caused by the splinters of wood that fountained out like shrapnel as each ball punched through the enemy hull.
But the exchange was not all one-sided. Periodically the enemy did the same thing to the Fang that Barlet was doing to them, as cannonballs and splinters took their toll on Melville's beloved Ship and crew.
"Capt'n!" interrupted a young Ship's boy in squeaky excitement. He scurried across the deck, skipping over gun tackles and flaked halyards like a rabbit as Melville waited for the sweating crew to slam Cuddles back into battery. "Chips sez ever'thin's okay so far! Nuthin' we can't handle 'e sez. The wurst of it is that a cannonball destroyed some o' the support structures in the surg'ry."
"Damn," Melville replied. "We need the surgery up and working. Tell the damage control parties to make that a top priority until I say otherwise, and continue to keep me informed. And in the future you will refer to the Ship's Carpenter as Mr. Tibbits. Is that clear?"
The Guns of Two-Space Page 9