The man who knows only honor,
knows not the odds;
The man who knows only the odds
knows not honor
Phil Messina
ModernWarrior.com
Cries of alarm rang through the streets. "To your Ships! To the docks! We're under attack!"
At the admiral's party, and in the gardens around the admiral's residence, there was pandemonium.
The officer fumbling at his lady love's undergarments was luckier than most. He was able to get the word quickly and race to his Ship, pulling at his clothing. Others were either incapacitated beyond responding, or finding it difficult to run while pulling their pants on!
Melville had his clothes on, he was not drunk, and
he headed back to his Ship at a dead run without wasting a second to utter a word to anyone.
Like the rest of the wardroom, Hans had let himself be bribed by Lt. Fielder into leaving the admiral's party early. Not that it was much of a sacrifice. It wasn't really his kind of party.
Hans had the Fang's mooring lines singled up and ready for either the captain's arrival or for Mr. Fielder to assume command and take her out to engage their attackers. Not that he wanted Fielder to take her into combat, but it didn't look like any of those other idiots were going out to fight the enemy. Which left it up to the Fang and her crew.
The old sailing master gave a sigh of relief as he heard the lookout up in the crosstrees call out, "cap'n's coming down the Pier, sir! At the double, with Ulrich and Grenoble."
Heh, heh! Them Crabs'll be suckin' vacuum an' sayin' hello to the Elder King soon enough, now that our cap'n's aboard! thought Hans. Besides, they ain't seen a real crab until they seen my sweety when she's fired up!
"Inform the first officer!" said Midshipman Aquinar to the Ship's boy by his side. The boy was actually older than Aquinar, but he obeyed the tiny middie's command without hesitation.
"Man the side," continued Aquinar, in his clear, calm young voice. "Call the bosun." While her crack crew prepared the Fang to sail into combat, her marines moved quickly to form a row of crimson jackets and white cross belts against the luminous decks. As the captain came up the gangplank, the marines' double-barreled muskets cracked to present arms while the bosun's whistle shrilled its piercing salute.
"Come aft, Mr. Fielder," said Melville to his first officer as Boye and the dog's monkey greeted the captain's return with joyful barks and eeks. "A sharp-looking turnout," he said to Lance Corporal Jarvis as he walked past.
The compliment brought a tight, proud smile on the rigid face of the young NCO. The world had gone mad. Again. But all was well with the Fang: their captain was aboard.
All around them the fleet was in panic. The Wordsworth and the Osprey were already sunk, and the Thomas Gray was going down as Melville watched. Most of the Ships were dying at dock, and their crews were able to escape onto the Pier. But the loss of these noble, ancient old Ships pierced the heart of every watching sailor.
A few lines from Gray's "The Epitaph" came to Melville's mind as he stood on his quarterdeck and watched that great Ship go down.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
...And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
"We commend thee to 'The bosom of his Father and his God,'" whispered Melville.
"Oh, God. Are we gonna die?" asked Asquith quietly, as he watched Ship after Ship disappear from two-space.
"Yep," replied Melville as he hurried to the quarterdeck. "Everyone does. But not today," he growled. "Not today, by God."
Due to her position at the military supply dock, the Fang was closer into the perimeter and was not in the fight yet. That was about to change.
"All the wardroom and all but a handful of the crew's aboard, sir," reported Fielder. "We're ready to fight."
"Good!" replied the captain. "Mr. Hans! Get us under way. Head straight out. Punch through and get some distance from the bastards. Give me all the speed you've got, as quick as you've got it."
"Aye, sir!"
"Mr. Barlet, give 'em a whiff of grape, all around!" Melville ordered. "I want those bastards to have something else to think about besides shooting at us. Have all guns fire for their Keels whenever you come to bear. They're flimsy little pockers! I think our 24-pounders will smash 'em to bits if we get a good body blow. Even the 12-pounders might, but the big guns will for sure!"
"Aye, sir!
In the midst of chaos, confusion, and fear, the Fang was the embodiment of competent, capable professionalism. The men aboard the other Westerness Ships had never seen war, and they had no idea what to do about it. Fang had seen more war than anyone in the galaxy, and her crew knew exactly what to do.
The enemy had a tiger by the tail, they just didn't know it yet.
"Damn, I'm glad you made it back before we got underway!" Fielder said urgently but quietly.
"Me too," said Melville.
The small enemy Ships were moving slowly and deliberately, using their bow-mounted guns to shell the helpless Westerness Ships that were docked there. The masts and spars of moored Ships partly blocked the view, but he could occasionally see the enemy craft as they moved.
The Pier's harbor defense 12-pounders were just now beginning to fire on the enemy. The moored Westerness Ships had nothing but their harbor watches aboard, and were apparently incapable of offering any defense.
"It's those damned 'Crabs' we've been hearing about, isn't it?" asked Fielder.
"Yep," replied Melville. "Those glowing sails fit the description to a tee, and I can't imagine who the hell else it could be!"
"Aye," agreed his first officer, soberly.
"Out of sheer morbid curiosity, Daniel, what were your plans if I hadn't shown up?" Melville asked as he watched the sailors taking in lines and adjusting sail to shove the bow out from the Pier. He glanced upward to verify that the topmen were standing by to sheet home the sails as soon as Hans ordered it.
Fielder answered grimly, "As soon as we had finished up the minimum necessary to get the Ship underway I was taking her out under my command to attack the bastards. I'm no hero, but given a choice between dying helplessly, or dying with a gun in my hand, I'll go down fighting every time."
"Hoo-yah!" replied his captain with a grin.
"Eep!" echoed his monkey.
"The cannons are double-shotted with roundshot and grape," said Fielder. "I figured we'd turn them into a crab hors d'oeuvres if we could get in close. Biggest problem is getting the angle to take out the crab-cakes without doing more damage to our own guys! If I was lucky, we'd destroy enough of them to bust out, and maybe even give our Ships a breathing spell. Hell," he concluded, waving at the Westerness Ships at dock, "some of those useless bastards might even get under way and actually join the fight!"
Then Fielder looked over at Melville with a grim smile and said, "Most of all, I figured if I was really, really lucky, you'd get your tail here before I got us underway. 'Cause, dammit, I'd rather give up my greenside testicle than take command of this Ship."
"Why so, Daniel?" asked Melville, as McAndrews and his monkey quietly poured, lemoned, and sugared a mug of tea. He took a sip and sighed in satisfaction, nodding thanks to his steward as his monkey craned its neck for a drink.
Fielder shook his head as the sails boomed and filled overhead and the Fang started to gather forward momentum. "We're on death ground here, Captain. Surprised, outnumbered, maybe outgunned, and it doesn't look like we're going to get any help from the rest of the Navy. At least for a while. We've got to move and fight, and that I can do. But to do it right, we've got to have Fang with us. And damned if I'll have that alien..." He paused to search for words and gave up quickly to continue "whatever it is, setting up housekeeping in my head and playing footsie with my mind!"
He shuddered and looked at Melville and continued quietly. "But I'd do it and be damned, before I'd let the Fang die without a fight at the hands of a pile of hyperthyroid escapees from a seafood buffet!"
Melville could sense Fielder's fear and sincerity through his link with the Ship. He felt Fang in his head as it commented in surprised approval, <<G O O D P U P!>>
The captain looked at his first lieutenant. Fielder was secure and calm on the outside, but inside he was terrified of the possibility of linking with the Fang. Yet Fielder was utterly determined to do whatever was necessary for the survival of the Ship. Or at least his survival, and in this case they were one and the same.
<<He is, isn't he?>> Melville agreed. <<He's changed—and for the better. But we had better not let him know, or he'll act different just to be contrary!>> Melville grinned at the amusement he felt in response from his Ship.
"Well, Daniel, it just doesn't get any better than this! A beautiful day in two-space: the stars above, targets all around us, and we get all the fun to ourselves! What more could we ask? Well, maybe more targets. But hey, you can't have everything you want in life!"
Fielder snorted and shook his head. Melville was crazy as a besotted bedbug, no doubt about it. But sometimes you needed a madman. And this definitely looked like one of those times!
Melville considered the tactical situation. The military dock used for re-watering and re-victualing was a bit under a thousand yards from the main docks where the rest of the Ships were berthed. The entry point from the Fang's dock into three-space was also close to the party at the admiral's residence, so it had been fairly convenient for Melville to get back to his Ship. But the officers and crews whose Ships were berthed at the main military docks had a lot farther to go in order to get from the admiral's quarters to their Ships. Which meant, in essence, that those Ships were isolated and essentially unmanned for now.
Never thought I'd have a reason to be happy our water was contaminated, but if not for that, we probably would have been tied up outboard of one of the other Ships. Would have made us first on the menu for the Crabs!
The leading Ships of the attackers were cruising slowly past the Westerness Ships berthed at the main military docks, firing as their guns came to bear. The only saving grace was that the Crab cannons were fixed forward, which required the enemy to point their Ships at a target in order to hit it. This meant that after firing they had to put their helm over and circle out toward the main body of attackers in order to reload, and circle back to attack again. It might have been more efficient to simply sit dead in the water and pound the moored Ships, but even the most brain-dead sailor knows that a stationary target is a dead target!
The Fang had managed to get her crew aboard quicker than the other Westerness Ships. And she had the brief breathing period provided by distance from the main attack. Also on the positive side of the ledger was the fact that, although the Crabs had overwhelming numbers, individually their Ships were very inferior. Added to that was the fact that the Fang and her crew were seasoned warriors. Melville knew he could count on his Fangs to fight to the last. But he had absolutely no intentions of this being their last fight!
This combination of factors gave Melville a fair amount of confidence. A lot more confidence and hope than he'd possessed when he was racing to his Ship, or when he first came aboard and saw so many noble, ancient old Ships sinking all around him.
Fielder looked over at his captain, cooly holding a mug of tea in his hand and gazing thoughtfully at the enemy. The captain's dog, Boye, sat happily beside his master, echoing Melville's calm demeanor. The man doesn't even look worried! What the hell is wrong with him? Doesn't he realize we could all die here today? The damned poetry-prating fool is gonna get us killed! He shook his head and puffed air out through pursed lips. Of course, I thought that the last two or three times, too.
"Captain, I'm heading to the lower quarterdeck now," Fielder said. "Anything else?
Melville cocked his head to the side, and then turned and grinned at him. "No, Daniel, I'd say we both know what to do. We'll be going off to our redside, cutting through the enemy fleet wherever they look thinnest, and hitting them with both broadsides as we pass through. If they want to engage us in turn, then they'll have to turn to us and chase us, which'll keep them away from the rest of the fleet. Not much else we can do yet, is there?"
"Aye, Captain," replied Fielder. "One other point worth noticing. See those flags they're all flying? I think those are copies of our signal flags. Really a pretty good copy, once you notice it. If they are signal flags, what they say is, 'No quarter.' See, the exact same flags are on all of them. Not too good as insults or threats go. But kind of scary, because it says they've been studying us!"
"Aye," said Melville. "They know our signal flags and we have to assume they know our language as well. This was not a spur-of-the-moment attack."
"Oh?" replied Fielder with his patented cynical smile. "You don't think all the little crabbies just got up one morning and said, 'Hey, let's all go out and have human for dinner tonight!'?"
"Nope," replied Melville, chuckling in spite of himself. "I think we have to apply Murphy's Law here, and assume the worst. They have been planning this for a long, long time, they know a great deal about us, and they are not stupid."
"Aye, Captain. And we know absolutely nothing about them. Our Ship has been dealt a few good cards, but overall I'd have to say that Mr. Murphy is alive and well today!"
"Amen," grinned Melville. "If you ever manage to kill that bastard Murphy, just hunt him down and kill him, you'd be my hero."
Fielder surprised himself with a laugh. "Yep, ol' Murph's got to go. But for now, we have a battle on our hands, and I for one intend to survive. So, God's mercy on us all, and it's time for me to head to the lower quarterdeck. I seem to recall a good recipe for crab salad, so I'll go round up the ingredients."
Boye, sitting beside them, echoed the laughter with an eager bark, while their monkeys chimed in with happy eeks.
The crew wasn't too sure what the laughter between Lt. Fielder and Captain Melville was all about, but they took great comfort in the fact that their Master and Commander and his first lieutenant could laugh as their Ship sailed into battle. That laughter did more to ease the minds and spirits of their crew than either of the two officers would ever guess. The Fangs weren't foolish enough to think that they were going to win without a fight. But if their leaders could joke and laugh, then they could win! And as leaders had observed over and over through the centuries, knowing something is possible, no matter how improbable, is the first step toward making it happen.
Aquinar, the midshipman of the watch, was standing by the upperside quarterdeck rail with Westminster and Valandil. The tiny middie was flanked by the two rangers, his chest barely coming up to the rail. Brother Theo walked over to him as the boy was staring at the Crab Ships pounding the vessels over at the commercial and military docks. The damage that the enemy guns were inflicting on their targets made it clear that the Crab gunboats were firing something quite a bit heavier than 12-pounders. After each cannon fired, you could hear the ball slam into a Westerness Ship like an ax into seasoned oak, crashing through the Nimbrell wood, and sleeting deadly splinters through the air to kill and maim any crew in the area.
The few sailors aboard those Ships had to be catching hell. From the damage the cannonballs were causing to the hulls, you would have expected the Ships themselves to look as if they were bleeding. It wasn't the first time the Fangs had seen Ships receive such a hammering, but it was the first time they had seen it happen to almost empty Ships.
There was blood, but thankfully not the quantities they had seen from a full crew taking the shattering storm of splinters and iron. And if the Fangs could divert the enemy's attention and turn them from attacking the moored Ships, then there was a chance that the crews could board and take vengeance upon their tormentors!
Staring over the little middie's head, Brother Theo watched the Crab gunboats in their attack patterns. Then he caught sight of Aquinar's face. It was set, grim, and serious far beyond his years. The boy was also white as chalk, telling Theo that he was frightened to the point where his body was taking involuntary action to help him survive.
When reacting to life-and-death situations the body pulls all the blood from the skin and capillaries, leaving telltale indicators like a dead white face. There are benefits to this physiological effect. The outer layer of skin and the extremities act as armor for the core organs, and blood loss from wounds is greatly reduced. With the blood trapped in the body core, the organs have energy and oxygen for important things, like staying alive. Adrenaline comes with this package, giving the muscles speed and strength to fight on, even when the body might not otherwise have resources to do so.
But there is also a price to be paid for this powerful survival mechanism. The shutdown of blood flow to the outer extremities means that the muscles are not getting oxygen and they stop working, causing a loss of dexterity and fine motor control. Blood flow to the brain is also reduced, so that the more frightened you become, the less rational you are. Basically, the only thing that a body can do well in this extreme fear state is to run away. And as any warrior can tell you, running away—turning your back on an armed enemy—is a very good way to die!
As Theo watched, he could see Aquinar begin to regain control. He listened to the lad breathing deeply, in the fashion he had taught them: in slow and deep, hold, out slow, hold, over and over, forcing his body to relax from the peak of hysterical response. The breathing was allowing Aquinar to regulate his body, allowing him to control his fear response. To use his fear, instead of being used by it.
Brother Theo placed a kindly hand on Aquinar's shoulder, hoping to comfort him. The startled lad whipped around and grabbed for his dirk, his pupils dilating with fear. This was accompanied by a tremendously loud fart.
"Oh," he cried, "I'm sorry, Brother!"
Theo laughed. "Not a problem, Mr. Aquinar, after all, I'm upwind."
"Well Ah'm not!" said Westminster, standing beside him. "Damn, son," he continued with a laugh that took the sting out of his words, "that's a potent one. Save it for the enemy, eh?"
"My fault for startling you," said Theo. "Just promise me that you'll stay away from Jones' bitterash noodles. The thought of your intestinal flora fueled by those abominations is enough to make my nostrils cringe!"
Aquinar responded shamefacedly, "It seems it's gotten to be a habit. Every time we go into battle I get horrible gas, and it's so..." He paused trying to find a word and was interrupted by Theo.
"So absolutely normal, lad! You know what's happening. You're going into battle, so your body is determining where it can preserve energy. 'Sphincter control? We don't need no stinkin' sphincter control here! Dump it and send the energy to the arms and legs!'"
"Okay! I got the picture already," broke in Aquinar, surprising himself with a laugh. "I understand it's normal, but it is embarrassing!"
"Aye," said Westminster, with a glint in his eye. "As the wise man said:
"Sometimes...
when you cry...
no one sees your tears.
"Sometimes...
when you are in pain...
no one sees your hurt.
"Sometimes...
when you are worried...
no one sees your stress.
"Sometimes...
when you are happy...
no one sees your smile.
"But fart! just ONE time...
And everybody knows!"
"Hoo-yah!" growled Lt. Broadax as she stomped up in a cloud of cigar smoke. "Wise wurds, indeed. Well translated frum the original Dwarrowdelf! An' now, if'n ye lazy rangers is ready ta do a mite o' work, them pockin' boats over there oughta be in range o' them pansy li'l rifled muskets ye boys got. So why don't ye try ta make yerselves useful?"
Valandil, as usual, said nothing, but Westminster drawled back at her with a grin, "Yep, Lieutenant, that's our plan. And Ah think the range might have closed almost to where our slings and arrows can bring outrageous fortune upon our foes."
Broadax blinked. "I di'n't say nuthin' 'bout no damned slings an' arrers. I want ye to use yer damned muskets!" Her monkey blinked at her in momentary confusion and then shook its head sadly as it blew a cloud of smoke up toward the rangers.
Westminster coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. "Damn, Lieutenant, I can't even see the enemy when I'm in the middle of this cloud bank. What in blazes did you soak them pieces of salvage rope in anyhow? A slop bucket? This last batch is potent, even for you!" He coughed again for emphasis and said, "Don't you be worrying your pretty little head over us, we'll be in range momentarily, and we'll do our job."
"'Pretty little head,' my hairy arse! Git to work an' quit tryin' ta butter me up. I'm already taken!" she growled to cover her chuckle as she headed back to get her marines ready to fire. The marines might not be as effective as the rangers at sniping, but sometimes quantity has a quality of its own!
"What ya think? The eyes or the mouth area on them oversized crawdads?" Westminster asked casually as he looked over at the closest Crab gunboat.
"Methinks the eyes," Valandil replied.
"Yup," said Westminster, deep in thought. "Their mouths keep closing, and at long range their shells might just stop a bullet. So eyes it is. Awful hard shot, though." He shifted into a stable position, kneeling down and bracing the double-barreled musket against the rail, looking downrange at the Crab cannoneer standing to the side of the bow-mounted gun as the loaders ran it back into battery.
"Nickel a shot?" offered Westminster with a grin.
"'Tis done," returned Valandil.
Westminster sighted, sighed, and slowly thumbed the white Keel charge on his musket. <<Purr>> "Crack!" The two keen-eyed rangers watched the target as the bullet made a gouge in the Crab's shell.
Valandil said, "Thou hast the range, but high and left. 'Tis a nickel thou owes me."
Westminster grunted, sighted again, and touched off the second barrel. <<Purr>> "Crack!" He set the musket's butt down on the deck so his monkey could reload it for him. This time the impact was obvious as the Crab cannoneer spun around and dropped out of sight. "Bet that hurt!" said Westminster with a satisfied chuckle. "Looks like we're even again!"
"Hmmm. Not for long, if it takes thee two shots every time!" said Valandil as he raised his musket.
And the two rangers were off on their own private competition.
"Mr. Hans, you have the conn," said Melville. "I'm going forward to talk with Mr. Barlet. Then I'll be manning the bow gun for a while. You keep us on course and send word if you need me."
"Aye, sir," growled the old sailing master.
"One more thing. These Crabs seem to be hitting the rigging as often as the hull of our Ships. I want you to rig netting overhead. Maybe we can keep the debris off our heads. It's gonna be hard enough as it is without various odds-and-ends raining down on us."
Hans looked at him for a moment, and then looked up at the rigging. "Aye, sir, I've read about them in Cap'n Aubrey an' Admiral Hornblower's journals. An' it might jist come in handy soon. I reckon we can git it done."
"Good! Pass the word down for the lowerside to do the same."
"What kind of idiotic plan is this?" Fielder muttered to no one in particular as the command came down the voice tube to the lower quarterdeck. "Rigging nets overhead? Dammit, we've got a battle to fight and we're rigging nets?" The first officer was sinking into his usual pre-battle funk and was just itching to find someone to share his misery with. Everyone on the lower quarterdeck was trying hard to avoid his notice.
"Ah, hell," he said, shaking his head in disgust. "Midshipman Jubal!"
"Aye, sir?" Jubal replied.
"You heard the order. Start rigging nets overhead to catch falling debris. That takes priority over anything except firing the cannon until you're done. Got me?"
"Aye, sir. Rig nets over the main deck and the quarterdeck. The job has priority over anything except firing the guns. It'll be easy, sir. No big deal, really!"
"Well that's just fan-dam-tastic. Now I suggest you get out of here, because you know damned well that I'm going to take our current situation out on somebody."
"Aye, sir!"
"So snap to!" Fielder barked as he turned to watch the Crab gunboats chew up the unresponsive frigates tied to the Pier.
"We might all be dead soon, and Melville's rigging nets!" he muttered to himself. "What an asinine idea. If it was worthwhile it would already be doctrine. Humph."
As the captain came up the redside, he visually checked the 24-pounder, Malicious Intent and the three 12-pounders, Bad Ju-Ju, Sue-Sue and Deep Doo-Doo in the broadside. All were loaded and in battery, ready to fire. Their gun crews were equally prepared, nodding their heads to the captain as he moved to the bow, where Sudden Death had been moved from its greenside battery position.
"How are we set?" Melville inquired.
"Everyone's all dressed up for the dance, Captain!" Barlet replied with a grim smile on his ebon face. "The 24-pounders are double-shotted with grapeshot and roundshot. I figger the double-shot isn't going to reduce range enough to matter here, and the grape'll make their misbegotten lives more... interesting, eh? I wasn't sure the grape would be as effective from the 12-pounders, so I double-shotted them with roundshot. Soon as we get the angle we need to engage the enemy without hitting our own Ships, we can open fire."
Melville laughed and nodded. "Aye, Guns, that it will. Those bastards haven't taken any really effective fire yet. So far it's just been a turkey shoot for them. It's easy to fire accurately when no one is shooting back! I'm betting we can unnerve them with that first whiff of grape. Then double-shot all the guns with roundshot and go for the kill. I want to sink those bastards, and I'm betting our 24-pounders will do that with one good hit."
"Aye, sir!" said Barlet with a grin of feral joy on his face. His guns were going into a target-rich environment like nothing he had ever seen before, and this is what the man lived for.
"I'll be manning the upper bow chaser," the captain continued. "I'll fire as soon as there's a clear shot. Everyone else do the same."
"Aye, sir!"
Melville was in the bow, laying quietly on the platform above Sudden Death, watching the enemy Ship as it circled out on its attack run. The way it was traveling, he would have only a brief window between the Pier and a friendly Ship when he could get a good shot. Boye sat on the deck beside the gun carriage, his head poked through the railing, looking at the enemy and eagerly anticipating his master's kill.
The captain's left hand caressed the white Moss of the platform, feeling the telepathic surge of Fang's ferocity echo back at him, meeting his own bloodthirsty urge to smash these murderous intruders. His lips pulled back over his teeth as he watched the Crab gunboat draw clear of the end of the Pier. Closer, closer, clear!
He touched the Keel charge to fire the big 24-pounder, and felt a momentary <<pause>> as the gestalt of human, Fang, and Sudden Death considered the target and the gun. Then, <<Yes!>> and it fired, "Cha-DOOM!!" <<KillHurt!!>>
At this close range the roundshot not only sheared through the hull, it shattered the Keel and the mast as well. The grapeshot also did horrendous damage, sending hundreds of musket balls smashing over the deck. The results were both amazing and horrifying, smashing down almost the entire crew and splashing ichor and splinters through the air like water from a hooked trout. The little Ship twisted and disappeared from two-space as Boye and their two monkeys barked and eeked jubilantly.
Those who weren't killed outright would face either a painful death by explosive decompression and freezing in vacuum, or a more drawn-out demise by falling from the sky to the planet below. In either case, they were no longer Melville's problem.
"Standby the broadsides!" Melville called as he rolled off of Sudden Death's firing platform and trotted over to Malicious Intent. Already the Fang was up to full speed, with every scrap of sail set. They popped through the window where Melville's first victim had disappeared, and were suddenly in the midst of a swarm of enemy gunboats.
Mr. Barlet allocated the other targets to the remaining guns, a job Gunny Von Rito was doing with the cannons on the lowerside.
Melville took the most challenging shot for himself. His target was a Crab gunboat that was curvetting back and forth nearest the frigates, slamming cannonballs deep into the bowels of the helpless Westerness Ships at point-blank range.
Melville focused on the target, feeling the bloodlust: his, and that of his alien symbiotes. He heard the call of the cannon to become one with it, the urge to <<SmashKill!!> this intruder, this hateful invader! He rode the feeling, watching, aiming until the shot was... just... right! He touched the Keel charge, riding the empathic cry of <<DieHurt!!>> as Malicious Intent spoke "Cha-DOOM!!"
Once again roundshot and grapeshot flailed the target, with spars, huge splinters and chunks of Crabshell and ichor flying high. As the debris settled, the little gunboat turned onto its side and slid out of two-space.
Melville's personal menagerie eeked and barked triumphantly and the crew cheered as their captain scrambled down. The other guns topside, combined with the lower side's 24-pounders and 12-pounders, had taken out four additional Ships. About another dozen of the Crab gunboats were running like hell and had already moved out of range!
"Good work, gentlemen!" said Melville as he looked around the Pier. "Damn! I think that's all of them!"
The Fangs were cheering themselves hoarse as old Hans walked up and spoke to him quietly. "Cap'n, jist got word from the lookout in the crosstrees. Sez we gots a whole mess o' them li'l bastards comin' at us from the north, jist over the horizon. I'd guess these guys wus jist to soften up the harbor defenses, an' mebbee this is their main body comin' in fer the kill?"
"How many of them, Mr. Hans?" Melville asked.
"Sez 'e can't count 'em. A 'real buttload' of 'em, 'e sez." The old salt and his monkey punctuated this by launching twin streams of tobacco juice into two-space.
"That's just real damned helpful, isn't it?" growled Melville. He shook his head and said, "I'm going up to take a look. Assemble the officers on the upper quarterdeck, and make sure we're ready for action again."
Damn, thought Melville, looking out at the approaching enemy Ships. Trouble doesn't come in threes. It gathers passengers as it goes and arrives in mobs and swarms.
Melville looked over at Able-Bodied Seaman Kivon Dillsvon, who was serving as the Ship's upperside lookout, high atop the mainmast. "I owe you an apology, Dillsvon. When I got the initial report that the number of Ships approaching was a 'buttload,' I was a bit disgusted." The young captain supressed a shiver. The cold up in the crosstrees, combined with the tactical situation, had chilled him to the bone. Looking again at the mass of glowing white sails filling the northern horizon, he continued, "But I have to admit that 'buttloads' is about as useful a word as 'myriads' or 'hundreds' or any other term indicating too damned many bad guys to count."
"Eep!" agreed his monkey emphatically.
Dillsvon bobbed his head as the wide-eyed monkey on the seaman's shoulder perfectly mimicked the action. "Yah. I knewed it vasn't right fer a report, but damn, sir, der's a buttload o' dem rascals out der!"
Melville replied absently, "Aye, that there is. I guess this time we'll have to let some of the other Ships in the fleet share the fun with us. Never pays to be too greedy," he said as he grabbed hold of the backstay to slide down to the quarterdeck.
Dillsvon looked at his captain sliding back down to the deck, then the old sailor spoke quietly to himself. "Aye, Cap'n, I tink yew be right. Ve might vant ta let the rest o' da fleet help out dis time!" He grinned down at the captain again and then looked out at the tiny, glowing sails, trying to figure out just how many of them there really were.
Melville walked calmly over to the group of officers waiting for him on the upper quarterdeck as McAndrews and his monkey prepared him a mug of tea. With the exception of Lady Elphinstone (who was caring for the few crew members who were wounded in the short engagement) his officers were all there, while Ulrich and Grenoble stood behind him.
The entire Ship had quickly become aware that yet another battle was pending, against an enormous force. (That kind of news could not be kept secret for long in a tiny world consisting of one-hundred-and-fifty feet of closely packed humanity.) And each of the Fang's officers responded to the news in different ways.
Lt. Broadax looked insufferably cheerful and happy, gleefully creating (with the help of her monkey) a cigar-generated toxic cloud that could have won the upcoming battle all by itself if it could have been mass-produced and transported through the airless atmosphere of two-space.
Mr. Hans looked absolutely imperturbable—until you noticed his lingering glances at the rigging and masts, looking at them with the eyes of a lover wondering how many would be ruined beyond repair by the pending battle.
Lt. Fielder simply looked... pissed-off. To him it appeared that the entire incident was concocted by God to make him miserable. Or dead. Which in his mind were almost equal events.
The midshipmen varied between the phlegmatic calm of an experienced warrior, and the frightened anticipation of a rookie. All of them were tried and true warriors. But still, most of them were just boys, with a boy's enthusiasms and emotional volatility.
All in all, Melville couldn't think of a better group of officers to go through this next trial with. But he was the Captain. He was the man who had to decide on the strategy and tactics for a battle against innumerable enemies. It was his responsibility to determine how they could best combat the enemy horde, knowing that he was going to have to spend the lives of these beloved comrades to do it. Spend them frugally, with a miser's touch, but spend them nonetheless. For he knew that with the odds facing them, the chances were slim (hell, damn near nonexistent!) that they would all make it out intact, much less alive.
This is the real world, Melville told himself. It is not some novel, where the characters you really love never die. Sometimes the wrong people die. Like Mr. Tibbits, the gentle, beloved old carpenter.
The loss of Tibbits and the maiming of young Hayl had scarred Melville's soul. He could no longer depend upon denial and ignorance to protect him from the horror of combat.
Maybe it was part of his maturing process as a warrior. Just another hurdle to overcome. But he could no longer pretend that the good guys, the ones you loved, could not die. We Could Die! That was the terrible, unpredictable actuality of real combat. Remember this the next time you think about going into battle, he told himself bitterly.
God above knew it wasn't fair. One Ship against all of these bloody bastards, whoever the hell they were. His men, his Ship, his guns against this bloody fleet that covered the horizon to the north of him.
You expected unfairness in life. Life is hard. Then you die. But this went beyond that. He felt his mortality. He sensed his impending death. They were going to die. They were all going to die! He felt overwhelmed with despair as he looked at these men and prepared to give them the orders that would lead them to their doom.
His knees felt weak and the mug of tea in his hand begin to shake slightly. All was gone. Hope? Gone. Future? Gone.
No!
I am Thomas Melville, Master and Commander of Her Majesty's Ship, the Fang, and I refuse to accept it! He drew a deep combat breath and felt Fang's ferocity seeping into his soul. I am Fang! I am her mighty guns! I am her crew! And we refuse to accept it!
As a wise man once wrote, "Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death."
"Shipmates," he began, taking a calm, steady sip from his tea as his dog sat quietly beside him, "we have a bit of a challenge in front of us. You have heard by now that the Ships we just destroyed were not alone, but rather the vanguard of a vast fleet."
He took a breath, let it out slowly, and took another sip of tea. "To be honest, I haven't a clue how many of them there are. They all seem to be the same type of small Ship with glowing white sails. But there are, as Dillsvon just told me, a 'buttload' of them."
There were a few strained chuckles from the officers as they absorbed his words.
"It appears that the fleet will be delayed in getting underway. They will have to man the surviving Ships, tow the badly damaged ones out of the way, and then form up in line of battle. Our job is obvious. Delay the enemy fleet until Rear Admiral Middlemuss gets the Navy out and can engage and destroy them."
Fielder asked, in a tone that was completely devoid of his usual sarcasm, "Sir, have you any idea how to delay this 'buttload' of Ships without getting the Fang's—and our—butts shot completely off?"
"Actually, Daniel, I do," he said with a small smile. "Or at least a method of giving our fleet time enough to get underway. I hope it will be sufficient to keep us intact, but it's going to be close.
"I had the signalman hoist the flags for 'enemy in sight' and 'Intend to engage,'" Melville continued. "I reported the number of Ships to be 'greater than one hundred.' Which," he added bemusedly, "is the most that our code book had for a signal for enemy fleets. It would appear that the people who made up our signal books suffered from a dearth of imagination.
"My plan is to act like we are damaged and running from the fray here at the Piers. We will appear to be easy prey. Somebody that they will want to gobble up before they continue on to the bottled up, besieged, and thoroughly smashed fleet they expect to find Pierside.
"My only concern is that the Crabs who just got away may know that we're not that hurt. But I'm betting they'll have trouble telling all our Ships apart, or maybe they'll think that the ones we sunk hurt us when they weren't watching. If they don't take the bait, we'll find some way to get their attention.
"Mr. Hans will take charge of strewing debris, spare spars, and other objects about, making it appear as if we have taken serious damage. Furl our sails and hang some old rotten canvas, and tear them up good so that they look battle-damaged. We have cause to believe that they can read our signal flags, so we'll limp along and appear awfully easy to spank while we send deliberately snide, snotty, and nasty flag messages to the enemy. Mr. Fielder can use his imagination for that one, I believe." The officers chuckled briefly and he continued the briefing with a renewed sense of confidence.
This might work. Dammit, it might just work! Keep telling yourself that, Thomas. We don't have to fight them all. We just have to delay them. Give the Crabs a good bloody nose, and hold out until the rest of the fleet can join us.
"Let us provoke them. They are alien, but I'm betting they are predators, and it is a universal truism that every predator cannot help but be tempted by the wounded-duck routine. I want us to look like a frigate that is barely holding herself together—an easy target—as we go crawling out to escape the destruction that they think is happening here.
"And when they see us, why then we'll do what would come naturally to a Ship so damaged. We'll attempt to run away, at the same crawling pace." He grinned again, but this time it was more a flash of predator's fangs than a true smile. "When we have them trailing us, looking for a prize... Well, then we unfurl our real sails, throw overboard anything that hinders us, and we fight!"
"Eep!" echoed Melville's monkey. The other monkeys and their humans all nodded in agreement.
"It'll be a running fight," continued Melville. "A stern chase. And a stern chase is a long chase, so we'll have lots of time to share things with them. Little things like 24-pound cannonballs to make their lives interesting. Then we'll circle back here and let the rest of the fleet have some of the fun. After all, we wouldn't want them to think that we're too greedy to share now, would we?"
From their duty stations on the upperside gundeck and the rigging, the Fang's sailors and marines were watching the officers on the upper quarterdeck. As they heard the chuckles rising from their leaders they wondered what in the hell could be so damned funny at a time like this.
Melville looked over the greenside railing at the multitude of small Ships approaching the Pier. The enemy fleet had closed enough that the glowing sails could be seen from the main deck now, and they looked like a vast, white wildfire that spread across the horizon.
Six down, and only a thousand or so to go, eh? the captain mused as he stared out at the small craft. Should make for an exciting morning, shouldn't it?
"Damn there's a lot of 'em!" Melville said to the two buckskin-clad rangers who were standing with their rifled muskets at the quarterdeck rail. "How'd that joke of yours go, Josiah? First Captain Bravo had one ship attack him, and then four, and now..."
"Yep, sir," Westminster drawled with a grin. "It's definitely brown pants time."
"Ha!" replied his captain, mirroring the ranger's grin. "We'll hold that in reserve. I've got a few other tricks I want to try first.
"Mr. Hans," Melville continued. "Let's bend on sail for speed—or at least as much speed as we can get from that ratty canvas. You did a great job of making it look battle damaged. I want to come left three points to the greenside, so that we're aimed at their left flank, the far right edge of their formation as we face it. My intent is to open fire as we come into maximum range and draw them away from the port. That should give our Ships time to come out and join us."
"Assuming that they do," muttered Midshipman Hayl, the captain of the upper redside battery, who was standing on the maindeck directly below Melville.
"No, Mr. Hayl, you do them a disservice," Melville rebuked him gently. "They may not have our experience at war, but they are men of Her Majesty's Navy. They will come out to play with us."
I have no doubt they will come, eventually, Melville thought grimly. But will they come in time to give us succor—or to give us last rites?
Cuthbert Asquith XVI stood near the lowerside bow looking at the vast swarm of sails coming toward them. The sight was so amazing that it took a moment for him to shift from awe to fear and despair. A veritable tidal wave of beautiful luminous sails over lovely little white Ships was coming at them. And all of them crewed by some kind of overgrown crab that wanted revenge for every seafood buffet he had ever enjoyed. Sometimes the world made absolutely no sense at all.
"Daniel, if we've never had contact with these 'Crabs,' then why the hell are they trying to kill us? It just doesn't seem logical!"
Fielder looked out over the greenside at the approaching horde. He sighed and said, "Damned if I know, Bert. I've never even heard of them until that Dr. Myriad... uh... Forays... whatever his name is. Until he mentioned that they were a legend or myth out here in the far rift. They should've stayed mythical."
"Somehow I don't think my pistols are going to do much good here, Daniel," Asquith said quietly.
A glint from one of the leading Ships drew the eye to a cannonball in flight toward the Fang.
"Hmmm. Good reach on that one," observed Fielder. "From the range on that cannon, and from everything we've seen so far, it appears to be something bigger than a 12-pounder and smaller than a 24-pounder. Based on the size of the Crab Ships I'd say that in my professional judgment it's probably around an 18-pounder."
"Is that bad?" Asquith asked in horrified fascination.
"Well, yeah. It sure isn't good news that everybody in the galaxy seems to have bigger guns than us. The Guldur have those damned 24-pounders, and now these Crab bastards have 18-pounders. And remember, there's two of them in each of those little gunboats, one on the upperside and on the lowerside. So, it's definitely bad news if they hit us. An 18-pounder on our hull wouldn't do quite as much damage as the 24-pounders the Guldur were hitting us with, but they've got one hell of a lot more of them and it really isn't going to be pretty." Fielder took a bit of morbid satisfaction from watching Asquith's face pale as the significance hit home.
"Oh," he replied in a small voice. He paused for a moment then continued. "Any suggestions for anything I can do to help, Daniel?"
Fielder looked at him in surprise.
Asquith looked back with what he probably imagined was a ferocious expression, but instead looked more like the snarl of a dyspeptic terrier.
"To be honest, Bert, with only one eye, you wouldn't be worth anything with a sword—no depth perception. And unless you're a psychotic berserker like our Mistress Broadax, an ax isn't one of the best choices for you. On the other hand, I think that you and your monkey have more than proven yourselves as pistoleers, so if you would care to remain here as a reserve with me if we are boarded?"
Asquith smiled at him gratefully. "Thank you, Daniel. I'd be honored to stay with you as a reserve." His monkey seconded him with a fierce "Eek!" as it brandished its belaying pin and ramrod.
"'Ere, now," came a gravelly voice from behind them as Broadax and her monkey came forward from inspecting her marines. "I 'eard dat!"
Fielder paled and shook his head. "Never fails with her, does it?" he whispered to Asquith.
Broadax continued with what she apparently thought was a grin, but came across as a gaping fissure in a furry mask wreathed in the ever-present cloud of toxic smoke. "'Psychotic berserker,' eh?! I likes that 'un. Jist remember now, if'n we gits a chance we gots ta board a few of 'em. I needs sum more ax practice, ye know! Girl's gotta keep her berserkin' up, ye know!" As she passed she gave Fielder a friendly, gentle tap as far up on his back as she could reach, which felt a lot like being rabbit-punched.
Asquith and Fielder watched as she headed to the upperside to check on the marines stationed there.
Asquith said thoughtfully, "Daniel, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that you two were, well, not enemies... but perhaps, unfriends?"
The first officer shook his head in confusion. "Well, I sort of thought so too. Brother Theo and I were talking about it with Hans, and near as we can figure out, I keep getting her into fights and she really likes that. And somehow, what I'm saying doesn't seem to be what she's hearing." He shook his head in confusion, "Or maybe it's what I'm saying doesn't come across to her in the way that others hear it."
Fielder sighed and continued. "Although I've got to admit that while she's as ugly as homemade sin and will never be a Weber—one of those decorative Amazon heroines in some of the classic science-fiction writing—she sure as hell is useful in a fight. Pound for pound I'd rather have that maniac on my side in a fight, than damned near anyone else I can name. So long as she doesn't have a gun. Lord, she has to be the universe's worst with a gun."
Asquith looked up at a sound, a whispery wheeting noise he had heard during their last battle. A sound that sent shivers down his spine.
"Ah, looks like the waiting is over, Bert! That was one of their balls coming through into our air bubble. That means we should be able to start hitting them now."
Asquith considered for a second. "Daniel, if we can hit them, doesn't that mean that they'll soon be able to hit us?"
Fielder gave him a grim smile. "Yep. Makes life kind of exciting, now doesn't it?"
Barlet and Melville were standing near Midshipman Ellis Palmer, who was commanding the upper greenside battery. Sudden Death had been shifted from the bow to its position in the broadside battery, to get maximum firepower on the greenside. Each cannon was loaded with a single roundshot. The gun captains had done their best to find the smoothest, roundest balls for this first shot. This was going to be long-range gunnery, and for that they wanted the best possible fodder for their cannons.
They all understood that if they could entice the Crab fleet to pursue them it would eventually turn into a short-range slugfest, as the faster Crab Ships caught up with the Fang. But before it came to that, they'd have the chance to even the odds with their broadsides and then whittle the enemy down with the stern chasers.
Midshipman Palmer looked over at his captain. "Sir, what happens if they don't change course to attack us?"
Melville smiled at the midshipman. Palmer was a deep-voiced lad who was huge for his twelve years. He had served with great heroism and intelligence as a Ship's boy and had been promoted to midshipman shortly after they had captured the Fang. He had great potential as an officer and it was always good to develop the tactical knowledge and experience of the next generation.
"Well, Mr. Palmer, what do you think would happen?"
The middie thought for a second. "Well," he rumbled, "I figure that if they don't change course or attack, then we can cruise down their flank and pound the hell out of 'em with our broadside, then come behind 'em and romp across their rear and beat hell out of 'em with even more broadsides! An' since their guns are fixed forward, they won't be able to shoot back! Somewhere in there they oughta start changing their mind about ignoring our Ship!"
Melville nodded. "Not bad for a first pass, Mr. Palmer. Of course," he added with a grin, "whenever they do turn on us, we'll be in the midst of a swarm of Crab gunboats, like a crocodile intruding into a piranha-infested river."
Palmer shivered as he considered the idea.
"Just remember," continued the captain, "this 'croc' eats schools of piranha for lunch! Our big advantage is that we don't have to face our opponents to shoot them, but they do."
"Aye, sir," said Palmer. "Plus our 24-pounders appear to have a slight range advantage. And the incredible accuracy we have when you're firing the guns, if I may say so, Captain."
"Aye! So for now we have two tasks. We must fight them, and we must lure them away from the Pier so the fleet can get underway. Given our altered appearance and the fact that we are apparently running away, we should be downright irresistible."
"Aye, sir!" growled Palmer. "Like a doddering old drunk, just asking to be rolled for his wallet. But when the robber rolls this drunk over, he'll find out we're faking, armed, and pissed-off mean!"
Barlet interrupted him. "It looks like it's about that time, sir. Their last shot entered our air bubble. Which isn't good. Their guns must be about 18-pounders. And 18-pounders against our 24-pounders isn't all that unequal a contest," he concluded soberly.
"No, it isn't," Melville replied as he climbed up onto the aiming platform above Sudden Death. "Especially when there's so damned many of them. So we better get started evening the odds."