Sea Battle: Lords of Helm and Sail
On our high poop-deck he stood,
And round him ranged the men
Who have made their birthright good
Of manhood once and again
Lords of helm and sail,
Tried in tempest and gale,
Bronzed in battle and wreck.
Together they fought the deck."The River Fight"
Henry Howard Brownell
They were sailing into Ambergris. The two-dimensional sea they sailed upon shifted from the midnight blue of interstellar space, passing through imperceptible gradations to a pure royal blue and then a light cerulean as they entered the solar system. A swirl of aqua, white, and green marked the plane of the planet itself. In the distance the off-white topsails of many ships could be seen.
Although it was still a comparatively young colony, Ambergris was already a major world with two large Piers, one above the plain of Flatland and one below. As the world spun, these Piers slowly shifted in relationship to each other in Flatland. On the world itself the Piers were hundreds of miles apart on opposite ends of a vast mountain range. But in the condensed, compressed environment of two-space you could sometimes see them both from the same ship, the Upper Pier from the upper deck and the Lower Pier from the lower deck. Most of the rest of the world was dominated by oceans, archipelagos, and swamps, the kind of world that the Stolsh loved. Given a few more centuries they would build it into a rich, heavily populated planet.
Melville cut a course for a point between the two Piers, trying to discern the status of the Guldur invasion. As he drew closer he could see only Guldur ships clustered around the Lower Pier. Around the Upper Pier the scene was a shifting, swirling mass of sails, some Guldur, and others clearly Stolsh and Sylvan. Faintly, over the endless, distant music of two-space, they could hear cannon fire coming from that location. They changed course and moved toward the sound of the guns.
On board Fang the scene was the same on both the upper and lower decks. First the crew was well fed. Then they beat to quarters, a daily ritual that the crew had performed countless times in the past, but this time it was for real. The men of the gun crews, supplemented by a sprinkling of Guldur, crouched motionless. Each gun captain lay over his gun on a platform, glaring down the barrel. At each gun the muzzle-lashing was coiled exactly and made fast to the eye-bolt above the gun port lid. The mid-breeching was seized with precision to the pommelion of the cannon. Handspike, crow, ram, bed, quoin, train tackle, round shot, canister and grape were all neatly arranged. "Slush," the fat carefully collected from the cook pot, was applied to grease the path that the gun recoiled back onto. A small bucket of slush was held in reserve beside each gun. Swords and pistols were in racks close to hand. The guns were organized into four batteries, consisting of the two 24-pounders and two 12-pounders on each side. Each battery had an officer or midshipman as battery commander. The gunner, Mr. Barlet, stalked the gun line on the upper deck, checking his guns and their crews. Gunny Von Rito did the same on the lower deck.
Behind the gun crews, the officers and midshipmen acting as battery commanders were exactly spaced. The decks were cleared for action. Everything that could be disassembled was struck down into the hold. Scuttlebutts full of fresh drinking water were centrally located with dippers hanging from them. Roxy, the one-eyed old cook stood by with her mates, ready to refresh the scuttlebutts and to act as litter bearers. The upper and lower cabins were stripped of internal partitions and furniture so that the two 12-pounders in each cabin could be manned without obstruction.
High up in the rigging, the topmen stood with pistol and sword at their hips, ready to adjust sails, repel boarders, or attack the enemy rigging. On the upper side old Hans stood with the topmen. On the lower side the bosun did the same. Marine sharpshooters manned the crow's nests. Gathered aft and beside the upper quarterdeck, Lieutenant Broadax and the remainder of her marines served as a ready reserve. In the same location on the lower side, Petreckski and a handful of purser's mates stood with the two rangers, forming an additional reserve.
Their surgeon was moved down into the hold. The operating table, consisting of sea chests lashed together and covered with tightly drawn sailcloth, was centrally located beneath an expanse of radiant white ceiling. Dressings and coil after coil of bandages sat beside the leather-bound chains sometimes required to lash down patients. An array of grim saws, retractors, scalpels, forceps, trephines, catlings and other mysterious torture instruments were arranged with loving care by Mrs. Vodi. Elphinstone and Vodi both wore starched aprons, bib and sleeves, and white caps over their startlingly different dresses. one buttercup yellow and one drab black. Buckets and swabs waited in the corner. Buckets full of water to swab the decks when they became bloody, buckets full of sand to spread on the slick wet decks, and, most ominous of all, empty buckets to hold amputated limbs and body parts. Etzen and Brun, their two corpsmen, stood at the upper and lower hatches with their heavy aid bags, ready to provide immediate, lifesaving medical attention, and to direct the evacuation of the wounded.
Deep in the hold the carpenter and his mates formed a damage control party, standing by to provide repairs to the precious Keel, brace up structural damage, or to sally up and assist Hans or the bosun with repairs to masts, yards and spars.
By now almost every crew member, and most of the dogs, had a monkey. And most of the monkeys held a belaying pin. Even some of the Guldur crew members had been adopted by a monkey and they delighted in the little creatures, finding them to be in every way the opposite of the hateful little Goblan they'd been forced to carry into combat. The process of monkey procreation and reproduction was still a mystery, but everyone was happy to have them on board. The little spider monkeys all chittered apprehensively to themselves as combat approached, with heads pulled in and eyes peering out anxiously. Except for Broadax's monkey, which chittered and screeched excitedly in a cloud of cigar smoke atop her helmet, flailing its belaying pin in intricate figure-eight and cloverleaf patterns with such speed and power that it hummed and whistled as it sliced through the air.
The dogs were excited and happy, pacing the decks like an eager bird dog that sees its master pull the shotgun from the rack on a crisp fall morning. The puppies were all gathered into the surgery, out of the way, but they looked for any opportunity to escape and join the fun. The cats also lingered in the hospital, curled up in corners or peering out from beneath bunks. They had absolutely no intention of joining in the dogs' fun. An old, one-eyed, three-legged cat, down to his last life and his last ear, sat at Vodi's feet and loudly, plaintively made the position clear. If the enemy boarded, and if they brought vermin with them, and if said vermin made it to the surgery, then and only then would the cats deem it their responsibility. They'd already participated in one boarding action, thank you very much, and that was enough for all nine of their lives.
During combat Melville's place was on the quarterdeck with his coxswain, a quartermaster and two mates. Hargis, Melville's clerk, was also there to time and record the battle, and little midshipman Ngobe served as a runner. On the lower quarterdeck Fielder commanded with his own quartermaster team, a clerk's mate, and a midshipman. If anything happened to Melville, Fielder would take over. If both quarterdecks were wiped clean, Hans would drop down and take command until one of the lieutenants in command of a gun section could join him.
Prior to combat, as he was trying to assess the situation, Melville went up in the foremast crosstrees with Hans, where they engaged in quiet discussion and contemplation. It was bitter cold up at this height, and they were refreshed periodically by the devoted McAndrews, who came aloft carrying a stained tin pot of coffee slung from his teeth by a loop of cord. McAndrews' monkey gripped his shoulder with six hands and carried the cream and sugar in the other two. " 'Offee shir," said McAndrews through the cord as his head came up level with the crosstrees. Both he and his monkey were rolling their eyes in mute terror at the fall beneath them, and at the glare from Melville's coxswain.
Melville's new coxswain stood beside him in the crosstrees, balanced like a cat on the slim yard with one hand up in the rigging. Assigned to Melville by Hans, up until now the captain and his coxswain hadn't worked together. The coxswain was a petty officer with other duties, who was pulled out to command the captain's boat crew as needed, to serve as the captain's personal bodyguard during combat, and to accept other duties as the captain saw fit. An ill-tempered, ill-faced, shrewish man named Ulrich, he was quick as a grasshopper and mean as a mantis. A perpetual suspicious expression was as much a part of his equipment as the pistols, knives, and a wicked little short sword that hung from his belt.
In private Hans confessed to one of his old petty officer cronies that, "I've never known a real rat-pizzened, murderous little killer of a hater who would talk like 'at man, think like 'at man, move like 'at man, even shoot like 'at man. 'E's tailor made ta save our innercent young captin's life, dam me if 'e ain't."
Melville was convinced that Hans had inflicted Ulrich on him as punishment for promoting the old CPO to "ossifer" rank. There were many angry men in the world. Fielder was angry when the world didn't go his way, which was most of the time. Broadax was angry at the enemy, and let them know it. But Ulrich was just flat pissed at everybody and everything, and was itching for the opportunity to let the world know it. Fielder would run from a fight if he could. Broadax would run toward a fight whenever she could. Ulrich was the fight, and now he belonged to Melville, like a pet pit bull who couldn't be trusted around the children.
Like the rest of the crew, Ulrich carried a monkey, but it seemed to be a mangy, discreditable, sullen example of the species, always looking suspiciously over its shoulder. His monkey carried a wooden belaying pin, which was now standard-issue. But this was the only monkey to also wield a small dagger, carried in one paw with an air of casual insolence that seemed to reflect its master's attitude perfectly.
As they approached, they could see a widely spaced ring of Guldur 24-pounder frigates, Fang's sister ships, firing into the melee from a distance. On the Guldur side the main battle was being conducted by a fleet of the curs' 12-pounder frigates, which were poorly constructed versions of their old Kestrel. They were mixing it up with a combined Sylvan and Stolsh fleet defending the Pier. Once the defending fleet was finished, the 24-pounder frigates could move in and eliminate the 12-pound guns on the enemy Pier with impunity.
"Aye, Hans," said Melville, handing his coffee cup down to be refreshed by McAndrews and sweetened by the steward's monkey, "there is one serious battle brewing out there. We'll cut through the gap between those two 24-pounder ships. I'll delay raising our flag as long as I can. Once they fire at us we'll hoist the Westerness flag and we'll play long bowls with them. When we cut into the main battle I don't think we can avoid a close-in exchange with those 24-pounder frigates that are engaging the Sylvans and Stolsh." He flashed a feral grin as he continued, "We'll see how they like those 24-pounders at close range. So, as soon as they open fire we hoist the colors and put up all sail."
"Aye, sir," said Hans, mirroring his captain's grin. "As soon as they fire, we hoist the flag and hang out all the laundry. Win I do that, y'll see my 'piss da resistance' y'will, sir. I been savin' it, I 'ave."
"Good." The cold caused steam to waft up from the fresh hot coffee in his mug. He breathed the warm steam in deeply as he lifted it up for a sip and then continued, "I'll go down and have one last talk with Fang, and then we're as ready as we can be." As the young captain headed down, Hans began to relay the orders through the foremast speaking tube that ran from the upper crosstrees to where the bosun waited at the lower crosstrees.
So it was that the entire ship stood ready. Even the few remaining much-persecuted and oppressed mice, rats, roaches and other, more exotic, vermin knew that something was afoot. Through the white Moss that coated most of the Ship's wood, every creature could feel the eagerness of their ship to be at battle.
They approached the battle around Ambergris' Upper Pier, pulling between the two distant 24-pounder Guldur frigates. Melville had all the gun crews run their pieces in and out a few times to loosen their muscles, and then they waited to see what the Guldur would do. They didn't have to wait long. The flanking ships both ran up a recognition signal consisting of two red flags, combined with firing a single gun. The response was probably some combination of flags and guns, so Melville had their signal yeoman act as though the lines were fouled, a stratagem to buy them a few more minutes.
When no responding flag came up, both enemy ships fired another gun for emphasis, but still no response came from the stranger in their midst, except for more fussing with the lines. The tension built as they passed the nearest point between the two ships, hoping they wouldn't fire on a ship that was so clearly one of their own, even if it didn't know the recognition signals. But the Guldur were slaves to a harsh master, and they would gun down a fellow ship if that was what their orders said to do. Suddenly the ship to their right fired in earnest, and two 24-pound balls came at them, one above and one below the plane of Flatland, which was now a swirl of green, blue and white from the world beneath them. Then the enemy ship on their left did the same.
The enemy had run two guns to the forward ports, and two guns to the rear, covering all bases, as it were. In this way they could bring two of the big 24-pounders to bear, one above and one below, in every direction. The enemy's forward guns had been taking longshots at the melee in front of them.
Everyone aboard Fang watched the two enemy ships fire at them with a careful eye, especially Mr. Barlet, their gunner. He looked with scorn and disgust as the two upper-side balls went wide. Word came through from the speaking tube that on the lower side one round had torn through some lower-side rigging, doing minimal damage, and the other had been a clean miss. As soon as the enemy fired, the flag of Westerness, a brilliant pinwheel galaxy on deep blue, was run up the main.
McAndrews, his steward, had found some tea and some lemon on Pearl, bless him. So Melville was now standing on his quarterdeck with a steaming mug of hot tea in his hand. "Fire as they bear, Mr. Barlet!" called the captain. They were out of range of the 12-pounders, but a deliberate broadside from their 24-pounders erupted from each side. If four guns per side, two above and two below, qualified as a broadside. <<Yes!>> "Cha-DOO-OOM-OOM-OOM!!" <<Kill-ill-ill-ill!>> and a flashing stab came from each gun combined with the concussion, the shriek of the deadly recoil, and a smell like ozone in the air as though they were discharging lightning bolts, accompanied by a copper taste in the mouth. The crews, most of them stripped to the waist, many with kerchiefs around their heads, remained intent on the loading, not watching the fall of the shot. It was deadly serious business. Checking the recoil, ramming home the new ball and running the ton of wood and metal back up against its port with a "blam!" while the gun's captain followed the strike of the ball and aimed the gun for the new strike. Throughout it all, the shrouds vibrated and the decks trembled with fierce joy.
Everyone who wasn't intent on loading guns or rigging sail cheered as they watched their balls hit home. At this range the gun captains weren't able to direct exactly where in the enemy ship the round would strike, but hanging over the gun on their platforms they were able to aim with deadly accuracy, and they were well enough bonded with their guns to mentally assist in directing the strike of the shot. Every 24-pound ball hit the enemy. Most punched through the enemy's sails and rigging. A few hit their hulls, causing the ships to shudder and sending a cloud of debris into the air.
At the same time, Hans and his topmen hung out all the "laundry." Fresh unbleached white studdingsails, royals, and spritsail-topsail bloomed into position beside the other, yellowed, older sails. His "piss da resistance" was a set of royal studdingsails, and then a handkerchief-sized moonsail above the royals. Which may have been a bit "over the top," as Melville observed, but surely stirred the heart of any creature that ever sailed the endless seas of Flatland. The ship surged forward with the kind of speed the curs never imagined it could achieve, just as Fang's second broadside cut loose from each side.
<<Yes-s-s!>> "Cha-DOOM-OOM-OOM-OOM!" <<Die-ie-ie-ie!!>> Again the 24-pound balls sunk home, only one from the red-side missing, as rigging and masts began to tumble and collapse on the enemy ships. Melville called over the speaking tube to Fielder on the lower quarterdeck, "Mr. Fielder! How do they fall?" and then put his ear to the tube.
Faintly he heard Fielder in a tone he'd never heard from the sour first officer. "Ha! Take that you sons-o-bitches! Play long bowls with us, will you! Ambush our ship will you!"
Melville grinned grimly and repeated into the tube, "Mr. Fielder! How do they fall?" and again put his ear to the mouthpiece.
"One miss from the red-side on the first broadside, looks like one miss from the green-side on the second. The curs have masts and rigging falling like rain around their ears!"
"Good!" They were pulling quickly away from the two enemy ships as Melville ordered, "Give them one more, then rest the crews and direct your attention to the front."
"Aye, sir!"
One last volley, again mostly striking home, with no response from the enemy. They were moving far enough ahead that the guns could not swing back to bear on the enemy, so Melville called out, "Avast firing," as the last gun fired. "Load and run them up. Now take a breather. Well done, shipmates!" The quartermaster immediately relayed each command through the speaking tube to the lower side quarterdeck.
Men and Guldur all straightened, grinning at each other. The humans glistened with sweat, the Guldur's tongues hung out as they panted. Most went to the scuttlebutts for a long, gasping drink.
They watched as the enemy ships desperately slacked sail to balance the thrust from above and below. Both ships were dead in the water as their crews scrambled to make repairs.
Melville continued, in a voice suited for the battle deafness of the hands, "Now shipmates, here is the real test. We are going to cut through that mass of ships before us, cutting straight for the Pier and firing at every Guldur ship that comes in range."
"Dear God, there's a lot of Guldur ships out there," muttered Melville's clerk beside him.
"Aye," replied Melville, then, to himself, and to the quarterdeck in general. . . .
"Shall I retreat from him, from clash of combat?
No, I will not. Here I'll stand,
though he should win; I might just win, myself;
the battle god's impartial,
dealing death to the death-dealing man."
That drew grim smiles from his men, and they sailed on, into the mass of Guldur 12-pounder frigates that were battling the defenders on the Pier and the small Sylvan and Stolsh fleet that was assisting in the defense. These few defenders were all that protected the citizens of Ambergris from the brutal tyranny of the Guldur.
On high-tech or mid-tech worlds an invading force, with its technology limited by the strange dynamics of Flatland, could seldom do more than occupy or destroy the Pier. But Ambergris was a thriving low-tech world, with two major cities centered around the two Piers. The invading force already controlled one Pier. If they conquered the second Pier, the people stood little chance against the Guldur's mighty armada and its countless troopships. The enemy would also have secured an important base of operations close to the major Sylvan world of Osgil.
The 24-pounder Guldur ships they'd engaged were already within range of the battle, and now so was Fang. But at this distance Melville couldn't discern friend from foe in the swirling mass of ships in front of him, and he wanted to give his men a breather. Best to use this time for planning and coordination, rather than fire blindly into that mess.
He called out from the quarterdeck rail, "Gun captains, battery commanders, and sailing master rally on me! Lieutenant Broadax, you too," he said, looking down to his left where the marines waited in reserve. "Quartermaster, relay the command to the lower side, and ask the bosun and the first officer to come as well." As an afterthought, remembering that Petreckski was in charge of the lower reserve he added, "And the purser also."
"Aye, sir, gun captains, battery commanders, bosun, purser and first officer to the upper quarterdeck."
"Good. Mr. Ngobe," he continued, turning to the midshipman by his side, "Go quickly to the carpenter and ask him to come to the upper quarterdeck."
"Aye, sir," replied the boy with puppylike eagerness. His excitement and pleasure at their success was infectious, and brought a smile to Melville's lips.
Within minutes, his key leaders were present with him on the quarterdeck. "Just at the outer limit of 12-pounder range is when we will open fire." He was speaking to the leaders, but he knew that many others were listening. "From that range every 24-pounder should be able to get solid hits on their hulls, and even have a fair chance of hitting their Keel and sinking them, like they almost did to our Kestrel."
He continued with a feral grin, "My friends, we are entering into a 'target-rich' environment." That brought a lot of smiles. "In the absence of any other instructions, you're free to fire at the closest enemy in your sights, and keep on firing. Be sure they're enemy, and then hammer them mercilessly."
He continued, looking at Hans and his bosun, "I intend to yaw to bring the red-side to bear first, then the green-side. I want a spanker and a jib ready to aid in rapid movement." That brought a grin from old Hans; he loved nothing better than fancy sailing. Melville smiled back. "We'll use them to bring our broadsides to bear as needed. With our superior guns and superior aiming, we should be able to sink several of the enemy ships. We will repay them, manyfold, for our Kestrel!" That got a cheer, then he concluded, "Quickly now, back to your stations, and when we open fire the bastards won't know what hit them!"
Minutes later everyone was at their stations. The swirling confusion of battle began to sort itself out into individual ships as they drew nearer. Melville could see two Guldur ships directly in front of him, their flanks exposed, sending thunderous broadsides into a Sylvan ship. Hans gave him a thumbs-up to indicate that the topmen were ready, and Melville gave the command to yaw to the green-side, his left, in order to bring the red-side batteries to bear on the enemy.
Suddenly, above and below, a jib and a spanker appeared. These were sails that ran roughly parallel to the main axis of the ship, directing their thrust to the side. The spanker extended out from their rear and was oriented to catch the downward "wind" of two-space to pull the stern to the red-side, Melville's right. The jib extending out to their front was oriented to pull the bow to the green-side, or Melville's left. The result was a rapid "left turn," combined with considerable slowing of forward motion.
"Fire as they bear!" called Melville. The quartermaster echoed his command into the speaking tube, and the 12-pounders came on target first as the ship spun. His command was answered by a steady, <<Yes!>> "CHOOM!" <<Gotcha!>> and <<Yes!>> "CHOOM!" <<Yippee!>>, from the smaller cannons, and then <<Yes!>> "Cha-DOOM!!" <<Kill!>> and <<Yes!>> "Cha-DOOM!!" <<Die!>> from the great guns.
She reached our range. Our broadside rang,
Our heavy pivots roared;
And shot and shell, a fire of hell,
Against her sides we poured.
The men cheered as two 24-pound balls punched holes in the enemy's hull, sending a cloud of debris into the air. One of the two 12-pounders, firing at the extreme end of their range, also made a hit on the enemy's hull. Through the speaking tube the lower side reported similar damage to the enemy.
"Bring the green-side to bear!" shouted Melville to Hans. Then, to the gundeck, "Green-side batteries serve the same ship again, I want to sink the bastard!"
Again the quartermaster echoed his command into the speaking tube, the ship spun, and once again the guns rang out with joy and malice, above and below. Somewhere within the enemy ship the bracing for the mainmast gave way, and it began to fall, slewing the enemy ship around and bringing her dead in the water. She wasn't sunk yet, but it was time to deal with the other.
This time they were slightly closer, as they took a series of slow "S" curves toward the enemy. Their cannonballs wrought even more damage on the enemy, sending two of their cannon flying like matchsticks and dropping masts and rigging around their heads. But now the Guldur were returning fire, and a few of the enemy's 12-pound balls were punching through Fang's sails and rigging. One punched a hole in the green-side upper bow.
The red-side came to bear again, making a shambles of the same enemy, but still the Guldur fired back. The Sylvan ship the enemy had been attacking was now relatively free from fire and they rapidly moved out of harm's way, traveling in a wide arc and scrambling to make repairs as they went.
Now the green-side hammered the enemy at close range, close enough that the enemy was able to get a volley of canister into them at the same time, dropping several of Fang's crew members from their guns and bringing several sailors plummeting down from the rigging. But this was the volley Melville had been waiting and hoping for. Through some combination of luck and skill Fang sent a ball straight through the enemy's Keel. Almost instantly the ship began to "sink" into Flatland, entering inexorably, silently into the cold hard vacuum of space. The only sound was the bloodcurdling, horrifying screams of the doomed crew.
Now the enemy ship that they'd wounded first was regaining headway and sending fire into their red-side as they progressed toward the Pier. The red-side batteries gave this ship their undivided attention. The enemy ship spun around, out of control and unable to bring any guns to bear.
Now, for the first time, Melville's four 12-pounders in the stern, two above and two below, could come to bear. They began to hammer the enemy as Fang drew away. The Sylvan ship they'd rescued came around in a long arc, firing at the enemy ship as they went, and then joined in behind Fang, forming a two-ship line of battle.
"Mr. Ngobe!"
"Aye, sir," answered the eager midshipman.
"Run down to the carpenter, and ask him for a report on the condition of our Keel, and the bracings for our masts." These were the foundations of the ship, hidden below decks. Their condition was an important factor in his coming decisions.
"Aye, sir!" said the boy over his shoulder as he scampered down the quarterdeck ladder.
Now there were two clusters of ships slugging it out in front of them, one to the left and one a little farther to the right. Melville charted a course between them and began to fire on the enemy as they came to bear. In a few minutes they'd sunk another enemy ship and crippled two more. They had also picked up another allied ship in their ad hoc line of battle. But the enemy was pounding them hard, and the Guldur ships kept trying to come around to engage in boarding actions.
Finally, one enemy ship bore down upon them with relentless fury. The red-side gun crews had taken a disproportionate number of casualties, so Melville swung Fang's green-side to fire at the approaching ship, whose prow was filled with eager boarders. The green-side gave a volley, but the enemy came on undaunted.
On, on, with fast increasing speed,
The silent monster came;
Though all our starboard battery
Was one long line of flame.
"Yes, Mr. Ngobe?"
"If you please, sir, Chips says . . ."
"What was that, Midshipman?"
"Beg pardon, sir." He responded, smiling, buoyant and eager-eyed, completely undaunted by his captain's best reproof. "Mr. Tibbits says that ever'thin's sound as a pound!"
"Good," said Melville quietly, "because we may be in trouble here."
The red-side was reloaded now, so they spun to bring its guns to bear. The aftmost 24-pounder, right in front of Melville, was almost completely depleted of crew. Their captain was being evacuated down to the hospital.
The dead and dying round us lay,
But our foemen lay abeam;
Her open portholes maddened us;
We fired with shout and scream.
Melville dropped his empty mug, stripped off his jacket, and called out to Broadax and her marines for assistance as he leapt down to captain the gun. Ulrich, his coxswain, worked beside him with diligence and professionalism.
And when a gun's crew lost a hand,
Some bold marine stepped out,
And jerked his braided jacket off,
And hauled the gun about.
As he climbed up on the platform to aim down the barrel of the gun, Melville thought about Mister Barlet and felt a renewed appreciation for the sighting system his master gunner had devised.
Now was the moment of truth. His reserves had been deployed. On the lower side, Petreckski and the two rangers were also manning a gun beside a bunch of cooks and purser's mates. He was the final reserve, and now he was committed, up on the platform, leaning over the 24-pounder in an exposed position as Ulrich and the marines shifted it in response to his hand signals.
From captain down to powder-boy,
No hand was idle then;
Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,
Fought on like sailor-men.
When Melville judged the gun to be on target, he reached out to touch the Keel charge that would set it off. Suddenly, something remarkable happened. His left hand reached back and down, making contact with the Ship's Moss that had recently grown on the platform. His right hand was in touch with the Keel charge of the 24-pounder. He "felt" Fang to his left, like a deep, powerful entity; like being in the mind of some vast, intelligent, feral warrior. He also "felt" the Keel charge to his right, like being inside the mind of some savage, vicious, slavering beast, straining at the leash in its lust for blood and death. He was in touch with them both, and through him they were in touch with each other.
The cannon delayed firing for an instant that seemed like an eternity to Melville. He could feel Fang rejoice as it was able to directly take part in the killing, but this was a calculated, deliberate malice. For an instant the three of them became one. One being, with one intent, to throw a 24-pound cannonball through the enemy's hull and directly into their Keel. To sink the enemy and send them into oblivion, into hell where the murderous bastards belonged!
<<YES!>> shout three minds in unison, "Cha-DOOM!!" they scream to the world as death incarnate belches from their maw, and <<DIE YOU BASTARDS!!>> they chorus in triumph. For a brief instant they are the cannonball. They punch through and true. Straight as an arrow. Straight as a thought. The enemy Keel is crushed, instantly snuffed out of existence. Just as the enemy's prow, its bowsprit loaded with eager, bloodthirsty boarders, is approaching Fang's railing, they sink, sink . . . sink into oblivion. The enemy faces are masks of horror and despair as they sink, sink . . . sink into the hard, cold, pitiless depths of space.
Remember, said a little voice, remember that they would have killed us, and all that we love, without remorse. . . .
Melville came up in shock, as from a plunge under cold water, as from a deep sleep, as from death. Death of being. Death of individuality. The pure, feral joy of battle and killing was still singing through his veins, and he looked for another enemy to kill . . .
Over and over again they screamed together as one, <<die! Die! DIE!>>
Melville captained the 24-pounders throughout the rest of that famous run to the Upper Pier of Ambergris. A run that will be recorded in the annals of warfare, to be remembered for as long as there are minds to recall and hearts to inspire. He found that the 12-pounders wouldn't perform in the same way. They were perfectly willing to hit the enemy, to harm the enemy, but they didn't have the same feral, malignant urge to kill as the 24-pounders. Nor did they have the ability to punch straight through to the Keel for the killing blow.
Melville realized that here was a unique combination. Westerness ships were products of civilized minds. No other ship of their navy could desire, could yearn to kill like his feral, vicious Fang. Fang, combined with these cannons, under his control, formed a team unlike anything ever seen. Somewhere in him there was a kindred spirit, a killing spirit, guided and shaped by a steely resolve to do his duty.
So he sought a gun, any 24-pounder, whichever one was loaded and ready. Acting as a human conduit between the awesome computing power of his ship, and the feral killing power of his cannons, Melville became an avatar of death. He willed the gun to strike the enemy Keel, and it did, each time taking hundreds of lives with it. He sailed into a vast forest of Guldur masts, followed by an ever-growing tail of allied ships who picked off the few enemy ships he only maimed. If it had been a fleet of enemy 24-pounder frigates he might not have survived, but against their 12-pounders he was like a lion among wolves. Everywhere he went he killed and he killed. His cannonballs ran true and straight. His gun captains willingly ceded their guns to him, watching in awe.
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.