The Guns of Two Space: Chapter Three

Stern Chase: “The Great Stern Gun Shot Fair and True”

    Five topmen had been killed by the enemy fire during this engagement. One of them was struck by cannon balls and two were thrown out into space when rigging snapped. Two others had tumbled to their deaths, landing with awful thuds upon the deck far below. There were scarlet streaks on the deck planks to mark where they had landed and the fresh spilt blood was still being slowly soaked up by the white Moss. Even now a topman was trying to lower himself to safety with one blood-soaked leg hanging from his body by a muscle.

    There were many holes in the sails, and a fair amount of damage in the rigging, but the most telling blows were a 24-pound ball that had snapped the upperside foreyard clean in two, collapsing their foresail. Another shot had clipped the top quarter off their upper mainmast, taking down their maintopgallant and the royalsail that rode above it. To balance the thrust they to immediately slacked the equivalent sails on the lowerside.

    Melville estimated that this was about fifteen percent of their overall thrust, combined with another ten percent or so lost from various holes shot through their sails. A new foreyard and topgallant mast were being swayed up, and the holes were being patched, but still this was enough of an advantage for the enemy Ships to close the distance with them. His mind was spinning with calculations.

    “A cast of the log, if you please, Mr. Hans,” Melville said to the old sailing master.

    “Aye, sir,” Hans replied with an approving nod.

    Melville could see some of the quarterdeck crew looking at him questioningly. They couldn’t see why the captain needed a cast of the log while the Ship was in such mortal danger, but Hans understood. They needed to calculate exactly how fast the Ship was going, so the captain could know how the battle would play out. This kind of situational awareness was their young captain’s strong suit. He might not be a master o’ the riggin’ and sails like the legendary Captian Jack Aubrey, thought Hans, but tha’s what I’m ’ere for. And damned if ’e can’t see a plan an’ call a battle like nobody’s business.

    Hans and the quartermaster went aft with the little half-minute glass and the small piece of Keel which served as the log. The log was cast, and the quartermaster’s arms vibrated as he held the reel above his head.

    “Nigh on to eight knots, sir,” reported the quartermaster to Hans.

    “Just shy o’ eight knots, sir,” said Hans to Melville, who was standing right beside him and had heard the first report full well. “We’ll pick up a li’l speed as repairs an’ jury masts go up, but we know the Guldur can do close to ten knots, even with their sorry riggin’ an’ sails.”

    Melville nodded as his brain raced. The situation was worse than he’d thought. Their old Kestrel had been one of the fastest frigates afloat, able to do 15 knots any time she chose. Hans had re-rigged the Fang after they had captured her, spreading a glorious array of royals, studding sails, and a spritsailtopsail that brought her up to almost 13 knots. But now their glorious array of sails and rigging had been shot to hell.

    The Fang and her crew had punched a hole in the net that the enemy had cast around them, and they were escaping through that hole as fast as they could. The Ship that had been dead ahead of them was now dead, indeed. The two that had been to the Fang’s left and right were currently closing in behind her. The fourth Guldur Ship was also closing in, since the Fang’s speed had been reduced so badly, but it was still far behind.

    If Melville kept on the current course the two enemy Ships immediately behind them would catch up with the Fang at about the same time, so he gave the order to cut to the left, or greenside. This would give them a chance to engage the enemy to their left before the one on the right could open fire. Melville estimated that in about an hour the first enemy would be close enough to start firing.

    Once again he intended to gather his witnesses and wait until the enemy opened fire first. Westerness obstinately refused to join in this war, no matter how bad the provocation, but they could not deny him the right of self defense.

    Even when the enemy did open fire it would be a long, drawn out battle. A stern chase was a long chase, and there would be time to feed the crew.

    The Westerness Navy had consciously modeled themselves on the legendary British Navy. Not much was known about those distant, semi-mythical times. When mankind had first entered into two-space they brought back a two-dimensional virus, a living creature that had created the Crash, a devastating collapse of virtually every data base and electronic system that existed on Old Earth. Much of mankind’s knowledge was lost forever, but they did have the multi-volume biographies of legendary naval heroes, such as Horatio Hornblower and Jack Aubrey, to build on. Just as the Iliad and the Odessy provided the only available knowledge about that period in ancient Greece, so did Hornblower and Aubrey provide most of their insight into the era of naval combat in wooden ships on Old Earth ­ an era so very much like their own. Fortunately, there were many more volumes of valuable material in these British Naval biographies than in Homer’s two works.

    The British Navy had always tried to feed their men before a battle, and Captian Melville believed in doing the same. Just minutes after he gave the order their cook, Roxy, and her mates had their ’burners’ set up under a big pot of chili and another pot of macaroni. These burners were yet another special adaptation of a Keel, designed to release energy as heat, since normal combustion generally didn’t work in two-space.

    Meals in the Westerness Navy were a carefully managed social occasion. Roxy would set up her kitchen on the upper gundeck on one day, and the next day she set up on the lower gundeck. This made the upper and lower crews socialize during meals, which contributed to the cohesion of the whole Ship. Today it was the lowerside’s turn to host dinner, and the whole crew rotated in to share a hot meal.

    As Midshipman Hayl sat down to a steaming hot plate of chili-mac he couldn’t help but think of the remaining three Ships that were coming to kill them. He couldn’t avoid thinking of the horrible death they had just inflicted upon the first enemy Ship, and he understood deep in his gut that the same thing could happen to them. Death was dominant in his mind as he sat down to eat. While he thought on these grim matters, his body absentmindedly took a bite of his food, and since he was a healthy lad with a day of hard work and excitement under his belt, his stomach discovered that it was good to eat. His youthful body reminded him that however his heart might feel, his body needed fuel. So he began to eat, and he found that the act of eating made him feel better. This was a new discovery for young Hayl, but it was an old, tried and true friend to the rest of the crew as they ate their meals.

    As he was eating, Hayl suddenly had the disorienting experience of scooping a full spoonful from his plate, only to place an empty spoon in his mouth. The first time it occurred he was completely baffled. A few bites later it happened again. He was beginning to doubt his sanity and he started to keep a careful eye on each spoonful of food. He realized what was happening when he saw his monkey snag a mouthful of chili-mac in its tiny, three-fingered paw.

    Hayl looked at the baby monkey on his shoulder and he couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. It “Eeked” happily back at him, bobbing up and down on all eight legs, and the young midshipman couldn’t find it in him to begrudge the wee creature its small tariff on the goods that went from his plate to his mouth. Then the two of them both set down to some serious eating.

    Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck and watched the squealing, shrieking movement of a 24-pounder into the upper stern gunport as he gulped down his own plate of chili-mac. Melville’s monkey also took periodic “tariffs” on his food, but by now the experience had become so common that the captain barely noticed when an empty spoon came up to his mouth. He was watching the mass of men as they heaved the groaning gun down the well-greased tracks, but his mind was elsewhere. Finally he shook his head and turned to the boy who was serving as his runner.

    “My compliments to the Ship’s carpenter, and will he please report to the captain at his earliest convenience.”

    “Aye, sir,” replied the boy with a gulp. “Ship’s carp’ter ta the cap’n at ’is soonest conven... soonest conven’ance.”

    “Aye,” Melville replied with a nod and an encouraging smile.

    The boy sketched a salute and scampered off.

    In just a few minutes the carpenter, Mr. Tibbits, was standing in front of Melville.

    “A hatch through the decks?” asked Tibbits, rubbing his bald spot. “Aye, sir, I guess we could do it fairly quick like. An’ the goal is for you to have a ladder straight down to the lowerside?”

    “Aye, Chips. Except I’d just dive straight down, pop through to the lowerside, and then climb up the ladder on the far side. Then I’d reverse the process going the other way. The objective is to get quickly from one side to the other so I can fire both of the stern guns as fast as the crew can load them.”

    The old carpenter had been a traumatized, exhausted man after their old Ship, the Kestrel, had died. The only thing that had kept him going was his sense of duty to this new Ship, but by now he was completely bonded with the Fang, and her captain. Today he was a new man, and he seemed to have absorbed some of the youthful energy of his Ship and her captain.

    “I’ve seen it done before, sir,” Tibbits replied with a nod. “I was a Ship’s boy on the old Heinlein. She had her hatches set up in line like that. When we have to pass a lot of cargo, say, from the upper maindeck to the lower hold, sometimes we dropped it straight thru the hatches like that, and then the boys on the lowerside could just snatch it, clean as a whistle, as it popped in. As a boy I used to jump straight through like that, just like you’re sayin’. Not many folks want to try it, though. If you miss by just a smidgen, you’ll hit the edge of the hatch at high speed in 1.5 gees, and it’ll cripple or kill you deader’n hell. An’ there’s things that seem to pull you to the side sometimes, like maybe there’s variations in the way the gravity pulls at you.”

    Melville nodded and considered. “How about if we ran a line through, nice and taut, like a fireman’s pole?”

    “Aye,” the old carpenter replied thoughtfully, “you could do that. This hatch’ll tie up more deck space where you’d want to put cargo, and I’ll tell you, sir, the one bad thing about our Fang here ­ much as I’m loath to admit any flaw in her ­ is that she ties up a lot of cargo space. These damned tracks to run the big guns on prevent you from putting in much deck cargo if you’re gonna keep the tracks clear, and keeping these hatches clear will tie up more space on the gundecks and in the hold.”

    “Aye, good point, Chips. But we can keep them covered, stack cargo on top when we have to, and only clear them when we need a particular gun. We’ll try it first with a hatch by the stern guns. Make it happen, Chips.”

    “Aye, sir. We’ll get right on it,” he replied rubbing his hands and nodding his head with an air of sincere satisfaction. “Would you mind walkin’ over with me and chalking out the exact spot where you want it?”

    Melville felt a surge of pleasure as he considered the old carpenter’s enthusiasm. Tibbets had become like a doting, protective father to Melville, willing to give staunch support to his captain’s initiatives. The young captain was still uncertain and insecure in his position, and the unconditional, professional support of a man like Mr. Tibbits meant the world to him.

    In just minutes the carpenter’s mates were cutting a hole in the upper gundeck, beside and well to the rear of Malicious Intent, the 24-pounder that was now sitting at the stern gunport. By the time the first of the three pursuing Guldur Ships began to fire at them, a vertical corridor had been cut all the way through to the lower gundeck, where Rabid was in position at the lower stern gunport. Melville had positioned the hatches so that a taut line running from the upper mizzentopmast yard could run through the center of the hatches to the lower mizzentopmast yard.

    Once more, Melville was laying on the platform above the gun, with his group of witnesses waiting beside him in the lower stern. With the exception of a few dedicated lookouts, virtually every eye in the Ship was looking back at their foe, with hearts pounding in their chests. Then the Guldur fired on them. As the enemy’s 24-pound balls screamed overhead, punching through their sails, Melville once again had his witnesses confirm that the Guldur had fired first, and then he returned fire.

    <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<SmashDie!!>>, and Rabid slammed back beneath him. He watched the shot crash into the enemy’s bow and heard the cheers of his crew as he rolled off the platform and raced back to the new hatch. He dove headfirst down the hatch, with his hands grabbing the rope and his feet gripping the rope above him. As a young middie, skylarking in low gravity of the upper rigging, he had often slid down a line headfirst like this, and that experience now stood him in good stead. He dropped through and into the lowerside, where he was now head-up and climbing the rope. He used his momentum to clamber up the line to the upper deck, ran to Malicious Intent, hopped up on the platform, took careful aim, and fired another shot. <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<KillHurt!!>>

    As the enemy’s bow guns hammered away at his rigging, Melville punched a steady series of deadly accurate shots straight into their bow. The distance between the two Ships did not close nearly as fast during this stern chase, and it took longer than it did the last time for Melville to shatter the enemy’s Keel and make his kill, but the outcome was the same as before.

    After a brief but brutal slugfest Melville’s superior accuracy took its toll. The enemy Ship was sinking and the Fangs were cheering as their pursuers died a horrible death. Better them than us, was the attitude of the veteran crew aboard the Fang. The angel of death had passed over them. Their tension eased, and most of the crew thought to themselves, You bastards came looking for trouble, and you found it.

    This latest battle had done still more harm to their rigging. The topmen had worked like heroes to repair most of the damage of the first engagement, but now their ragged sails had absorbed additional holes and their yards and rigging ended this battle in worse shape than before. This time even more topmen lay dead or wounded in crimson pools upon the deck, and the next enemy Ship had already closed into range.

    Their major bit of good luck thus far was the fact that the enemy had not shattered one of their masts. But that could change at any moment. With this third Ship Melville changed his strategy and began to aim at the enemy’s masts. He had to keep them at a distance, and just a few good shots could shatter the approaching Guldur’s foremast and slow them greatly. Besides, he didn’t want to sink these last two Guldur Ships. He had plans for those bastards!

    Melville and the third Guldur Ship began their battle by each taking out a mast. Just as Melville’s precisely aimed shot from Malicious Intent shattered the enemy’s upper foremast right at the base, a lucky shot from the enemy combined with previous damage to take down the Fang’s upper mizzenmast.

    With a shattering, rending roar, the mizzenmast came tumbling down while Melville was still on top of the upper stern gun. He looked up in time to see the great mass of canvas and spars come ponderously down, dragging two screaming sailors and a trail of rigging behind it like writhing snakes. He rolled off the platform and crouched next to the gun carriage as the foot-wide yardarm smashed down across the gun.

    “All hands to the gun!” roared Melville as he crawled out from the debris. “Clear this gun for action!” He heaved himself up, only to realize that his right hand was half sunk into the shattered, pulped skull of one of the assistant gunners.

    “Clear the gun first, then see to the rest!” Melville shouted. All around him the entire upperside crew was dashing about, chopping and hauling at the debris like a mass of ants on a kicked over anthill. He wanted to stop and help with this task, but their lives depended on hammering the enemy, and he raced to the hatch. “Mr. Hayl!” he said, grabbing the young midshipman by the shoulder. Hayl jumped and Melville couldn’t help but smile briefly. The boy had anticipated the touch of a deadly splinter or cannon ball and not his captain’s hand.

    Melville looked him in the eye and said, “Come to the lower deck and tell me the instant this gun is cleared for action. Do you understand?”

    The boy’s face was white and his eyes were wide. Melville could hear the tension in his voice as he nodded and squeaked, “Aye sir!” Then Melville saw Archie Hargis, his imperturbable clerk, look him in the eye and nod calmly from behind the young midshipman. Melville grinned with relief ­ he knew that a veteran crewman would backstop the midshipman to ensure that he was informed as soon as the gun was back in action.

    He scrambled over a mass of debris and dove into the hatch. With the fall of the mizzenmast the line running straight down the center of the hatch had gone slack, and his heart was in his throat as he made the dive without his guideline. He popped through to the lowerside, where the rope was still attached to the lower mizzen topsailyard, and scrambled up the line. As he came out onto the upper gundeck he looked up at the quarterdeck and called to Lt. Fielder, “Daniel, the mizzenmast has come down on the other side.”

    “Aye, sir. They called over the voice tube to tell us. We’ve already slacked sail to balance the thrust.”

    “Good. Send all of your idlers up to help them, and have someone get this line taut, so I can go safely back through the hatch when the upper stern gun is clear.”

    “Aye, sir!” responded Fielder calmly, and then he began to call out clear, concise and effective orders. Melville grinned as he hopped up on Rabid, the lower stern gun. Fielder may not have much liking for a fight, but when the chips were down his competence, combined with his strong sense of self preservation, made him extremely capable. As Sun Tzu said, “When in death ground, fight!”

    Then Melville fired the gun and saw the ball shatter the enemy’s lower foremast. He watched with intense satisfaction as the mast shivered and then slowly bowed forward, picking up speed as rigging snapped and the angle became more pronounced, until it slammed down across the enemy’s bowsprit in a great flapping tangle of wood, canvas and cordage.

    Now the enemy had both his upper and lower foremasts down. This new damage did not slow the enemy any more, since they had already slacked sails on the foremast to balance the thrust, but the good news was that the forward leaning masts had came down like fallen trees, completely blocking the enemy’s bow guns. Melville only had one gun to fight this battle with, but the enemy had none.

    Melville began to slam shot after shot into the enemy's mainmast. Rabid’s gun crew threw themselves at their handspikes and rammers, oblivious to anything but the hungry muzzle of their gun. After just three shots the Guldur mainmast came tumbling down, and the Fang began to pull rapidly away from Guldur number three.

    The problem was that Guldur number four, the last of their attackers, was now closing rapidly. The Fang was hurting. Over sixty percent of her sails out of commission and one of her two big stern guns was down, while a completely fresh new enemy came charging at them with both bow guns blazing.

    Melville and Rabid were getting to know each other. They were fine-tuning their relationship with each shot fired, and as this new enemy approached, Melville, his Ship, and his gun all felt a great sense of confidence.

    On the upperside the enemy would be hammering them mercilessly and the Fang could not respond. Their only hope of survival was to quickly and efficiently stop the enemy, right now, with this gun.

    He is the gun, he is the Ship. They are him and they are one.

    He aims down the barrel. The tiny motions of his head happen without conscious thought, guiding the crew to make minuscule adjustments to the gun. He is not aware of reaching down to touch the Keel charge at the base of Rabid’s barrel, it is just... time. In the fullness of time it happens.

    <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<SmashDie!!>>. He guides the shot home, willing it onto the target. Rabid’s first shot is just a hair left, smashing halfway through the left side of the enemy’s foremast.

    Melville waits with intense frustration while the crew reloads the gun and slams the huge weapon back into battery. <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<KillHurt!!>> The second ball goes slightly to the right, barely clipping the mast.

    “Ah, you bastards,” murmurs Melville as the gun is slammed back into battery by its crew. “We got you bracketed.”

    <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<SmashDie!!>> Rabid screams as the next shot split the difference between the last two, and smashed through the foremast.

    The crew cheers themselves hoarse as they watch the enemy’s foremast tumble down and cover the bow gun. The Guldur Ship is now close enough that the two 12-pounders in the Fang’s stern cabin beside him can finally come into action. For a brief period they add their share of death and destruction, punishing the enemy for the presumptuousness of getting this close.

    Melville’s lips draw back and he begins to hammer away at their mainmast.

    <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<KillHurt!!>> Again it is slightly to the right, with splinters flying out from that side of the enemy’s mainmast.

    Again, the frustrating, agonizing wait as the gun is reloaded, and then: <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<SmashDie!!>> The next ball sends splinters the size of a man’s leg flying out from the left side. Melville can feel Fang say <<B R A C K E T E D !!>> He can tell that Fang likes the concept communicated by that word.

    He doesn’t notice the stink of ozone or the blinding flash of the cannon, he only has eyes for the enemy. <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<KillDie!!>>. The mainmast comes tumbling down, and the Fang begins to pull away from her tormentor.

    But Melville, Fang, and Rabid are not done. The enemy can still do damage on the upperside, and the foe is still in range of their gun. Melville must continue to savage the enemy Ship for as long as he can.

    Now their target is the enemy’s mizzenmast; their last mast, their only mast on this side. Already the enemy has dropped out of range of the Fang’s 12-pounders, and the two guns in the stern cabin beside him go silent.

    <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<KillHurt!!>> But this time the ball misses. Melville feels the shot go left. The Fang is pulling away from her target. The range is greater with every second, yet still they fire. There is a vicious rage upon them and it is not in them to stop when they can still do damage.

    <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<SmashDie!!>> The next ball sends splinters blossoming out from the Guldur’s lower stern cabin.

    “Damn, dead on, but too low,” Melville mutters while Fang and Rabid seethe with frustrated rage.

    The gun crew sees where the ball struck, and they automatically elevate the barrel. It is now back in battery and raised to the maximum possible extent.

    It seems to take forever for the gun to come back into battery, but finally it is ready. Melville touches the Keel charge and commands the next shot. Fang dedicates all of her vast intellect to compute and direct the shot. <<Yes!>> “Cha-DOOM!!” <<KillHurt!!>> With an organic, almost orgasmic surge of effort, Rabid spits out the ball.

    The crew cheers and roars as the final mast shivers and falls on the distant enemy Ship, while Rabid’s crew races to refill the shot garlands, not willing to rest until their gun is ready for the next battle.

    Now there were only three Ships still alive in this piece of two-space: the Fang, with two Guldur strung out to her stern. One enemy Ship was completely dismasted on one side, while the other was only getting thrust from one mast. The Fang had steady thrust from two masts ­ albeit with badly damaged rigging and terribly tattered sails.

    If Melville wanted to he could pull away from his enemy and escape the battle. But that would mean they were still out there, and with some repairs they could still catch his tattered, mangled Ship.

    It would not be easy, but there would never be a better time to finish off the attackers, and Melville’s beloved Ship and crew would not be safe until their enemy was completely defeated. Besides, Melville was a firm believer in kicking the bastard while he was down.

    In victory, humility. But until the victory was won and his Ship was safe, his motto was: fair fights are for fools.

    I am no Homer’s hero you all know

    I profess not generosity to a foe... If you play a game of chance, know before you begin

    If you are benevolent, you will never win.

    Their achievement thus far had been nothing short of amazing. Throughout history there have been warriors with extraordinary, deadly superiority in combat. There were swordsmen, duelists and snipers on every world who racked up hundreds of kills, and Melville was in part a duelist and a sniper. But the Fang’s prowess was more akin to the man-machine interface of the fighter aces or elite tank crews in the 20th Century on Old Earth. Some of these war machines were manned by pilots and crews whose remarkable competence permitted them to rack up literally hundreds of kills.

    The majority of the fighter pilots and tank commanders in 20th Century combat never got a single ’kill’ to their credit. 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, a man with over 300 kills to his name, said that most of the time he killed men who never knew he was in the sky with them.

    As Melville felt the thrill of his survival, his success, his triumph, he knew that this was what it must have felt like for one of those legendary aces. The finest pilot in the finest machine with the finest crew, all utterly devoted to killing. He and his Ship were death incarnate. Melville laughed aloud. Joy surged through his soul ­ joy in victory, joy in life. As he stood there, with one hand stroking the hot barrel of Rabid and one hand on the Moss of his Ship, McAndrews handed him a mug of hot tea.

    Melville took a sip, and then he held the cup up for his monkey. He felt almost dizzy and slightly disoriented as he began to relax. After the intense, focused concentration of aiming the gun it was like waking up from a dream. As the savage spirit of Rabid seeped out of his soul it was like coming down from a drug high. Suddenly he realized that his body was bruised and battered and his hands were rope burned. His awareness expanded outward from aiming the gun, to his body, to his Ship. Suddenly he remembered the rest of his responsibilities, the rest of his Ship.

    “Dear Lord,” he said, “what about the upperside?” Then he handed the mug to McAndrews, turned and strode quickly to the hatch.

    He called over his shoulder to the quarterdeck, “Steady as she goes, get us well away from those bastards for now.”

    “Aye, sir,” Lt. Fielder replied.

    Melville gave the rope a tug to be sure it was secure on the other end and slid down headfirst as he had done so many times before, except this time he was conscious of the pain in his hands. When he popped through to the other side he didn’t have the energy to clamber all the way up the rope, so he swung over to the ladder and climbed up onto the upper gundeck.

    On the lowerside Melville had taken the last two enemy Ships out of action by dropping their foremast over their bow guns and then hammering them with impunity. On the upperside the situation was reversed. The 24-pounder at the Fang’s upper stern gunport was out of action, and both enemy Ships had been able to pound away at the crew as they tried desperately to clear the gun and repair the damage. The only thing that prevented the enemy from dropping the Fang’s mainmast on this side was the fact that Melville had done so much damage, so quickly, on the other side and then pulled away from the battle. Even then, it was a close run thing.

    The upperside mainmast had taken several grazing hits, and the rigging and sails were in a shambles, but still they had thrust from the sails on two masts, and the topmen were placing patches on the sails. The damage to the Ship was serious, but it could be repaired. What ate at Melville’s soul was the damage to his beloved crew.

    Here a burly gun captain sat in a pool of blood, cupped the head of his assistant gunner and quietly told him that his arm was gone. Here the cook’s mates gently wrapped a body in sail cloth and took it to join the line of silent forms in the waist, lying in military order even onto death.

    The smell was what always got to Melville. The copper smell of blood wasn’t really all that terribly bad. What revolted him was the vomit smell and the stench of feces you got when you opened up human stomachs and guts. Some writers refered to it as a ’slaughterhouse smell’ but Melville always thought this sickening odor was distinctly different from any butchery of animals that he had experienced. Blood smelled like blood, whether it was cattle in a slaughterhouse or humans on the deck of a Ship. But the smell of human vomit and feces was distinctly different from that of herbivores who were butchered in a slaughterhouse. It was that smell that made a battlefield so distinctive, and horrible, to Melville.

    The captain put a hand on every shoulder and gave a quiet word to every beloved Shipmate. Then he moved to the sick bay and did the same as tears streamed down his cheeks.

    O loved, living, dying, heroic comrade, All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.

    No one can ever truly understand how very hard it is to command, until you lose men in battle. And yet, to truly protect these warriors, he had to be willing to take them into harm’s way. In war no one was ever really safe on the defensive. If you sat and huddled on the defense, or if you ran and hid, in the end you ­ and those you loved ­ would probably die. Only by gaining the initiative did you have a chance to survive. Only by seeking out and attacking the enemy, on your terms, at times of your choosing, could you ever have a degree of true safety in combat.

    To be a great military leader you must sincerely love your men. But to keep your men safe, all too often you had to give them orders that could result in their deaths. That was the great paradox of military leadership. That paradox was a burden upon Melville’s heart. And yet it had also become a comfort, because once he truly understood it, he also understood that he had no choice.

    Everywhere Melville went he was greeted with happy, cheering Shipmates, and his heart was lifted. The support of his men and his Ship made it easier to live with what he had to do. They cheered because their captain had once again saved them amidst overwhelming odds. And, like the Ship and her guns, they yearned to finish the job.

    A blood lust was upon them all, and Ulrich spoke for most of the crew when he said, “Le’s go back and furnish da baskards!” They were back on the upper quarterdeck, in their original battle stations. Standing beside Ulrich was Grenoble, the captain's other bodyguard, who nodded in rare agreement with Ulrich. The rest of the quarterdeck crew roared their agreement.

    “Shut yer yaps!” said Lt. Broadax, turning the concentrated essence of her snarl upon them all. “The cap’n ’ll make ’is own damned decisions, an’ if ’e needs any crap from ye I’ll crack yer thick skulls an’ squeeze it out fer ’im!”

    All around them the Ship was bustling with crew members making repairs. The damage to the mizzenmast on their upperside would require a Shipyard to fully repair, but the rest of the damage could be put to rights. The upper quarterdeck was especially busy, as the sailing master and bosun directed the placement of a temporary mizzenmast. It would only go high enough to rig the mizzen mainsail and a small mizzen topsail, but that was a significant improvement over their current state.

    “Aye, Cap’n,” reported old Hans. The lanky, gray bearded sailing master was standing beside Melville on the quarterdeck, directing the placement of the jury-rigged replacement mast. “We’ll ’ave ta do without a mizzen topgallent an’ royal on the upperside,” and then he and his monkey spit a stream of tobacco into two-space for emphasis. “But this jury mast, combined with the mending an’ patching o’ sails an’ riggin’, will bring us up to around eighty-five percent thrust.”

    Melville nodded his thanks. He was no ’Captain Jack’ with a mystical understanding of sails and rigging. He had to depend on Hans and his other experts in that area, but he knew he could trust the old ex-NCO’s estimate without hesitation.

    Then Hans winked at Broadax. The Dwarrowdelf officer smiled back (if that distortion of the gristle and hair on her face could be called a smile) and winked one beady, bloodshot eye back at him. On land the two of them were bizarrely mismatched lovers. Or at least, they appeared to be lovers, but after one look at Broadax no one really wanted to know... whatever there was to know. Aboard Ship they were professionals who were content to give each other winks, leers and admiring glances. Not for the first time Melville thought of Longfellow’s lines when he saw Broadax and Hans together.

    Melville considered the situation carefully. Two crippled enemy Ships sat waiting for him to gobble them up. But they would not go down without a fight. Those Ships and their guns were extraordinarily valuable resources just waiting to be snatched. But it would cost him lives, the precious lives of his Shipmates. War was coming, and he knew deep in his gut that those Ships and those guns might turn the tide in some future battle. But the Admiralty would not thank him for it.

    It would really tick off the Admiralty if he took these Ships. Westerness’ policy was dedicated to avoiding an involvement in the affairs of the Elder Races. But Melville (and the Sylvan, the Stolsh and the Dwarrowdelf) knew that, sooner or later, Westerness would be on the recieving end of the kind of brutal, genocidal attack he had personally witnessed being inflicted upon the Stolsh.

    Everything he had done up until now was undeniably an act of self defense. According to the laws of the sea, when those Guldur Ships attacked him it was either an act of war or an act of piracy, and either way he had the right to hunt those Ships down and capture or destroy them. But the timid souls who were currently in command at the Westerness Admiralty would not see it that way.

    Well, hell, thought Melville, how could I possibly be in any more trouble than I already am?

    On the one hand there was his personal desire. He wanted more guns for his Ship and, damnit, he wanted to teach the Guldur a lesson. He had a score to settle with those bastards and most of all, for himself, he wanted the honor and the glory. That was what had motivated old King Henry V:

    On the other hand, as Master and Commander of a Ship, he could never let himself be driven by his personal desires or his lust for glory. If he tried to capture those Ships it would cost him lives, and all the glory and honor in the world was not worth the life of a single one of his precious, beloved Shipmates. And it would probably make trouble with the Admiralty ­ maybe even more trouble than he already had, hard as that might be to imagine.

    On the gripping hand, there was glory and guns for his men and his Ship, glory and guns that would help them survive in the political and physical battles yet to come. And there were guns and Ships to help Westerness survive the brutal, genocidal assault that he knew was coming. It was his duty to get those guns for his men, his Ship, and his nation. Duty: that fierce, harsh, insatiable mistress of his who could rightfully consume as many lives as she desired.

    For once, duty and desire were in agreement.

    “Turn us about,” he said to the quartermaster. “We have unfinished business to attend to.”

    He had never felt more alive in his life. And that makes sense, he thought, because...