The Guns of Two Space: Chapter Four

Close Approach: “Be Steady Boys, be Steady”

    It was time for breakfast. They had fought through most of the ’night’ shift, and the crew was tired. Not exhausted, not at the end of their rope, but they were tired and a meal would be refreshing. They had pulled out of sight of the two Guldur Ships, and the tension was great as they broke their fast and headed back, the prey turning upon its predators.

    Today’s meals would normally have been served on the upperside, but the upper deck was a shambles so the lowerside was hosting meals again. The lunch meal for the night shift had been skipped, and those worthies were particularly hungry, although almost everyone aboard had a hearty appetite.

    Almost everyone. Cuthbert Asquith XVIII could not understand how the crew could eat under these circumstances. Right beside him was Lt. Archer, who would soon be leading men in battle. The young lieutenant would probably be the first to die, yet he was eating with great zest, wolfing down his meal while walking around and making sure that his men had been taken care of and were eating well.

    Archer looked over at the earthling. “Adrenaline!” he said with a broad grin as he scarfed down his scrambled eggs. “The breakfast of champions.”

    Asquith was baffled by this young man, and all the others like him. He had existed in a constant state of tension, unable to eat anything since they first encountered the enemy Ships.

    Meanwhile, the Ship’s routine continued in a placid, surreal manner. At this moment, in the background Asquith heard that age-old chant: "Sweepers. Sweepers, man your brooms. Give the Ship a clean sweep-down fore and aft. Sweep down all lower decks, ladder backs and passageways. Throw all trash clear of the stern... Now sweepers... "

    Having been completely rebuffed at any attempt to give spiritual consolation to Asquith, Brother Theo Petreckski was espousing the ’finite heartbeat theory’ to him.

    “We each have been allocated a finite number of heartbeats, and when we use them up, then our brief span of existence in this world is complete. Thus, agitation, irritation, consternation, and all perspiration resulting from unnecessarily vigorous operation of your body only serves to use up your heartbeats needlessly!”

    Brother Theo was full-bellied, with a round, red face that spoke of a soul long traveled under alien suns and often wrapped around exotic wines. He had big twinkling brown eyes that matched his robe, and an expression around his eyes and lips that hinted of pending outbursts of song and laughter.

    As he continued to pontificate, Lt. Fielder cut in. “Your stream of consciousness is definitely overflowing its banks.”

    “Ah, but Brother Daniel,” Theo replied with a look of mock piety, “at moments such as this I can’t help but contemplate the uncertainty of the future. Think of how little time there may be left. How few heartbeats, and how each one must be nurtured, preserved and cherished.”

    “Uh-huh,” the sardonic first officer replied. “Well, I’m saving mine up for sex and fleeing from irate husbands. And my advice is to stop using yours on useless thinking and talking, or you’ll just hurt yourself. Or at least stop talking, or else you’re likely to hurt some poor soul who’ll drown in all those deep thoughts of yours.

    “Although, I must admit,” Fielder continued, “you are bringing religion into my life. I don’t think I ever really believed in Hell until I met you.”

    “Ah, well, I’m just God’s humble servant, doing the best I can,” the monk replied with a mischievous grin.

    “God, please save me from your followers!” muttered the first officer in mock dismay.

    Asquith was baffled by all this banter. But he was slowly beginning to understand that it was entertainment intended for one-and-all. Fielder and Theo derived pleasure and reassurance from restating some well-established and well-worn positions. And everyone on the quarterdeck took pride and satisfaction in knowing that they were warriors who could pontificate, philosophize and remain true to themselves even in the face of death.

    The enemy Ship came into sight.

    They were plodding determinedly after the Fang with full thrust from the sails on their one remaining mast on the lowerside, as the ticks swarmed in the rigging, trying to make repairs. The canine derived Guldur ‘curs’ were the definition of ‘doggedly determined.’

    On the enemy’s upperside there was still a full compliment of masts, but the sails on two of them had to be slacked to balance the thrust. The enemy was feverishly working on a jury lower mainmast but their repairs had not progressed as far as the Fang’s.

    Fielder had come up to join Melville and Broadax on the upper quarterdeck. Broadax’s battle station was with her marines beside the upper quarterdeck, and it was normal for her to move over and join the captain.

    “Just for the record, sir,” said the first officer quietly, “I recommend against this.”

    “Noted,” replied Melville. “So noted.”

    Broadax just chuckled and twirled her ax, while her monkey capered atop her helmet.

    “How do you intend to go at her, then, sir,” said Fielder resignedly.

    “I’ll tell you, but I want Hans to hear this as well.”

    Then he called up to the sailing master in the rigging, “Mr. Hans, if you have a moment?”

    In seconds Hans slid down a backstay, landing with a gentle thump. He and his monkey spit tobacco juice over the side and he said, “Aye, sir?”

    Gesturing at the enemy Ship Melville said, “We’ll go at her and blast away any scrap of sail on the lowerside that can still give her steerage. After that we’ll pound the hell out of her from one side until she bleeds from her gunports. Then we’ll blast her some more, getting closer and giving her plenty of canister and grape after we’ve dismounted her guns. I intend to be sure that we’ve pounded her to a bloody pulp. We’ll hammer her as best as we can without sinking her into three-space, and then we’ll board.”

    “Well, sir, if it must be done, then I certainly approve of doing it that way,” said Fielder.

    “Aye, sir,” agreed Hans. “Thas my ideer of a fair fight.”

    “Damn straight,” agreed Broadax spinning her ax between her fingers like a profoundly ugly majorette twirling her baton. For today’s work the Fang’s sweet mistress of the ax had selected a vicious, double-edged chopper with a thick blond haft that was three feet in length, properly rawhide wrapped, and a head that weighed 12 pounds. It had a nice, pointy, six-inch spike on the top, so it could slice, dice, chop and when necessary stab straight ahead.

    “Aye,” Melville replied. “Hans, we may be needing a jib and a spanker for rapid turning. Any problem with that?”

    “No, sir,” the sailing master replied. “The jury mizzenmast on the upperside shouldn’t ‘ave any trouble takin’ a spanker, and there’s no problem ta speak of anywhere else.”

    The ‘winds’ of two-space were constantly downward, so there was no use for jibs and spankers (sails that ran parallel to the Keel of the Ship) except to provide thrust for rapid turns when placed at the bow and stern of the Ship. The Fang had used these before in battle, and the old sailing master looked forward to using them again.

    With a big grin and another synchronized spit of tobacco juice, Hans added, “Proper use o’ a jib and a spanker’ll spin us on a dime so’s we can bring all our guns inta play. An’ that’ll show the damn curs what real sailin’s about. Them stewpid bastards made one hell of a mistake when they decided to come after us!”

    This last line was greeted with growls of approval from the quarterdeck crew. Then Fielder went to take command of the lower quarterdeck and Melville went to the lower bow gun. The Guldur’s remaining mast would go down soon, and then the bowsprit. After that the enemy would be stripped clean of sails on the lowerside, and largely immobile. The Fang could come at them from one direction, dismount the guns on that side, and hammer the Guldur with impunity. Or at least that was the plan.

    Again Melville waited by Cuddles, the lower bow gun, with his assortment of witnesses.

    “Shipmates,” Melville said, looking at the group with a wry grin, “it is possible that this might all have been a misunderstanding.” That was received with cynical smirks from most of his audience. “Now that we are safe, I intend to go back to the surviving Guldur and try to find out why they attacked us. I hope to be able to explain to them that we mean no harm, that this was all a mistake, and that I intend to offer assistance.”

    The response among his audience ranged from total confusion in the case of Asquith, to serene inscrutability on the part of Lady Elphinstone, to conspiratorial nods and winks among most of the remainder. Everyone except Asquith understood that their captain had the right to go and attack these Ships, but he was going out of his way to make it clear that he had given the enemy a second opportunity to avoid the fight.

    “However,” continued Melville, “if they insist upon attacking us, then we will defend ourselves.”

    They only had to wait a few minutes until, at maximum range the enemy’s bow guns opened fire.

    “Well,” drawled Westminster, “It was worth a try. But you know what they say, ‘Never pet a burning dog.’”

    “Aye,” replied Melville, “now everyone to their duty stations.”

    This time the enemy was not firing at their rigging. Previously the Guldur had aimed to slow them down, so that all four Ships could gang up on them. Now there were no other Guldur Ships in sight, and the enemy was aiming for their Keel, trying to make a kill shot. Fortunately they didn’t have Melville’s precision. For them it was a one-in-a-hundred chance... but they did have a chance. Everyone aboard the Fang knew that death could come for them this day.

    Every heart was pounding with fear and anticipation. On the upperside the first enemy shot was low. A second later the shot from the enemy’s lowerside smashed into the hull. The Fang reverberated from the impact of the big 24-pound ball and the deck shuddered beneath their feet.

    The captain returned fire with Cuddles, and the battle was on.

    Melville and Cuddles were able to make steady hits on the Guldur’s remaining mast. The best the enemy could do was to put about a quarter of their shots into the Fang’s hull, but each hit made the big Ship ring like a gong, and each strike of that gong could be their death knell.

    On the upperside Mr. Barlet, the master gunner, was working with Sudden Death to slam cannonball after cannonball into the enemy hull. Barlet was intentionally keeping the ball high. He wanted to avoid making a kill shot into the Guldur’s Keel, and there was no real value in hitting the rigging since the enemy would – hopefully – soon be dismasted on the other side. Barlet wasn’t out to dismast or sink the enemy Ship. His goal was to dismount the enemy’s bow gun and kill their crew. The huge 24-pound cannonballs were deadly, but the real slaughter was caused by the splinters of wood that fountained out like shrapnel as each ball punched through the enemy hull.

    But the exchange was not all one sided. Periodically the enemy did the same thing to the Fang that Barlet was doing to them, as cannonballs and splinters took their toll on Melville’s beloved Ship and crew.

    “Capt’n!” interrupted a young Ship’s boy in squeaky excitement. He scurried across the deck, skipping over gun tackles and flaked halyards like a rabbit as Melville waited for the sweating crew to slam Cuddles back into battery. “Chips sez ever’thin’s okay so far! Nuthin’ we can’t handle ‘e sez. The wurst of it is that a cannonball destroyed some o’ the support structures in the surg’ry.”

    “Damn,” Melville replied. “We need the surgery up and working. Tell the damage control parties to make that a top priority until I say otherwise, and continue to keep me informed. And in the future you will refer to the Ship’s Carpenter as Mister Tibbits. Is that clear?”

    “Aye, sir! Tell Mr. Tibbits the surg’ry’s top prior’ty. Keep you informed.”

    Melville had a painful memory of another bright-eyed, irrepressible boy bringing him a message from the carpenter, and a similar reproach given in the heat of battle for using the term ‘Chips.’ The young captain reflexively whispered a little prayer that this boy would meet a better fate.

    As the damage control team charged into the hospital the petty officer in charge was stunned by the carnage that met his eye. Mrs. Vodi appeared to have been buried under a veritable heap of esoteric medical equipment.

    “My gawd! Mrs. Vodi’s been hit! You men get that junk off of her!”

    What they saw was an old lady buried in debris. What she saw was a group of hormonally challenged young men with large, sharp instruments in their hands.

    "Put down that ax and back away slowly,” said Vodi calmly, as she looked up from amidst of The Rack, the device used to hold their patients during surgery. Surgery in two-space was often conducted without anesthesia, since complex chemicals quickly decayed and lost their properties. This much-feared apparatus was designed to hold a writhing, pain-wracked patient at varying heights and positions, while also strapping him down and keeping him still during an operation.

    The band of sailors pressed into service as a damage control team listened in dazed amazement as the Mrs. Vodi continued. “You take care of bracing up that bulkhead there. I’ve got this repair under control and I know better than to underestimate the power of stupid men in large groups. You boys think ‘cause you’re guys that you're automatically good with tools, but trust me, it isn't so. When you master the one you were born with we'll talk about letting you get your hands on other stuff."

    On the other end of the surgery Lady Elphinstone was operating on a sailor who had a large splinter in his leg. Vodi’s tirade kept her patient distracted from his own agony, while the surgeon simply sighed resignedly, with a long-suffering shake of her head.

    To add to the situation, the Ship’s cats were all mewling and grumbling plaintively from the corners and under the beds. It was bad enough when the Fang’s big guns fired and the Ship shuddered. But then cannon balls began to punch through the hull, making the Ship ring like a great gong as the deck planks bucked. The cats quickly climbed up the scale from upset and cross, to peeved, petulant, vexed, piqued and nettled. And they were just about to work their way right up to irate, angry and mad; thankyewverymuch. After all, just what part of ”meow” don’t you understand?

    “Now git away,” Vodi continued. “You don’t want to mess with me. We have ultimate power. We’re medical folk. We can cut your clothes off, buddy.” Then she continued in a muttering monotone as she conducted her repairs, “Ask the average male if he’d rather be shot at or have a trouserectomy? Ya know what he’d pick. That’s real power.”

    Then Melville dropped the enemy’s final mast. With each shot they drew nearer. The next two shots dropped their bowsprit, and the Guldur Ship lay almost completely dead in the water. With three more shots he dismounted the enemy’s bow gun. The crew cheered as the enemy cannon flipped in the air. Melville rolled off the gun, turned to Cuddle’s gun captain and said, “I’m going to see how they’re doing on the upperside. You give ‘em hell here. Just be sure not to hit them in the Keel. We’ve worked too hard to capture these bastards. All your Shipmates will be seriously pissed at you if sink them,” he added with a laugh.

    On the upperside Mr. Barlet had focused on the enemy’s bow gun as they drew closer, and he had succeeded in dismounting the gun on this side as well. Now the battle had become a matter of maneuvering to stay directly off the enemy’s defenseless bow. By putting up scraps of canvas on the lowerside the enemy could still turn slowly. The Fang had to maneuver to deal with this possibility, and Melville moved to the upper quarterdeck to be prepared for rapid maneuvers. At the quarterdeck he met Hans, who had remained in command of the upperside while Melville fired the guns. Broadax was also there in her usual position, where she could watch the big picture and keep an eye on her marines.

    “Hans, I want you to remain in command here. I’m going to the lower quarterdeck where I can watch and anticipate any jury sails or jibs the enemy tries to put up to turn their bow away from us. I think they’re going to get tired of what we’ll be feeding them.”

    “Aye, sir,” Hans said with a wolfish grin and Broadax growled her agreement. “Ya know, cap’n, they can get a smidgen of steerage way by putting up sail on the upperside. Even without a balancin’ sail on the oppersite side, a little bit won’t tip ‘em, and they’ve still got three good masts on this side. The trick is, anythin’ they do without an equal thrust on the other side ‘ll be real slow an’ sluggish like, so we should have lots a’ warnin’.”

    “Got it,” said Melville. “You sound off over the voice tubes and let me know if they’re up to anything on this side. Meanwhile, when we get within rifle range of them I want you to turn us to start hammering them with the red broadside and our riflemen.”

    “Aye, sir,” Hans nodded.

    “We’ll be slipping the two cutters on the lower deck over the greenside. Without any masts on the lowerside I don’t think the Guldur can have anyone high enough to see us doing that, and we’ll keep the cutters’ masts stepped so they should be hidden behind the Ship on the upperside. I’m going to put boarding parties in the cutters. We’ll approach them bow to bow on the redside, and then board above and below from the Fang. Lt. Broadax, I want you to take the lower boarding party, I’ll take the upper.” She nodded and snarled her happy agreement as the captain continued. “The two cutters will stay out of sight, towed behind the Ship with their masts stepped. When the boarding parties have the enemy’s attention, the cutters will swing around both flanks and take their upper quarterdeck.”

    Melville’s commands had been given loudly, so the entire quarterdeck crew knew the plan. As he headed down the ladder to the gundeck he was met by Lt. Archer, who reported to the captain with a grin that nearly split his face.

    “Permission to lead the boarding party, Sir! I just thought of a crushing remark to make to a Guldur and I'd like to deliver it personally.”

    “Lt. Broadax and I will be heading up the boarding parties, lieutenant,” Melville replied. “You may lead the force coming from the cutters. Send one cutter around each side in a pincher movement, with boarding parties on the upperside. The cur commander should be on the upperside quarterdeck. The plan is to hit them from all sides at once. Everyone got that?”

    “Aye sir!” replied Archer. “Cutters to swing around and hammer the upper quarterdeck from both sides. You hold ‘em by the nose and we’ll kick ‘em in the ass!”

    “Aye!” added Broadax with glee. “Hit ‘em frum ever’ direction an’ they’ll drop like a dockside hooker’s drawers. Personally, I wouldn't bet my hairy pink hind end on the theory, but it’ll be fun tryin’.”

    “Good enough,” said Melville with a laugh. “Lt. Archer, I’m counting on you to wait until we have them well and truly occupied in the bows, and then move like lightning to their quarterdecks. You step lively now, you hear me? When you make your move you must be fast so that they don’t get a chance to fire one of those 24-pounders at you on the way by. I want you to personally defeat whatever cur is in command on the quarterdeck so their Ship will accept you as commander. Their doctrine is like ours, and the senior cur should be on the upper quarterdeck. It’s important that you kill their commander, or personally take his surrender.”

    “Aye sir!” Archer responded, his eyes sparkling with pleasure as he realized that he would command their prize. “I’m to take out whatever cur is in command of the upper quarterdeck, and take command of the Ship.” Then he added with s cocky grin, “And a wise choice, if I may say so, sir!”

    “Well, you’re of damned small use here!” replied Melville. His face seemed to be wrestling with his mouth as he tried to suppress a laugh. “And try not to get yourself killed in the process,” he added. “Remember: incoming fire has the right of way, there’s no such thing as a fair fight, and I need you to take command of the prize. And take Mr. Hayl as a messenger."

    “Aye, sir!”

    As Lt. Archer headed off he heard the captain give a separate set of orders to Hans and Ulrich. It had something to do with the lower jollyboat, but Archer was not paying too much attention.

    On his way past Hayl he looked at the young middie with an insane grin on his face. It seemed to Hayl’s confused mind that there were a lot of those grins going around. “I’ll be leading the boarding party that comes from our boats,” Archer said. “The captain says for you to come with me as a messenger. Just stay right behind me, try to keep out of the fighting, and do exactly what I tell you.”

    The redside gun crews crouched motionless. Each gun captain was glaring down the barrel of his cannon. Then the Ship turned her redside to the enemy and, above and below, the redside broadside began to crash into the enemy bow. On the upperside, where the enemy still had their masts standing, the gun crews paid particular attention to the yardarms and rigging, sending broadside after broadside of grapeshot and canister, which sent shotgun-like blasts of smaller shot to sweep the Goblan ‘ticks’ from the rigging.

    Fang’s redside railing was lined with a seething mass of warriors firing cannons and muskets at their foe. The enemy Ship was badly crippled, but the battle was far from over. The Fang’s cannons roared, Guldur muskets cracked their defiance, and death was in the air.

    On the enemy Ship the toll was horrendous. Blood overflowed the decks and began to wash over the sides faster than the white Moss could soak it up. It was as if the Ship herself was bleeding, and not her crew.

    Melville, his Ship and his guns felt fierce, feral satisfaction when he saw that blood. Better you than us, you bastards!

    They had been in almost continuous combat for over eighteen hours now, and the prolonged fight had taken its toll on Cuthbert Asquith XVIII. The little citizen of Old Earth was just a passenger, so no one expected him to fight. But they were pleased when he could provide them with a welcome diversion.

    “This is insane!” cried Asquith, shaking with terror as he lay curled up in a ball in a corner of the quarterdeck. “What is the difference between this and insanity!?”

    Crouching next to him, using the railing as a support for his rifle, was Josiah Westminster, a ranger and one of the Ship’s crack rifle marksman, who was picking off enemy leaders with supernatural accuracy. His fellow ranger, Valandil, was doing the same on the lower quarterdeck. A team of sailors and Ship’s boys were ramming balls down the barrels of the muzzleloading, two-space rifles and handing them to the ranger as fast as he could aim and fire.

    “The difference between battle and insanity?” repeated Westminster thoughtfully, looking over his shoulder at Asquith. “Is this a trick question?”

    “No!”

    “Well,” the ranger drawled, looking back at the enemy and squeezing off a careful shot, “just off-hand then, ah'd hope that with insanity the scenery is better.” On the enemy quarterdeck, nearly 200 yards away, a Guldur officer spun down with a scream.

    Then one of the Ship’s boys who was helping to load rifles for the ranger farted loudly – a normal fear reaction. Or maybe it was just the chili-mac they’d had for dinner.

    “Hmmm. Your voice is changing,” said Westminster, “but your breath still smells the same.”

    Enemy musket balls were rattling off the deck like pebbles. One of them punched through the head of a sailor who was loading a rifle, spewing brains and blood out the back of his skull. The unfortunate sailor’s monkey had been distracted, reaching low with its belaying pin to block a bullet that would have taken out its master’s kidney. Now the little creature wailed in sorrow and despair as the sailor slumped to the deck.

    For Asquith that was the final straw. He promptly lost bowel and bladder control, and sat huddled in shame and humiliation in the corner.

    “They say that reindeer emit an odor to warn the herd of danger,” said Westminster with a friendly grin as he handed off an empty rifle and grabbed another. “Ah’ll bet it smells a lot like that.” The team of loaders around him didn’t miss a beat as their comrade died, barely bothering to wipe the gore from their faces as they focused intently on their urgent task of loading rifles for the ranger.

    “Oh God, go ahead and rub it in,” said Asquith. “I’d expect you bastards to kick a man when he was down.”

    “No, jist the opposite, mah brother,” the ranger replied, squeezing off another shot and smiling as yet another enemy leader spun down. “Hooah,” said Westminster with quiet satisfaction. His monkey was perched on his shoulder, gibbering in bloodthirsty satisfaction as it watched its master’s shot strike home. The ranger’s dog was sitting next to him, and it echoed the monkey’s glee with a happy bark.

    Then Westminster continued, with a friendly glance over his shoulder at Asquith as he grabbed yet another rifle, speaking in a clear, calm voice that carried across the quarterdeck. “Ah want you to know how common that is. It happens to lots of folks in combat. Don’t you worry ‘bout it, none, and don’t you ever let anyone else give you any grief about such matters. Those who’ve been there, they understand. Let me tell you the tale of Captain Bravo.”

    Then, to Asquith’s amazement, as Westminster cooly aimed and fired a steady stream of deadly rifle fire at the enemy, while the battle raged all around them, the ranger calmly told his tale.

    “Captain Bravo was a famous marine officer...”

    “Oh lord, here we go,” said the marine sentry on duty on the quarterdeck, as he fired off a shot and then shook his head in mock dismay. The sailors on the quarterdeck all grinned. There was nothing they loved more than a good marine joke.

    “One day Captain Bravo’s ship was attacked by a pirate ship,” the ranger continued, pressing off another shot, “and he called to his men, ‘Bring me mah red coat!’ Then he put on his red jacket and proceeded to lead his men bravely and defeat the enemy.”

    The ranger’s firing and loading never stopped. On the gundeck Fang’s cannons thundered with an unwavering, unrelenting cadence of death. The sailors at the wheel never departed from their careful attention to their duty. In the rigging above them more sailors were standing by to adjust sail. And every man stood ready to respond instantly to the orders of their commander, Captain Melville, who stood at the rail beside Lt. Fielder, with a grim smile and a keen eye to the big picture. But even as they took note of the myriad, life-and-death details of taking their Ship into battle, even as their friends fell dead and wounded around them, the Fangs listened with rapt attention while Westminster spoke, punctuating his tale with a constant stream of deadly rifle fire.

    “Later they were attacked by four pirate ships. Again Captain Bravo called out, ‘Bring me mah red coat!” and then he led them into victory against overwhelming forces. Finally his men asked him, ‘Captain Bravo, tell us, sir, why do you ask for your red coat before battle?’

    “Captain Bravo replied boldly, ‘So that if ah am struck in combat you will not see the blood, and will not lose heart by knowing that ah am wounded!’ Well, you can bet that his men were mighty impressed by that!”

    The ranger continued to fire as he spoke, like a clockwork macine, never missing a beat or a shot.

    “A few days later the ship was attacked by ten pirates! So the men all waited expectantly for Captain Bravo to call for his red coat. Then he stood up bravely, and in a clear voice called out, ‘Bring me mah brown pants!’”

    Asquith looked on in amazement as everyone within ear shot of the ranger burst out laughing. H.M.S. Fang was a crack Ship, with very high morale, and now their morale rose just a notch higher, each man a bit more confident and certain of himself, knowing that they could jest in the face of death.

    “Damn! That’s funny!” said one sailor, almost hysterical with a strange mix of laughter and tension.

    “Wit is a ranger’s secret weapon,” replied the buckskin clad Westminster. “If we weren’t funny, smart, and damned good looking, we’d just to be marines in sensible clothing.”

    Captain Melville’s young dog, Boye, was whimpering beside his master, in contrast to the ranger’s dog who seemed to be eagerly anticipating the coming boarding operation. Every fiber of Westminster’s dog, Cinder, communicated the pure joy of a good hunting dog watching his master pull the shotgun down on a crisp, fall morning. While the captain had to periodically reach down and pat Boye reassuringly as the young dog quivered and huddled against him.

    The two dogs also had monkeys on their backs, echoing the attitudes of their hosts. Cinder’s monkey was eagerly intent upon the coming battle, while Boye’s monkey trembling in fear.

    Westminster was plying his steady stream of unrelenting death upon the enemy, with his monkey and dog watching and supporting eagerly, and a cloud of loaders handed him a continuous supply of muskets. The enemy was firing back, but at this range their musketry was mostly ineffectual, while the ranger’s shots struck home with remarkable consistency.

    Then the ranger looked over at Captain Melville’s dog and said, with mocking affection, “If you were shorter and longer you'd make a good dachshund.”

    The dog looked over at him and cocked its head.

    “You know why? 'Cause you're such a weenie! Yer a weenie dog! A wimpy, weenie dog!” The dog actually seemed to look embarrassed.

    “You see that dog?” the ranger continued, turning to Asquith between shots. “Everyone expects a big, tough dog like this, from a great line of warrior dogs, to be fierce. He’s the son of my dog here, you know. But the truth is, even though he’s got most of his growth, he’s still a pup. He’s not even two years old, and he’ll be skittish and uncertain until he grows and experiences more. Don’t judge the dog by the pup, and don’t judge the warrior by the recruit. We all need to grow. Give yourself that opportunity to learn and grow. As long as you live, forgive yourself for the bad days, learn from the good days and,” he concluded, putting a bullet in the head of an enemy officer for emphasis, “git on with life while you have the opportunity.”

    Lt. Archer was on the lower gun deck, getting the cutters over the greenside. Archer had picked Petty Officer Bernard Hommer to serve as his senior NCO in this attack, and the two of them were giving out commands and instructions to their boarding party faster than young Midshipman Hayl could understand them.

    Nothing seemed to make sense to Hayl. He just stood, gobsmacked by events and distracted by details. It was as though he were looking at a fantastically detailed painting. Hayl was struck by Archer’s elegant red goatee and sideburns. And he observed that, unlike most sailors, Petty Officer Hommer kept his curly blond hair long and his locks were like a golden helmet as the two young warriors laughed together. The little middie was strangely touched by the beauty, the vigor and the vitality of these two young men as they prepared for battle.

    Finally Archer looked over his shoulder at Hayl, who was obediently staying right behind the lieutenant, and asked, “Are you ready?”

    Suddenly a memory from a childhood book came back to him. “Help Mister Wizzurd!” said Hayl with a weak grin and a feeble attempt at bravado, “I don’t want to be a navy midshipman any more!”

    “Haha! That’s the spirit,” replied Archer with a wink. “Come on a-long!” he sang as he scrambled down into the cutter “Come on a-long, with Ell Tee Archer’s rag-tag band! Come on a-long! Come on a-long! We’re the finest band in the land!”

    It all seemed like a bad dream. Just a few hours ago they were sailing peacefully through such incredible beauty, enjoying a pleasant pistol match on the lower quarterdeck, and now his world was filled with death and fear. Like so many young boys across so many centuries, Hayl found himself thinking of his mother, his family and his home, wondering how he got here, and wondering if he would ever see home again.