I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth
are long, long thoughts.'
"My Lost Youth"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
By the end of the 20th Century, the art of conversation had pretty much died on Old Earth. A person from that toxic era probably could not have truly imagined the effects of a lifetime spent without TV, video games, movies on demand, and other forms of electronic entertainment. In the retro-culture of Westerness, true conversation was born anew. And aboard the H.M.S. Fang, among an intelligent, literate crew confined together for months, even years on end, conversation flourished as a cherished art form.
The art of conversation was not at all like someone from that decayed era of ancient Earth would probably have imagined it to be. It was filled with long companionable pauses. A full day might be spent pleasantly preparing bon mots and witty quips to present to one's peers at dinner. While conversation flowed within one group, a messmate would be lounging about, quietly reading a tattered old book. Another might be writing in a journal. Conversation and writing often involved long, detailed descriptions—it was Zane Grey rather than Louis L'Amour. (Although both of these classic Western authors were deeply beloved.) Sketching was a common pastime, and free time was often filled with in-depth classes, passing on skills and knowledge. Music and intricate crafts occupied many of the crew's free hours. So did long, pleasant card games. And contests.
Shooting contests were popular on the Ships of the Westerness Navy, and on this Ship, Sunday afternoon shooting matches were a favorite diversion.
In two-space there was no weather and no daylight—only eternal, splendid, star-spangled night. The days and weeks were tracked by carefully calibrated hourglasses. And the Ship's calendar indicated that this was Sunday afternoon.
Earlier this morning there had been Captain's Rounds, a thorough inspection of every nook and cranny for dirt, disrepair and disorder. With that solemn, Sunday ceremony completed to the captain's satisfaction, the afternoon could now be devoted to enjoyment.
Thus, while the captain and his first officer were on the upper quarterdeck observing the approaching Guldur Ships, most of the Fangs were gathered on the lower quarterdeck for a pistol match.
"There can be absolutely no doubt that females are the equal of men in battle when it comes to marksmanship," said Mrs. Vodi, the venerable surgeon's assistant, or lob-lolly girl. "There can be debate, and good people can disagree when it comes to other realms, such as swordsmanship, where physical strength comes into play, but this is a universally admired warrior skill and it is one area where the field is level."
Mrs. Vodi was patiently explaining this to Cuthbert Asquith XVI, in response to his query as to why she and Lady Elphinstone, the Ship's surgeon, were participating in the pistol match. The diminutive earthling had trouble understanding why anyone would participate in such a 'sport' but at least for the sailors, the marines and the Ship's two rangers, this was part of their job description. Mrs. Vodi stood in a dowdy black shift with her gray hair up in a bun, while Asquith wore the height of fashion in civilian cloths, with a snuff colored waistcoat over white breeches.
"God made all men equal," Mrs. Vodi continued, "but Mr. Colt made men and women equal. If you're willing to practice." With that she sent a stream of chewing tobacco over the rail into two-space for emphasis. ("Sppuutt.") Her toothless face looked to Asquith like a good-natured golden raison, and when she spit it was as though the raison had contorted up and ejected a seed. Her monkey, perched happily on her left shoulder, also spit a tiny stream of tobacco juice overboard ("Sppriitt"), in an impressive display of synchronized spitting.
Asquith could not help but look, in horrified fascination, as the two streams of brown juice arced out, joined together in midair, and sank into the vast dark blue plane of Flatland. Then it bounced back out once and disappeared forever into interstellar space.
"So," said Mrs. Vodi after unleashing her expectoratory exclamation mark, "there should be nothing but scorn for any female whose job might bring her into combat, if she doesn't willingly and constantly practice her pistolcraft.
"Weapons, particularly handguns, are critical, indeed indispensable, for any small person in neutralizing a size and strength disadvantage. Before there were firearms, our ancestors were routinely terrorized by bullies whose only justification was that they were big and hairy. There are fools in every era who would bring back those dark times. Whenever a culture returns to those days, whenever citizens are disarmed or women are told that they shouldn't learn to shoot, then it is women who suffer most. In view of that irrefutable fact, women, of all people, should master this skill."
Cuthbert Asquith XVI was a citizen of Old Earth who had chosen to make a foray into two-space, in order to see 'primitive, exotic worlds.' Nano-tech and bio-robotic implants were first-class tickets to a ghastly death upon entry to Flatland, because the strange, exotic realm of two-space was corrosive to high technology, and complex devices decayed quickly. Thus, most worlds were content to settle into a retro-culture environment, with technology remaining stable at levels which Earth had experienced prior to World War I.
Old Earth was a rare exception to the galaxy-wide retro-culture norm. Earth was a high-tech world teeming with billions of people, most of whom refused to give up their nanotechnology and bioengineered bodies to travel the galaxy. But Earth still had great power and influence within the star kingdom of Westerness. So, upon being contacted by the government of Earth, the Westerness foreign ministry had readily obliged by giving Asquith what seemed to be a safe billet in a small consulate on Ambergris.
Thus Cuthbert Asquith XVI had purged himself of all his implants and nano-tech, and arrived on the sleepy Stolsh world of Ambergris. Just in time for that world to be invaded in the opening stages of what was now known as The Great Two-Space War. A war that was still raging across that spiral arm of the galaxy.
Having experienced some of the excitement he thought he was seeking, and finding it not to his liking, Asquith escaped Ambergris aboard the H.M.S. Fang as the sole survivor of the Westerness Consulate on that unhappy planet. Now the little earthling was aboard the Fang enroute from Osgil to Old Earth, trying to figure out how he could politely escape from Mrs. Vodi's harangue on the responsibility to participate in pistol marksmanship training. It occurred to him to briefly fake some social malady, but God only knew what remedy the medico might force upon him.
"You know I'm not just responsible for the crew's medical welfare," Vodi continued. "I'm also trained and qualified to watch out for their emotional and psychological welfare.
Post-traumatic stress disorder, debriefings, psychology, counseling, and all that. In my training I learned that Dr. Sigmund Freud, in his Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis, discovered 'that a fear of weapons is a sign of retarded sexual and emotional maturity.' Well," she continued with a leer, "no one ever accused me of being sexually retarded! Heh, heh."
Whoop, whoop. Info overload, thought Asquith, looking at the ample, mature, matronly body of Mrs. Vodi. I really didn't need to know about that. Then he looked longingly over the railing at the deep, dark blue of two-space and thought, Just one quick leap and it will all be over. One jump, a brief instant of pain and I'll escape this insane asylum forever.
Mrs. Vodi saw him gazing intently over the side and said companionably, "It really is fascinating, isn't it. I never get tired of looking out at the splendid blue fabric of space."
"More like the ugly black floorboards of hell," muttered Asquith.
The competition had quickly weeded out the less able pistol shots in the Ship's crew, so that now only the Fang's best marksmen were firing off the greenside of the lower quarterdeck. Much of the rest of the crew was watching from the mainyard, the mizzenyard, and the railing along the greenside waist. The jollyboat had been moved out of the way and the competitors aimed at targets hung off the greenside of the Ship from the mizzen yardarm. The audience took great pleasure from the show as they engaged in betting and banter from the sidelines.
Luckily for Asquith, the number of competitors had dwindled to the point where Vodi's turn to shoot came quickly. As she moved to the railing and picked up one of the muzzleloading pistols that they used in two-space, Asquith happily slid out of range of Vodi's harangue and her tobacco juice. Only to be intercepted by yet another well-meaning crew member who felt it was his responsibility to educate the earthworm.
"Marksmanship is important to keep you alive in combat," said Lt. Buckley Archer, slipping smoothly in to replace Mrs. Vodi. Just a few short months ago the dapper young man with his bushy sideburns and elegant red goatee had been a midshipman, but the loss of their old Ship, the boarding and taking of the Fang, and the subsequent battles to escape the invading Guldur had slaughtered the Ship's officers to such a degree that young Archer had been given a field commission and was now serving as the Ship's second officer.
"If you are a good shot," Archer continued, "then you gain a key tactical advantage by opening up the ground between you and the threat. At arm's length, your opponent doesn't have to be good, he just has to be lucky. The better the shot you are, the more distance is your friend. As Lt. Fielder says, 'Distance can be our friend. But not if the other guy is a better shot than you. Then you can run, but you'll only die tired.'
"Our weapons are really very accurate, you know," the lieutenant continued. "The barrels in all of our muskets and pistols have rifling in them. And the musket balls and pistol balls we fire really aren't 'balls' at all. See," he said, holding up what looked like a misshapen lump of lead for Asquith to see, "they're bullet shaped, with a cavity in the back. It goes down the barrel easy, but when you fire it the cavity expands and grips the rifling in the barrel, making it damned accurate. But the gun is only as accurate as the one who shoots it, so you gotta practice!"
Asquith nodded politely. He was not sure which was worse: the mindless monotony of going off somewhere so that he could be alone, or the tedium of listening to the inane prattle of these barbarians. He reminded himself that a conversation, almost any conversation, was probably better than being alone with himself.
He could not understand these people. This week it was a pistol competition, next week a boxing match was planned. They seemed to be always looking for a fight—in a deranged, cheerful sort of way. If there was no one to fight, they fought each other. When they were all alone they probably punched themselves in the nose and shot themselves in the foot just to stay in practice.
"You know," Archer continued, "if there's danger, and you don't prepare, if you don't train for it, then your unconscious mind will let you know about it in your dreams. There are lots of different versions of the same basic message. For example, people who are into martial arts sometimes dream that their punches and kicks don't work. But people who have to go into combat with guns have dreams that their gun doesn't work. Bullets droop out of the barrel, bullets have no effect, gun jams, can't pull the trigger, can't find the gun, these are all different versions of the same thing. And you know what it means?"
"Um, that your dinner doesn't agree with you?" said Asquith.
"Ha! It could be that," the young lieutenant replied, his seemingly invulnerable sarcasm screens leaving him completely undeterred by Asquith's response, "but usually it means that you need to go train! See? Your unconscious mind knows that there is danger and it is worried that you cannot perform. So for most people, the only answer is to prepare! To train, and train hard!"
"Ah, I see. Does that make this annoying repetitive dream go away?"
"Usually. 'Cause, you see, the dream is your unconscious mind begging you to go train! Your unconscious mind is telling you that you are unconfident, and training builds confidence! As the Duke of Wellington said, 'No man fears to do that which he knows he does well.' Once I train, then I'm victorious in my dreams! And this, this competition, is great training, complete with an element of stress, and it's fun! And it's good entertainment for the whole crew."
"Well, thank you, lieutenant. If I ever have those annoying dreams, I'll know just what to do. I don't suppose you know what it means when you dream that you are in public with no clothes on? Do you think your unconscious mind is telling you to do the laundry?"
Archer just shook his head with a good natured grin and went to take his turn to shoot.
Asquith looked around at the group on the lower quarterdeck. Captain Melville, Lt. Fielder, and Lt. Broadax had gone to the upper quarterdeck after the lookout had spotted a sail on the distant horizon. Other than Mrs. Vodi and Lt. Archer, the remaining competitors were their two buckskin-clad rangers, Josiah Westminster and Aubrey Valandil; Mister Barlet, their master gunner; the Ship's purser, Brother Theo Petreckski, complete with brown robe and bad haircut; their surgeon, Lady Elphinstone, in a buttercup-yellow dress with a grass-green sash about her waist and her long golden hair braided behind her; a handful of red jacketed marines, including Gunny Von Rito and Corporal Petrico; and the captain's two bodyguards, Ulrich and Grenoble. With the sole exception of Asquith, everyone had a small, fawn colored, eight-legged monkey on his or her back.
Ulrich, the captain's vicious, deranged coxswain was shooting now, and the crew watched in amazement as the little sociopath fired his two pistols with blazing speed. Usually Ulrich spent his time nurturing his beloved pigeons, but a pistol match could draw him away from his obsession with his feathered friends. His shots were not always the most accurate, but the scoring was based on a complex combination of speed and accuracy, and Ulrich was lightning fast. Almost unbelievably fast, and fairly accurate in the process. And always there was that disturbing gleam in his stare, like the madness in a weasel's eye.
One of the few new crew members in a key position was Grenoble, a 'bodyguard' assigned to Captain Melville by the King of Osgil. The people of Osgil were Sylvan, like Lady Elphinstone, their surgeon. They were an ancient race of creatures who inhabited densely forested, low gravity planets, and the King of Osgil was as close to a 'High King' as the far-flung race of Sylvans would ever have. When the king of all Sylvans assigned you a bodyguard you didn't turn him down, but Grenoble was already causing tension with Ulrich. As the captain's coxswain, Ulrich was normally the captain's assigned bodyguard, and the pint-sized psychopath was becoming jealous of the Sylvan.
The Sylvan was Ulrich's polar opposite and they probably would have clashed even under the best of conditions. Grenoble was a tall, pure, haughty paladin, on loan from the King of Osgil's personal bodyguard. Ulrich, on the other hand, was a malicious killer, redeemed only by the fact that he was pitifully loyal to Melville. Other than that the only positive quality in the vicious little sailor was his apparent love and affection for the pigeons that he nurtured and raised on board.
Even their clothing was a study in opposites. Ulrich, festooned with pistols, knives and a vicious little short sword strapped to his hip, slouched against the rail in his dirty blue coat and canvas pants. While Grenoble bore a gleaming knight's sword at his side, ramrod straight and slender in the 'Crimson and Clover' of the Sylvan King's Own Regiment of Bodyguards: a short, hunter-green jacket over grass-green trousers, with scarlet braid and piping.
It was fascinating to watch the two compete. Ulrich was lightning fast while Grenoble was deadly accurate, and the antipathy between the two of them was palpable.
The Ship's remaining officers were Lt. Crater, Lt. Broadax, Mister Hans (their sailing master), and Mister Tibbits (the Ship's carpenter), all of whom had been eliminated early in the competition. With the exception of Lt. Broadax (who had gone to the upper quarterdeck with the captain and first officer) these officers were now lounging on the opposite side of the lower quarterdeck, watching the match from this privileged position while the rest of the crew had to crowd the yards or the railing at the Ship's waist.
The contest came to a sudden halt as the first officer returned from the upper quarterdeck and called out, "The fun's over, me lads. Four Guldur Ships have come to crash our party. Clear for action!"
Asquith stayed on the lower quarterdeck as the crew went into high gear, preparing the Fang for combat. The Ship was always as busy and crowded as a beehive. Except without the honey. And a lot more stinger. Now it was a beehive that had been kicked over. To the earthling's untutored eye the activity around him was a blur of crowded, noisy and confusing chaos, as everyone prepared the Ship for combat and moved to their battle stations. The Ship herself seemed to tremble with anticipation when a long earthquake tremor shook the decks as the massive 24-pounders were run out.
For Asquith it was a magical transformation from chaos to order. For the Fang it was a daily ritual that had been performed countless times in the past. But this time, once again, it was for real.
The guns were run out with great thunderous, squealing thumps, bulkheads were knocked down, and the decks were cleared for action. On both the upper and lower gundecks the usual clutter of cargo pallets, cages for livestock and poultry, and everything that could be disassembled was struck down into the hold, so that (with the exception of the Ship's boats) there should be a clean sweep fore and aft. Scuttle-butts full of fresh drinking water were centrally located with dippers hanging from them.
All hands were at their action stations. Ordinarily that would mean that the watch below would need to be roused, but they were already up for captain's rounds and then most of them stayed to watch the pistol match on the lower deck.
Actually it was no longer quite appropriate to speak of them all as 'hands.' They were not all human. Many of them were Guldur and, strictly speaking, they were . . . 'paws.' Then there was a small handful of the reptilian, semi-aquatic Stolsh, who might technically be considered 'claws.'
The Guldur on the Ships attacking them had hateful Goblan 'ticks' on their backs, working together with the Guldur pack masters to drive them into dark paths and evil purposes. The Guldur in the Fang's crew had been liberated from their ticks and pack masters when the Fang was boarded and captured. They were now trusted Shipmates and proud veterans of famous battles at the approach to Ambergris and the siege of Ai.
At some point in the distant past an ancient Ur species had seeded the galaxy with genetically similar stock. The Guldur were canine derived and were useless in the rigging. On Guldur Ships a cloud of Goblan (who appeared to be derived from baboons) did all the work in the upper rigging, but anywhere that a Guldur could put his hindpaws on a stable deck they served the Fang with distinction.
Up in the rigging a crew of crack Sylvan topmen stood easy. These expert sailors were a gift of the Osgil High King, in thanks for the Fang's service to the Sylvans and the Stolsh during the Guldur invasion of that part of their spiral arm. As you got higher up in the rigging the pull of gravity got less and less. The Sylvans were natives of vast forests on low gravity worlds, and they were natural topmen, capable of supernatural acrobatic feats in the low gravity fields high up in the rigging.
Besides the Guldur, the Sylvans, and a few Stolsh, the only other non-human member of their crew was Lt. Broadax, the Dwarrowdelf commander of their marine detachment. And then there were the monkeys. The monkeys. Their secret weapon. Their force multiplier. A secret weapon so secret, that even they didn't know how in the hell the critters reproduced!
The monkeys had adopted them on an alien world, and it was quickly discovered that the eight-legged beasties could block bullets. In combat the monkeys carried a wooden belaying pin, which they constantly waved around with amazing strength and speed in a seemingly bizarre, aimless fashion. After the battle the belaying pins were often found to be riddled and encrusted with blocked and deflected musket balls, and each wide-eyed crewman would sit down with 'his' monkey and try to find some special treat to give to the little creature, some favorite place to scratch it, as they cooed, "Goood monkey. Niiice monkey."
Every crew member and all of the dogs had a monkey, and each monkey now held a belaying pin. Since each monkey 'bonded' and became almost permanently attached to only one individual, be it man, Guldur, Sylvan or dog, it didn't need a name. Soon it was thought of as an extension of that personality and it became 'The Captain's monkey' or 'Broadax's monkey.' Even the 'bearer' of the monkey began to see it as a part of himself, therefore he tended to not even think of it at all, secure in its constant presence.
And so a crew of human, Guldur, Sylvan, Stolsh, Dwarrowdelf, monkeys, sentient alien cannons, and a feral, sentient Ship all stood ready for combat.
On the upper quarterdeck Lt. Broadax stood beside Melville. She had a cigar clinched in her teeth and her monkey, perched atop her helmet, also clutched a lit cigar in one upper hand and a belaying pin in the other. The monkey was taking periodic puffs off the cigar while flailing the 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. Broadax's people had evolved on high-gravity worlds and her heredity combined with her uniform and her nasty habit to make her a short, squat, bearded, red cloud of toxic cigar smoke.
Behind Melville was his coxswain and bodyguard, Ulrich. Ulrich's monkey emitted the same surly viciousness as its host and in addition to a belaying pin it was flipping a short dagger in the air.
Next to Ulrich was Melville's Sylvan bodyguard, Grenoble. Grenoble's new monkey was still young, holding a belaying pin in its two top hands while clinging to the Sylvan's shoulder with the remaining six hands. Grenoble kept looking askance at his monkey, not at all sure what to make of this creature that had appeared mysteriously and now seemed permanently attached to him.
A quartermaster and two mates stood at the wheel. Behind them was Hargis, Melville's clerk, standing by to time and record the battle. The remaining members of the quarterdeck crew were young midshipman Hayl, a marine guard, and a Ship's boy standing by to serve as a runner.
On the lower quarterdeck Fielder was in charge, complete with his own quartermaster team, a clerk's mate, a marine guard, and a midshipman. If anything happened to Melville, Fielder would assume command.
High up in the rigging the Sylvan topmen stood beside crack human topmen, with pistol and sword at their hips, ready to adjust sails, repel boarders, or attack into the enemy rigging. On the upperside old Hans stood with the topmen. On the lowerside the bosun did the same. Marine sharpshooters manned the crows nests. Gathered aft and beside the upper quarterdeck, Lt. Broadax's marines served as a ready reserve. In the same location on the lowerside Brother Theo and a handful of purser's mates stood with the two rangers, forming an additional reserve.
Their medical personnel had moved down into the hold. An operating table, consisting of sea chests lashed together and covered with tightly drawn sailcloth, was centrally located beneath an expanse of radiant white ceiling. In one well illuminated corner of the room was a much feared device known as 'The Rack,' consisting mostly of braces and leather-covered chains, designed to hold writhing, pain wracked patients in various positions during operations. Dressings and coil after coil of bandages sat beside a grim array of saws, retractors, scalpels, forceps, trephines, catlings and other mysterious torture devices.
Lady Elphinstone and Mrs. Vodi both wore freshly laundered white linen caps, sleeves and aprons and over their startlingly different buttercup-yellow and drab black dresses. More aprons were neatly folded and stacked close at hand, so they could quickly change aprons to avoid transferring infection from one surgery to the next. Elphinstone had her long blond braids pinned up and Vodi's gray hair was in its usual bun. Buckets and swabs waited in the corner, full of antiseptic and water to swab the decks when they became bloody, sand to spread on the slick wet decks, and ominous empty buckets to hold amputated limbs and body parts.
The cats had all gathered in the hospital, curled up in corners, peering out from beneath bunks, or sitting at Elphinstone and Vodi's feet, grumbling and mewling plaintively about the inconvenience of it all. They were making it clear that they were unhappy with the situation, and they were ready to take their complaints to the management, thankyewverymuch. meow.
Doc Etzen and Doc Brun, their two corpsmen, stood at the upper and lower hatches with their aid bags, ready to provide triage, immediate lifesaving medical attention, and to direct the evacuation of the wounded.
Roxy, the one-eyed old cook, stood by with her mates, ready to refresh the scuttle-butts and to act as litter-bearers. And old Roxy was a hell of a shot with a pistol and sudden death with her meat cleaver if push came to shove.
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.
In the rigging, on the quarterdeck, in the surgery, and in the hold, all was ready. But the battle would be won or lost by the guns and their crews. They were the deadly, destructive arm of the complex compound organism that was their Ship. The success or failure of the guns would mean the difference between continued life . . . or a cold, painful, lonely death, with their frozen lifeless corpses floating forever through interstellar vacuum.
Captain Melville had developed a strategy that played to the strengths of the Fang and her crew. And their great advantage, their edge over any potential opponent, was the tremendous accuracy of their 24-pounders when Melville was personally aiming the guns.
Gunpowder would only smolder in two-space. To make a pistol, a musket, or a cannon 'fire' a projectile you had to place a specially designed Keel charge at the base of the barrel, which protruded out from the back of the barrel like a glowing white nipple. A musket ball or cannon ball was rammed down the muzzle, and at the breech end of the barrel it lodged against the Keel charge. Two-space weapons didn't have or need a normal trigger. When the firer made physical contact with the 'nipple' of the Keel charge it generated a pulse of directed energy that blasted the projectile down the barrel. The Keel charge could be used repeatedly, and it actually got better with time.
The Keel charges on the guns were small versions of the large Keel that ran the length of the Ship and gave them the ability to exist in two-space. Like all Keels they had a coat of glowing white Moss on them and the Moss was sentient. Not only was the Ship alive, but the pistols, muskets and cannons in two-space also had a degree of intelligence. The firer could actually use the innate intellect of the gun to help direct the bullet or cannonball toward its target. Over time the gun captain and the gun became a team, developing a high degree of accuracy, like a horse and rider, or a hunting dog and a hunter learning to work together, forming a synergy, a gestalt that was greater than the sum of the parts.
The bigger the gun, the greater the intelligence. Pistols and muskets were barely sentient, sending an empathic 'purr' of pleasure and eagerness to the person who fired them. The 12-pound cannons were like puppies, sending a telepathic, dog-like yelp of fierce delight that registered clearly in the firer's mind. But the 24-pounders were something else entirely. Melville and his crew had boarded and captured the Fang, complete with her cannon. Later, when they were the ones manning the 24-pounders in combat, they were stunned by the bloodlust that emanated from these huge cannons when they were fired. A bloodlust that was a distant echo of the savage spirit of the Ship herself.
In one critical battle Melville had learned how to harness the savage malevolence of the cannon with the deadly computing power of the Ship. This was a technique that the Guldur had never developed, and the Fangs had gone out of their way to keep it a secret.
With few exceptions, only a Ship's captain was in true telepathic contact with his Ship. Melville had learned, almost by accident, how to use this telepathic contact with Fang, while firing the 24-pounders, to make a supernaturally accurate and deadly combination. In essence the young captain became a human circuit, an organic relay, between his Ship and the cannon, guiding, directing, and channeling the alien, malignant spirits of both the gun and the Ship into a fell, fey, and phenomenally accurate killing team.
In one way they were like a horse, a dog and a rider, all telepathically linked into a deadly killing team. From another perspective, Melville, his Ship and his 24-pounders could be viewed as a human, an alien AI, and a sentient alien gun, all acting as one, in a fierce, feral totality of extraordinarily accurate death and destruction.
Thus, the accuracy and power of the their 24-pounders when the captain was directing them gave the Fang a tremendous advantage in combat. Their other major strength was their ability in a boarding action. Melville's tactical creativity and leadership skills, his crew's ferocity and combat experience, his subordinate leaders' experience and competence, and their enemy's persistent inflexibility, all combined to give them an edge in a boarding operation. So, at close quarters Melville preferred boarding to battering, and at a distance he preferred the fine-work of exact, very carefully aimed gunfire. His crew knew this, and they prepared carefully for either eventuality.
The scene was the same on both the upper and lower main decks. The members of the gun crews were at their cannons, each man (or Guldur or Stolsh) in a place he knew intimately well, each with his own particular handspike, crow, ram, bed, quoin, and train tackle all neatly at hand.
Swords and pistols were in racks close to hand. Each gun crew was ready to swing into close combat at an instant's notice, acting as an organized squad under the command of their gun captain, either to repel boarders or to form a boarding party.
A supply of carefully selected and inspected round shot, canister and grape was standing by in the shot garlands beside each gun. The precision cannon fire that their captain intended to use required a glass-smooth round-shot, and the shot was always rusting, or it had small clumps of packing grease still on it. The job of chipping, cleaning and polishing the round shot was like cleaning a kitchen or sharpening a knife. It was a job that was never really completed, and now the gun crews were dedicating their attention to this task with renewed vigor.
The petty officers, midshipmen and officers stood out at intervals on the deck, blue-jacketed markers in the chain of command. The master 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.
To Asquith's uneducated eye it seemed as though the Ship had magically transformed itself in a brief instant of turmoil and motion. The commotion stopped, and suddenly there was perfect order. Assembled around their guns, spaced evenly in the rigging, and at their stations on the quarterdeck, the entire Ship was standing at the ready. Ready for battle. Ready to kill or be killed, with emphasis on the former and disdain for the latter.
Killing was what they did, and they did it well.
In the stern of the Ship, next to the upper quarterdeck, a red-coated marine detachment waited under the command of the huge Corporal Kobbsven. They would be the shock troops for any boarding action. Some of them were eager. Some were fearful. Many were resigned to their fate. And some were . . . uncertain.
"Corp'ral," asked private Dwakins, "wat's a wreckdum?"
Unfortunately, Dwakins had turned to the wrong person. When they were passing out brains and brawn, Kobbsven put both hands in the same bucket.
The redoubtable Corporal Kobbsven's mustache contorted, and his single eyebrow did the work of two (and it did it admirably well) scrunching together in an intense effort at concentration. Then, after a considerable (and apparently fruitless) effort to achieve a reasonable facsimile of intelligent thought, the corporal said, "It's vat we's goin' ta do ta dem bastards. Yah, yew betcha."