Private Jarvis had been mauled by an ape in the last battle. He’d recovered enough to be released for duty. Now here he was again, with musket balls bouncing around him and wood splinters flying into his exposed flesh. Sergeant (oops, Lieutenant) Broadax might enjoy this stuff, but he’d never been so miserable in his life. At least the apes didn’t shoot at you. Once again his bladder control was failing and “leg sweat” was darkening his trousers. He felt his bowels loosen and it was all he could do to maintain control of his sphincter.
In training they’d been told about a survey of combat veterans in World War II, back on Old Earth in the twentieth century. About half the veterans who saw intense frontline action admitted to wetting themselves in combat. In the same survey almost a quarter of these combat veterans admitted to messing themselves. Jarvis was one of many combatants since then whose cynical response to that data was, “Hell, all that proves is that the rest were liars.”
Up in the rigging, it was important not to look too strong. To accomplish this, many of the Westerness sailors were hiding, packed in the crow’s nests. The rest were firing rifles. In two-space, loading and firing was much easier. No need for powder here. A little Keel charge plugged the breech of each barrel. Insert two minié balls into the double-barreled muzzle, drive them home with the double ramrod, re-set the ramrod beneath the barrel, touch the Keel charge at the base of the barrels with your thumb, and “Crack!” the minié ball slammed forward.
The white, Elbereth Moss–coated Keel charges of the muskets and pistols were much smaller than those of the cannon. When you touched them off there was a small sense of sentience, like a purring cat.
On the upper quarterdeck Melville’s job was made much easier by the effect of Kestrel’s grapeshot on the Goblan in the upper rigging. The enemy was having trouble fine-tuning their sails, so they simply dropped all sails and let the Westerness Ship board, just as she pleased. Just where he wanted. If the Kestrel wasn’t so obviously crippled, with her mainmast shattered, the Guldur might have feared that she would try to trick them with some maneuver. But under the present circumstances it was obvious that they could only be coming to board. And that was just fine with the curs.
As they drew near, it became obvious that the boarding would come off as planned. Melville called a final command, “Let fly the sheets!” Once upon a time, in the old, wet navy, that meant to release the bottom half of the sails. Then the sails could “fly” in the wind, without providing any more forward momentum. While sailing the endless seas of Flatland this command still meant to release the bottom half of the sails, but now the result was that the constant downward “wind” of two-space made the sails hang loose, straight down, so that forward momentum ceased.
The quartermaster’s mate echoed the command through the voice tube to the lower quarterdeck so that the sails would be equally trimmed on both sides. This prevented any chance of “tipping” which could lead to “sinking.” In the rigging, above and below, the sailors released the sails that were giving forward thrust. Their headway quickly dropped off, and the quartermaster used the rudder to fine tune the final approach.
Melville left control to the quartermaster, grabbed a double-barreled pistol in each hand and ran to the bow to lead the boarding party. Both his monkey and the eery calm still clung to him. Sweet as kiss-my-hand, the two Ships moved toward a gentle meeting, right where Melville wanted.
Lieutenant Fielder sat out in Fatty Lumpkin, watching the Ships pull together. “The bastard,” he muttered to himself. “The goofy, gonzo, poetry-prating, prat bastard. He might actually pull this off. He might just do it. Come on, you bastard.”
Fielder moved down to where the deck was close to the plain of Flatland. He lay on his side and stuck his head in, like you might dip your head into a pool of water. He held one eye above and one below Flatland, which permitted him to see both the upper and lower portions of each Ship. Anyone other than a sailor would be driven to distraction, if not insanity, by the operation. But for someone who had spent his childhood and teen years as a midshipman it was a normal procedure.
From this position Fielder could see the comparative lack of sailors and marines on the lower side. And that mad, demented, berserker Broadax stood in the lower bows waving her silly hatchet, glaring out from beneath the obligatory iron Dwarrowdelf helmet. On the upper side the crow’s nests were crowded and the bow was packed with marines.
Melville, the damned fool, had left the quarterdeck and was moving to the front of the marines on the upper deck. A single blue jacket in a sea of red, showboating as he waved two big, double-barreled pistols in the air. All sails hung free on both Ships, and they coasted gently together. Kestrel’s upper guns were blazing away at the Guldur’s upper rigging. Her lower guns were hammering the enemy’s lower guns. If only they could prevent a blast from those big guns that would shake the Kestrel’s Keel loose.
“Come on, you bastard. Come on.” For the first time in many days, hope began to kindle in Fielder’s heart. “You know,” said Fielder to no one in particular, “when trouble arises and things look bad, there’s always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Very often, that individual is quite mad.”
Down in the lower gundeck, as they approached the Guldur, red bow to red bow, Mr. Barlet got one last shot off with the red bow chaser. <
Stopping a gun from loading is really not too difficult. Stopping a loaded gun from firing is far more difficult. Good as he was, Barlet and his gunners weren’t able to stop one of the enemy’s guns from firing. Just as they drew together with the enemy, the huge cannon fired.
“CH-DOO-OOM!!!” The Kestrel shuddered from stem to stern. Her severed mainmast shuddered and swayed as it hung in the rigging. The butt end of the shattered mast ground into the decking. Those with their feet or hands in contact with the Elbereth Moss felt their Ship groan in agony and effort.
Down in the hold Mr. Tibbits moaned in pain as he held onto the shards of the Keel, lending his spirit and soul to that of his Ship. He was using his body as a living conductor to link the sundered pieces of the Keel. The soul of his dying Ship ran through him.
The blast tore through the hull in the lower red bow and came out the lower green bow. The shot was devastating, but it didn’t touch the Keel. Kestrel, the faithful Ship that had served the men of Westerness for over a century, was able to hold on for a few minutes more.
Melville raced across the fo’c’sle to join the marines waiting patiently in the upper bow. All around him men lay still in hiding, beneath heaps of sails and ropes, and inside the phony cutter. Most of them clutched double-barreled muskets with fixed bayonets. Random musket balls from the enemy’s rigging punched through their cover and hit some of the sailors lying beneath, wounding many of them, killing some. But there was never a sound or a twitch that would give them away as they lay in hiding, bleeding and dying.
Melville leapt over and around many of them, stepping on a few. Again there was no sound from them. A strange, awesome and powerful joy was building in him. He’d abandoned all options but one. His plan was working, and now it was time to kill.
His monkey slipped down the back of his jacket, down his pant legs and onto the deck as Melville moved to the forefront of the boarding party. He was relieved to see the little creature get out of harm’s way, but now he was worried that it might be left on board the Kestrel when she sank. This worry was relieved and the original concern returned when the monkey scampered up his back with a wooden belaying pin clutched in its upper two paws. The marines around Melville grinned and cheered at the little monkey’s mock ferocity as it waved the belaying pin in the air above the young captain’s head.