“Mr. Petreckski says that there is adequate supply of water and food, even if some of the curs’ chow might not be to our liking.”
“Good.” One less problem to worry about. They’d brought the cutters over with full water barrels and lots of food, but it wouldn’t have been sufficient if there wasn’t an adequate supply already on the enemy Ship.
“And the surgeon has the wounded in the lower quarterdeck cabin. All wounded from ashore have been brought aboard and our dead have been buried. Lady Elphinstone insisted that we not wake you up, so I proceeded with the burial.” No apology there. Just a statement of fact. Overall, Fielder’s actions and his demeanor were about as good as Melville could have asked for. Indeed, a compliment was in order.
“Well done, Daniel. Well done. Now I’m going to go ashore. I’ll be right back.” Fielder nodded and Melville left.
He was lowered onto Broadax’s World in a bosun’s chair; then he walked down to the graves. It was a blur of pain, both physical and emotional. McAndrews stood beside him. Melville dropped to his knees before the graves of his shipmates. So many, many graves. God, if he could only stay drunk with combat. Duty. He’d done his duty. A dirty, four-lettered word. Like kill. Like hell. Like damn.
It was raining. The new graves were slick mounds of wet earth. The graves of those killed by the apes already had grass sprouting from them. Young boys and old salts rested here. Some he knew well, many he didn’t.
Melville generally disliked poetry that didn’t rhyme. Somehow it struck him as cheating. But if that was so, then Walt Whitman cheated and got away with it. Privately, with only McAndrews and a small guard of marines there, Melville said Whitman’s benediction upon his friends.
“A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me
with full hands . . .
I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord . . .
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut
hair of graves.
“Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts
of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have
loved them . . .
It may be you are from old people, or
offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mother’s laps.
“What do you think has become of the young
and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women
and children?
“They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death . . .
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”
Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck. They were moving out toward Stolsh space to warn them of the vast, slow moving Guldur fleet that was approaching. He’d sent Fielder and the middies to bed for four hours. Each of the sections also bedded down everyone they could, keeping only a skeleton crew on duty. For four hours Melville stood on the quarterdeck of his Ship (his Ship!) and rejoiced. He forced himself to eat and drink. His body ached. His soul ached, but the naval officer that was his core, his Keel, was rejoicing.
Above him the off-white sails were like clouds blocking the view of the starry heavens. The mizzenmast, mainmast and foremast all had three sails spread. Beneath the sails he could see the bowsprit pointing the way toward their navigation mark. Beneath the bowsprit another sail was spread.
There was little for him to do as he watched the sand trickle out for four turns of the hourglass. Every hour the glass was turned and they calculated their speed by the age-old process of casting the log. He wanted to test the new guns, but not now. He wanted to play with the sails and rigging, but not now, not with this skeleton crew. It seemed that every living creature who wasn’t on duty was sleeping. Mostly he listened to the beautiful distant music, the song of Flatland, and just . . . was.
In four hours Fielder relieved him, the skeleton crew was rotated, and the men continued to sleep. Melville made a short visit to the hospital, where Elphinstone and Vodi escorted him as he visited the wounded.
Heavy gravity could be deadly to injured men, so it was vital to get them as far up above the plain of Flatland as reasonably possible. So they’d put the hospital in the cabin below the lower quarterdeck. The great windows in the stern looked out on the beautiful constellations of two-space, which was a balm to the soul of every sailor. They lay stacked up on pallets, wrapped in blankets.
They were hurt so very badly, these warriors of his. Many had lost limbs and were now destined to live a maimed and crippled life. Some might not last through the day. In the corner, slightly out of the way, removed from the others, one sailor was gasping out his last few breaths. They were brave, but in the end they were so frail, so very fragile.
Too delicate is flesh to be
The shield that nations interpose
‘Twixt red ambition and his foes —
The bastion of liberty.
Their efforts had saved all their lives, had given them victory in battle against a base, cowardly foe. But somehow, at moments like this it all seemed so hollow. Melville found himself overwhelmed with affection for these men, these brave men, these noble warriors, this “delicate flesh” that had followed him into battle and made their victory possible.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
The men were in remarkably good spirits. They seemed to take particular joy from his monkey. Cats and dogs were there to keep them constant company, but they considered the monkeys to be a particular talisman of luck and success. Wild tales of the monkeys’ contribution to their battles were already circulating. Melville’s monkey seemed to take the cautious stroking and petting as its rightful due.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.
The hardest part was knowing that they would probably have to do it again. These men, of whom so much had already been asked, would have more to do. They would mend and heal their bodies, only to do it all again. Worse yet, their enemy could attack them at any moment, before they were healed, and these brave men would have to huddle helplessly in the hospital, where death could still find them.
His job was to protect them. How could he take them into harm’s way again?
And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.
Melville moved to the corner, where he knelt and held the hand of the dying sailor. It seemed like a very long time as the sailor shuddered out his last few minutes of life.
* * *
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Opened mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony!
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
He held the cold, dead hand for another moment, then let go, as Lady Elphinstone moved to cover the sailor’s face. The room was silent, dead silent, as her assistants removed the body.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
The warriors of Westerness dreaded burial in the cold vacuum of space. This body would be lovingly sewn into a sailcloth bag, and then lowered on a line into the “sea,” into interstellar space. Sometimes there was a whole “stringer” of these strange, sad, frozen fish, to be hauled up and buried upon landfall.
The sailors gave a few last loving strokes to his little monkey. Others held their dogs and cats, pups and kittens, nurturing and treasuring the lives in their hands, as death went past. There were a few last words. Inconsequential words, comforting, supporting words. Then he left. He went to his cabin and wept . . . and slept.
It was eight hours later when he awoke. Most people go through a kind of panicky, preconsciousness checklist upon awakening. “Who am I?” “Where am I?” (And, upon occasion, “Good god, who is she?”) Perhaps this is because they exist in a miasma of constant doubt and dread. Doubt and fear were what propelled them through life.