The team of Dwarrowdelf, rangers and dogs held the center, forming a living barricade, a reef of steel, flesh and fang that the stinking white wave of apes smashed into in futile fury. Around them, others also helped to stem the tide.
. . . And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only joy of battle takes
Him by the throat, and makes him blind.
Melville held his sword in his right hand. The swords of those who sail in Flatland were all straight, since the corrosive influence of that strange realm played the devil with curved surfaces. The influence of two-space also helped to keep their weapons deadly sharp. Melville didn’t remember drawing his sword. He’d tossed his pistols to the midshipmen for reloading, but he didn’t remember doing that either.
He was in the thick of battle now. Countless years of practice made every thrust and stroke go true without thought. Pistolcraft is a conscious skill, even at close range. Selecting, aiming and dropping a target takes careful control. But swordcraft is an unconscious skill. The hand has to move before the mind even thinks. Here again slow motion time and visual clarity kick in at odd moments.
Danger! Parry, thrust! His sword blade magically appears in a beast’s mouth. Without conscious thought it flicks back. With exquisite clarity he watches the sword tip slowly draw back a viscous strand of red. Danger! Parry, thrust. Again his blade magically impales an ape’s exposed chest and flicks back. Stimulus, response. Stimulus, response.
Here Petreckski, the purser, also made his mark. In the ordinary course of duty his job was to find whatever was of value as potential cargo at every stop. He was expected to be a master of many fields. Passengers, gems, creatures (and parts thereof), plants (and parts thereof), technology, writings, music, exotic food and spices, artwork, alien archeology and many others were all his responsibility.
His job was to survive and thrive anywhere, in the markets or wilds of any world. He was seminary trained, a monk, complete with brown robe and bad haircut. He was virtually useless with a rifle, but for personal defense he’d been trained extensively in mid- and high-tech close-range weapons, to include pistol- and sword-craft.
Petreckski wasn’t a strong man. Most of his development was in his mind, and he carried a few too many pounds on him. His sword slashes held little power, but his thrusts were precise and deadly. He was surprisingly nimble on his feet, and he danced in and out on the edge of the fray, placing a fusillade, a blur of sword thrusts into exactly the right spot while others held their opponents’ attention. Like a huge sewing machine needle, his sword flicked out, deep into an ape’s eye, and then back so quickly it seemed to pull back a strand of red with it. The red sword tip flashed back out again while the old strand still hung in the air, seeming to form a red cobweb of death.
The three ship’s dogs also served with distinction. Distracting, snarling, ripping, biting. In and out with lightning speed, they were as good as any man in the melee. Several marines went down in the midst of the swirling fight in the center. All three ship’s dogs went repeatedly into their primary combat mode, standing over a fallen warrior and defending him with their lives.
Their efforts made it possible for several marines to get on their feet and back into battle. Still others limped or crawled back to medical support after a dog’s assistance. The price they paid was two dogs who died instantly with tragic yelps of pain. One of the rangers’ dogs also went down with a heart piercing yelp, battling at his master’s side, his teeth clamped deep into the fish-belly white limb that pierced his lung.
* * *
The strangest event in the battle for the center was when unexpected allies appeared from above. The apes seemed naturally inclined to climb up the tree trunks and attack their opponents from above. They could launch themselves down with devastating fury upon the opponents below. This appeared to be their natural and preferred method of fighting.
One ape succeeded in reaching a tree and climbing with amazing speed five yards up the trunk to where the branches began. He leaped out on a limb and hurled himself down. The marine he landed on died instantly as all six limbs and a mouth simultaneously pierced and assailed his abused body. Several other marines were wounded before the ape could be dispatched with a bayonet thrust.
It’s possible that the little company would have died to a man except that, after the first one, every ape who climbed a tree was instantly beset by a throng of little, brown, eight-legged “spider monkeys.” From the very beginning of their stay in this world they’d seen these tiny creatures up in the trees of this little grove. They didn’t seem to dwell anywhere else.
The servants of Westerness tried to treat them with dignity and respect, as they treated all living creatures. They gained a newfound respect for their upstairs neighbors when the little brown monkeys literally tore the large white invaders into tiny, bloody shreds. Shreds which showered down from above. Nearly a score of the apes died in this grisly manner. Many of the little spider monkeys also came down, hitting the ground with a crunch and a thump of dust.
In the center, where the final volley caused dying opponents to lunge into the line, there were gaps in the hedge of bayonets. Gaps which the enemy exploited. With deployment of the small reserve, at great cost of life and limb, and with a little help from above, the center of the line was stabilized.
Throughout history a hedge of spears or bayonets could generally be counted on to stop a cavalry charge. It’s widely believed that no horse ever intentionally charged into a hedge of sharp objects, no matter how badly their riders might desire otherwise. Upon occasion a wounded or dying horse might crash into a line, creating a gap that could be exploited, but it is likely that no healthy horse ever willingly flung itself on a bayonet. The warriors of Westerness hoped the attacking apes would react the same, and they did.
Other than the fluke of creating a gap in the line with a dying horse, the primary way cavalry can defeat infantry is to use their superior mobility to swing around the line. This is what happened on the left flank.
The wings swung back according to plan, precisely as they’d rehearsed it. All battle movements were best rehearsed ahead of time. Even if you had only a short time to prepare, the one thing you always tried to find time for was rehearsing “actions on the objective.” And Broadax had days to prepare the defense of this hill.
A navy petty officer and a marine corporal fell back behind each wing to control the movement. On the right, the west wing, Chief Hans kept everything perfectly under control. However, on the left end the line of warriors hesitated for an instant as it pulled back, and a swarm of reeking white apes poured around them. The apes swirled around the flank and over the Pier, like a flurry of snow around the end of a fence.
Private Jarvis was the last marine on the left flank. After him, the line was held by sailors. He had rehearsed this in simulators, but this was no simulation. Simulations could do a lot, but if he lived through this he’d be a real veteran.
His training failed him as the apes began to swirl around the left wing. He forgot to control his breathing. His heart pounded in his chest. He was “ham fisted” and clumsy as he tried to load his musket. Then the battle became a swirling maelstrom of white fur, and red and blue jackets.
Jarvis’ tunnel vision was focused down to a “soda straw” as he thrust his bayonet at the ape in front of him. He didn’t hear a sound. Cut off, he and the sailors to his left fought back-to-back. He didn’t feel the ape’s claws rake his shoulder, and he wasn’t even aware of it when he wet himself and messed himself.
The only thing that saved Jarvis, and most of his comrades, was the fact that fewer apes were out on the flanks. Once a gap was created most of them ignored the warriors of Westerness and charged straight into the center of the perimeter. Some climbed the trees, where they died at the hands of their tiny cousins. A large group swung all the way around and reached the Pier, where the cutter, Lady Elphinstone and her helpless patient waited.
In the bowels of the beached cutter was Lady Elphinstone, their aid station, and their remaining water. Petreckski became aware of the threat when he heard Elphinstone’s two small, single-barreled pistols fire to their rear. In a flash Petreckski turned, sheathed his blade, and picked up two freshly loaded pistols. The midshipmen had just finished ramming a paper cartridge down each barrel, cocking the two hammers and putting two percussion caps in place. He shouted to the middies, “Grab all the pistols! Follow me!”