We SHALL NOT SLEEP!>>”
Kestrel replied with a pulse of energy so powerful that it was felt by every crewman who was in contact with the Elbereth Moss that coated much of the Ship.
In that moment the young lieutenant became the avatar of his Ship. Kestrel’s ancient voice tore his throat raw as the Ship replied. “<
<> the Ship concluded, and cut the connection. Melville slumped to the deck.
What had just occurred was remarkably rare. A Ship had cried out to her whole crew, sending a message of despair and anger, a request, an order, a demand for vengeance. No captain of a Ship ever had a greater mandate thrust upon him. The men around him looked stunned. The crew of the Kestrel might not want to seek what they thought was certain death, but trapped between the steely will of their Ship and the orders of their captain, they had no choice. They would obey.
With the help of Broadax and Hans, Melville staggered to his feet. He looked down at his hands, which were torn and bleeding from clutching the ragged shards of his Ship’s soul. In a daze he began moving toward the ladder.
The gunner and his gunnery sergeant stood beside little Aquinar. “Mister Aquinar, find out where the captain’s remains have been placed. Bring them, his hat and his jacket to the upper quarterdeck, immediately. Gentlemen, the rest of you come with me.” Sergeant Broadax and Chief Petty Officer Hans were no gentlemen. They were NCOs. They grinned at each other with the superiority and confidence of career NCOs and began to saunter off in another direction. Melville stopped and turned to them. “That means you two as well. Broadax, you are promoted to lieutenant of marines. Hans, you are now the sailing master. You are now gentlemen . . . er . . . gentlefolk.”
The two ex-NCOs were dumbstruck. Their confidence, poise, and security in life revolved around being noncommissioned officers. Under ordinary circumstances they would have rejected a commission. In fact, they’d both done so repeatedly, scorning officers, their manners and their airs. Because, as one old ex-sergeant once put it, “When it’s all said and done in this old world, after everyone panics, there’s got to be an NCO there to pour the piss out of the boot.” But now, with their Ship’s current plight, they couldn’t say no, and the joke was on them.
Damn, Melville thought, it felt good to do that to them! There were times when it was good to be captain. He turned and dove back through the hatch and through the plain of Flatland, to the upper portion of the Ship. He strode up the steps of the ladder, two at a time, past the gundeck and onto the maindeck, followed by the others. They turned astern, through the waist, and up the short flight of stairs to the quarterdeck.
The helmsman was standing by the wheel with the old quartermaster keeping careful watch over him. Lady Elphinstone, Mr. Tibbits, and Midshipmen Crater and Archer joined them on the upper quarterdeck. Crater reported. “Sir, all the wounded have been evacuated onto Broadax’s World.”
“Very good, thank you, Mr. Crater.” Melville now stood on the quarterdeck as captain of his Ship. Lieutenant Fielder, the two rangers, and Brother Petreckski came to join them. Fielder looked angry, but given the Ship’s mandate, it was clear that he wouldn’t confront Melville’s authority at this time.
Aquinar stood at the foot of the ladder with their captain’s remains. A bloody bundle wrapped in sailcloth. So little of the body remained that a boy could hold it in his arms. Atop the bundle rested the captain’s second best blue jacket and gold braided hat. He’d been wearing his best uniform when he was blown to smithereens. Every eye was on the boy and the bundle.
As Melville looked on his murdered captain’s remains, words came to mind.
I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treachery;
It burns my heart that I must depart
And not avenged be . . .
May coward shame disdain his name,
The wretch that dares not die.
He didn’t speak these words to the crew; they applied only to him. It was he who must “dare to die.” For them all. It was he who would have “coward shame disdain his name,” if he did not.
These words rang in his mind as he stood at the rail of the quarterdeck. His officers behind him, much of his crew before him. They looked at him with a frightening mixture of fear, dread, reproach, and hope. Melville understood that most of them believed he was taking them to their death.
It would be so very easy to bow to the desires of these men. It would be an enormous relief to escape to the world below with these shipmates whom he’d come to know and love. Even if his plan succeeded, many of them would die. If it didn’t succeed, then probably all of them would die.
It was hard. So very hard. Truly he was, “One nameless, tattered, broken man.” Who was he to send these men to their deaths? Who was he to lead this mighty Ship into battle? To be a good leader you must love your men. To do your duty meant you might have to kill that which you loved. In the end, duty was a harsh mistress.
His men stood waiting for him to say something. He didn’t disappoint them. “Mr. Aquinar, place the captain’s remains atop the ladder.” Every eye moved to the bloody bundle.
Melville looked over his shoulder at Petreckski questioningly. The purser had served nobly once before. Did he have Words for the crew in this dark hour? His look asked the purser, but it was the purser’s alter ego, Brother Theo the monk, who nodded calmly back. Being assured of the answer ahead of time, Melville formally asked. “Brother Theo, would you say Words for us, our murdered captain, and our fallen comrades?”
Petreckski nodded and stepped forward to the railing. Then he spoke to the crew, once again leading them in Words. In an ancient hymn that tapped deep into the roots, the common heritage of these men. A hymn that reminded them of dark days in eons past, and the Judeo-Christian ethos and the spiritual collective consciousness that had overcome and transcended such sad, dark times.
Once again Brother Theo began, in his clear, pure tenor, and the men joined in.
“Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion
Whispers her comforting word:
‘Wait till the darkness is over,
Wait till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone.’
“Whispering hope, oh how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.
“If, in the dusk of the twilight,
Dim be the region afar,
Will not the deepening darkness
Brighten the glimmering star?
Then when the night is upon us,
Why should the heart sink away?
When the dark midnight is over,
Watch for the breaking of day.
“Whispering hope, oh how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.”
That was it. The funeral service for their fallen, the prayer for their success. Now it was Melville’s turn to speak. To speak for their murdered captain, for their Ship, and for himself. He looked his men in the eye and paced the rail as he said,
“Oh yesterday our little troop was ridden through and through,
Our swaying, tattered pennons fled,
a broken, beaten few,
And all a summer afternoon they hunted us and slew;
But to-morrow,
By the living God, we’ll try the game again!”
Then the young captain gave his orders, and hundreds of men swung into action. Kestrel was going forth to die.
Chapter the 5th
Approach: The Joy of Courage
Alone amid the battle-din untouched
Stands out one figure beautiful, serene;
No grime of smoke nor reeking blood hath smutched
The virgin brow of this unconquered queen.
She is the Joy of Courage vanquishing
The unstilled tremors of the fearful heart;
And it is she that bids the poet sing,
And gives to each the strength to bear his part.
“Courage”
Dyneley Hussey
Melville stood beside the quartermaster on the upper quarterdeck. A strange calmness was upon him as he maneuvered the Kestrel toward their foe. His eight-legged spider monkey clung to his back, peering cautiously over his shoulder. He stroked the monkey’s little neck, and found himself completely resigned to the fact that today was a good day to die.
He wasn’t going to die easy. He had no death wish. The Mirror for Princes, written in Persia on Old Earth in the eleventh century, commanded warriors, “reconcile yourself with death . . . be bold; for a short blade grows longer in the hands of the brave.” Melville was reconciled to death.