“Aye, sir,” said Hans, mirroring his captain’s grin. “As soon as they fire, we hoist the flag and hang out all the laundry. Win I do that, y’ll see my ‘piss da resistance’ y’will, sir. I been savin’ it, I ‘ave.”
“Good.” The cold caused steam to waft up from the fresh hot coffee in his mug. He breathed the warm steam in deeply as he lifted it up for a sip and then continued, “I’ll go down and have one last talk with Fang, and then we’re as ready as we can be.” As the young captain headed down, Hans began to relay the orders through the foremast speaking tube that ran from the upper crosstrees to where the bosun waited at the lower crosstrees.
So it was that the entire ship stood ready. Even the few remaining much-persecuted and oppressed mice, rats, roaches and other, more exotic, vermin knew that something was afoot. Through the white Moss that coated most of the Ship’s wood, every creature could feel the eagerness of their ship to be at battle.
They approached the battle around Ambergris’ Upper Pier, pulling between the two distant 24-pounder Guldur frigates. Melville had all the gun crews run their pieces in and out a few times to loosen their muscles, and then they waited to see what the Guldur would do. They didn’t have to wait long. The flanking ships both ran up a recognition signal consisting of two red flags, combined with firing a single gun. The response was probably some combination of flags and guns, so Melville had their signal yeoman act as though the lines were fouled, a stratagem to buy them a few more minutes.
When no responding flag came up, both enemy ships fired another gun for emphasis, but still no response came from the stranger in their midst, except for more fussing with the lines. The tension built as they passed the nearest point between the two ships, hoping they wouldn’t fire on a ship that was so clearly one of their own, even if it didn’t know the recognition signals. But the Guldur were slaves to a harsh master, and they would gun down a fellow ship if that was what their orders said to do. Suddenly the ship to their right fired in earnest, and two 24-pound balls came at them, one above and one below the plane of Flatland, which was now a swirl of green, blue and white from the world beneath them. Then the enemy ship on their left did the same.
The enemy had run two guns to the forward ports, and two guns to the rear, covering all bases, as it were. In this way they could bring two of the big 24-pounders to bear, one above and one below, in every direction. The enemy’s forward guns had been taking longshots at the melee in front of them.
Everyone aboard Fang watched the two enemy ships fire at them with a careful eye, especially Mr. Barlet, their gunner. He looked with scorn and disgust as the two upper-side balls went wide. Word came through from the speaking tube that on the lower side one round had torn through some lower-side rigging, doing minimal damage, and the other had been a clean miss. As soon as the enemy fired, the flag of Westerness, a brilliant pinwheel galaxy on deep blue, was run up the main.
McAndrews, his steward, had found some tea and some lemon on Pearl, bless him. So Melville was now standing on his quarterdeck with a steaming mug of hot tea in his hand. “Fire as they bear, Mr. Barlet!” called the captain. They were out of range of the 12-pounders, but a deliberate broadside from their 24-pounders erupted from each side. If four guns per side, two above and two below, qualified as a broadside. <
Everyone who wasn’t intent on loading guns or rigging sail cheered as they watched their balls hit home. At this range the gun captains weren’t able to direct exactly where in the enemy ship the round would strike, but hanging over the gun on their platforms they were able to aim with deadly accuracy, and they were well enough bonded with their guns to mentally assist in directing the strike of the shot. Every 24-pound ball hit the enemy. Most punched through the enemy’s sails and rigging. A few hit their hulls, causing the ships to shudder and sending a cloud of debris into the air.
At the same time, Hans and his topmen hung out all the “laundry.” Fresh unbleached white studdingsails, royals, and spritsail-topsail bloomed into position beside the other, yellowed, older sails. His “piss da resistance” was a set of royal studdingsails, and then a handkerchief-sized moonsail above the royals. Which may have been a bit “over the top,” as Melville observed, but surely stirred the heart of any creature that ever sailed the endless seas of Flatland. The ship surged forward with the kind of speed the curs never imagined it could achieve, just as Fang’s second broadside cut loose from each side.
<
Faintly he heard Fielder in a tone he’d never heard from the sour first officer. “Ha! Take that you sons-o-bitches! Play long bowls with us, will you! Ambush our ship will you!”
Melville grinned grimly and repeated into the tube, “Mr. Fielder! How do they fall?” and again put his ear to the mouthpiece.
“One miss from the red-side on the first broadside, looks like one miss from the green-side on the second. The curs have masts and rigging falling like rain around their ears!”
“Good!” They were pulling quickly away from the two enemy ships as Melville ordered, “Give them one more, then rest the crews and direct your attention to the front.”
“Aye, sir!”
One last volley, again mostly striking home, with no response from the enemy. They were moving far enough ahead that the guns could not swing back to bear on the enemy, so Melville called out, “Avast firing,” as the last gun fired. “Load and run them up. Now take a breather. Well done, shipmates!” The quartermaster immediately relayed each command through the speaking tube to the lower side quarterdeck.
Men and Guldur all straightened, grinning at each other. The humans glistened with sweat, the Guldur’s tongues hung out as they panted. Most went to the scuttlebutts for a long, gasping drink.
They watched as the enemy ships desperately slacked sail to balance the thrust from above and below. Both ships were dead in the water as their crews scrambled to make repairs.
Melville continued, in a voice suited for the battle deafness of the hands, “Now shipmates, here is the real test. We are going to cut through that mass of ships before us, cutting straight for the Pier and firing at every Guldur ship that comes in range.”
“Dear God, there’s a lot of Guldur ships out there,” muttered Melville’s clerk beside him.
“Aye,” replied Melville, then, to himself, and to the quarterdeck in general. . . .
“Shall I retreat from him, from clash of combat?
No, I will not. Here I’ll stand,
though he should win; I might just win, myself;
the battle god’s impartial,
dealing death to the death-dealing man.”
That drew grim smiles from his men, and they sailed on, into the mass of Guldur 12-pounder frigates that were battling the defenders on the Pier and the small Sylvan and Stolsh fleet that was assisting in the defense. These few defenders were all that protected the citizens of Ambergris from the brutal tyranny of the Guldur.
On high-tech or mid-tech worlds an invading force, with its technology limited by the strange dynamics of Flatland, could seldom do more than occupy or destroy the Pier. But Ambergris was a thriving low-tech world, with two major cities centered around the two Piers. The invading force already controlled one Pier. If they conquered the second Pier, the people stood little chance against the Guldur’s mighty armada and its countless troopships. The enemy would also have secured an important base of operations close to the major Sylvan world of Osgil.