Then she concluded, reversing her ax by twirling it in her fingers like a baton and waving the wooden haft in the air with the steel in her big palm, “An’ if I sees any of ye firing too high ye’ll feel the smack o’ me ax hilt on ye, damn me if ye don’t! The lieutenant will be walking the line, an’ he’ll be doing the same with the flat o’ his sword. So don’t shame me boys, put them minié balls right where they’ll do the most good.” Here her voice dropped, but it still carried clearly in the hot air. “Make me proud boys, do like I trained ye.” Melville could almost swear he saw a tear well up in her eye. But it was hard to be sure, what with all the gristle and hair.
Melville stood beside Broadax, anxiously anticipating his first major battle, and his first command of troops in combat. He thought he was ready, and now found himself frustrated and bemused by the way his mind kept slipping off into inconsequential distractions.
Right now he couldn’t help himself from asking, not for the first time, just why did they call it a mini ball? There was nothing “mini” about the .50 caliber “ball,” which was bullet-shaped and not ball-shaped at all. The bullet was smaller than the bore, which made it easy to ram down the barrel. A cavity in the back of the soft lead bullet expanded when it was fired, digging in to the rifling of the barrel and giving the bullet a spin that made the muskets deadly accurate. So why a mini ball? Oh well, just another mystery lost in antiquity and the Crash.
The two rangers continued to fire, “Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!, Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!” roughly every fifteen seconds, as they trotted across the golden stubble, bringing their newfound friends along behind them. The foe had to be tired by the long chase but they plodded along doggedly, not able to close the distance and obviously not willing to stop.
* * *
Broadax had said her piece and now Melville had a few seconds to say his bit before the foe hit the 250 yard aiming stake. The troops expected him to say something appropriate, and he reached deep into their heritage for Words that would lift their hearts. Something that could reach down through a frightened man’s brain, and pull him up by the short-and-curlies.
“Stout servants of Westerness!” he started, as he drew his sword with a flourish. The flash of the sword caught the attention of eyes that were primed and alert to detect motion and danger. Since he was standing beside Broadax, they were already looking that way, and were psychologically primed to shift their attention to the young lieutenant and listen to his words.
He was pleased that his voice was calm and steady. Unlike his traitorous heart, pounding in his chest. He reached out for his training and breathed deeply. Just as his weapons master, old Lieutenant Ed Stack, taught him back at the academy. He could hear that gravelly voice. “In through the nose, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out through the lips, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.”
Elite warriors have known for centuries that the autonomic nervous system, or ANS, controls your heart rate, perspiration, and adrenal flow. Your ANS can’t be consciously controlled. But your breathing is one ANS mechanism that can be brought under conscious control. As you pull your breathing down, your whole autonomic nervous system, including your heart rate and adrenal flow, come with it.
There’s a tendency in humans to place their breathing in sync with the person they’re watching. As Melville took his deep breath, consciously and unconsciously many of his men did too. His calm was contagious.
Now the words, those words, those ancient, sacred words began to flow like old wine. “Warriors of Westerness. Foes are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet though you fight on an alien field, the glory that you reap here shall be your own forever. Oaths ye have taken, now fulfill them all. To lord and land and league of friendship!”
Now Melville was sure he could see a tear escape the gristle and hair around the old Dwarrowdelf’s eye. She looked with pride on her young lieutenant. So far, so good. The men nodded their heads calmly and smiled fell, fey smiles. Many of them were chewing tobacco, or smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. No great cheers came from these men. They radiated an icy calm that would keep their heart rates low and their trigger fingers steady.
Melville fell back behind the line now. His purser, Theo Petreckski, stood immediately behind the line, in command of their three midshipmen, Crater, Archer, and little Aquinar. Together they formed his reserve. Farther behind them, in the cutter, was their Sylvan surgeon, Lady Elphinstone, with the ship’s cat and their one wounded sailor. Three ship’s dogs sat in various relaxed positions in the shade of the trees, along the center of the firing line.
The fighting man shall take from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.
Broadax was a master at controlling an infantry firing line. She stood in front of the line, dead center, two paces out. She held her twenty pound ax out horizontally before her in one hand, parallel to the firing line, in the same way that Melville would hold his sword out in front of him, and with no more difficulty. Her best marksmen were here in the center. Her oldest and truest marines. She paced the line while they loaded, but she would stand in the center when she gave the command to fire. That way she’d be as safe as any leader could ever be, standing in front of the firing line in battle.
Melville was stunned by the alien beauty of it all. A vast sea of emerald forest, as far as the eye could see, beneath a pure, powder blue sky. From the green forest came a dirty white wave of exotic beasts, flowing up a golden hillside, dotted with the flashing rubies and sapphires of insects glistening in the sun. Add in the scarlet tunics and royal blue jackets of the firing line. At this moment there was a flavor, a spice to his life that he’d never known. For a few seconds he savored it, and felt more . . . alive than ever before in his life.
The white tide finally showed its full measure. They weren’t endless. There was a limit to their number. The enemy was now a discernible mob, roughly 150 yards long, 25 yards wide at the front, and 50 yards wide at the rear.
The rangers were still 100 yards in front of the apes, spinning and firing like clockwork, four times a minute. Ch-BANG!Ch-BANG!, Ch-BANG!Ch-BANG! Every time they each fired both barrels, turned, and loaded on the run.
Broadax was making one last, calm inspection of the line. She turned to old Chief Hans, in charge of the sailors on the right wing as he spit a stream of tobacco at a blue dragonfly. The hapless creature was picked cleanly out of the air and glued to the ground. Thinking it was raining, the bewildered insect began to burrow into the ground. “Well Chief, ‘ave ye inspected yer boys?” she asked.
Chief Petty Officer Bronson Hans was a grizzled, bearded old salt who was the senior NCO in charge of their detachment of sailors. “Aye. Next y’ll be teaching me ‘ow to suck eggs?” he replied with a nicotine-stained grin and a stream of tobacco juice.
“Well, ye know Chief,” she said, blowing a stream of cigar smoke into the general region south of his belt buckle. “They say yer memory is the second thing to go.” The warriors around them laughed and old Hans smiled admiringly as she moved back to the center.
Broadax’s ax lifted slowly and gently into the sky, moving from the vertical, as the lead element reached the 250 yard mark. These stakes were tree branches with bits of cloth tied to them. The distance had been carefully paced off and marked in all directions, as the first step in the defensive plan. They couldn’t defend the entire perimeter, so breastworks or trenches would work against them if occupied by the enemy. Besides, there were no trees of manageable size to build fortifications with, and what deadwood was available was needed for cooking fires. Nor did the dry, powdery earth lend itself to entrenchments. With their small force they were counting on mobility and firepower against any attacker, and range stakes carefully placed out from all the planned defensive lines were key to the accurate and effective marksmanship.
“Remember, treat it like two hundred yards. Ready boys, readyyyy! Wait for it.” They’d loaded from a standing position, but now most of the line was kneeling, some even sitting to get a more stable position as they fired. “Squeeeeze it off on my command!” Broadax inhaled deeply on her cigar. The coal glowed deep red as she gently, almost lovingly let her ax head fall, soft as a floating leaf. Her calm voice carried clearly, as she gave the command, “Firrre.”