Melville was trying very hard to be reasonable, but he was getting the impression that it wasn’t working. Still, he continued, “If you aren’t willing to apologize, or to accept the offer of a duel, then your only option is to mess with the crew. Or with the rest of the refugees, who are eating with the men.”
“I’m under no obligation to honor the superstitions of a primitive society. And if they don’t want to listen to the truth, that’s their problem. Civilized men should be able to discuss matters.”
“Yes, but if you cannot agree, then civilized individuals respect each other’s differences and avoid disagreeable topics. When told that this topic was disagreeable, insulting, and offensive to your messmates, you continued to pursue it. Which is a perfectly acceptable course of action, as long as you’re willing to give satisfaction to any offended parties.”
“Then be damned to you!” shouted Cuthbert Asquith XVI, as he stalked out of the captain’s office.
The ship sailed on, riding herd on a convoy of military and civilian vessels, integrating their new crew members, and training. Always, ever training. Some captains would have their men grumbling at such incessant training drills, but not this crew, and not this captain. They’d learned to love their young captain, as they’d learned to hate their enemy, both emotions forged in the crucible of battle.
Every day they fired weapons great and small, or lowered boats, or conducted contests to set sail. This was just their captain’s way, and they loved their captain. QED. The Stolsh and Sylvan warships around them watched, and began to realize that the combat achievements of Fang and her crew were not a fluke.
There was much visiting between ships. The captain’s jollyboat was lowered and his coxswain, Ulrich, commanded the crew that took the Fang’s officers to dinners on Stolsh and Sylvan ships. These meals were a great pleasure, but most enjoyable of all was when Fang entertained guests. The Fangs all took great pride in their Ship and they loved showing her off to visitors. They grinned in delight when their Stolsh and Sylvan guests shuddered upon feeling the faint tingle of feral energy upon touching her Moss. The crew were particularly pleased when their visitors looked up in wonder at her royals and studdingsails.
Hans saved the spritsail-topsail, royal studdingsails and moonsails for when they needed a burst of speed. Most of the time they swept back and forth, from one end to the other of their vast array of civilian cargo and passenger ships, constantly alert for Guldur attackers. Their cutters, under the command of their young lieutenants and midshipmen, were active in cross-loading medical supplies and food to refugee ships.
Their surgeon, Lady Elphinstone, was given one of the jollyboats to be used at her discretion. She used it to move about the fleet like an angel of mercy, descending upon those who needed her the most, ably assisted by Mrs. Vodi and her two corpsmen. By the time they arrived at Osgil, she had visited every single ship, some of them several times, tending to illness and wounds.
Meanwhile their earthworm diplomat sulked and stayed out of the way. Melville worried briefly about what Asquith would say to the ambassador, then he set the matter aside. He was content to live for the moment, and the moment was good.
The young captain again had the topic of civilized behavior brought before him during a meal he was hosting for Lady Elphinstone, his two young lieutenants, the sailing master, the carpenter, the gunner, and his four midshipmen.
The purser’s successful trading endeavors had generated enough discretionary cash for the wardroom and the captain to purchase food and luxury items on Ambergris. These items made it possible for the captain and the wardroom to engage in the ritual of inviting each other to meals.
In this case it was a pleasant breakfast with Melville’s youngest officers, his warrant officers, and middies. Along with the always agreeable company of Lady Elphinstone, the meal made for a welcome break in the ship’s routine. The middies were scrubbed pink and all the guests had their tattered, worn uniforms cleaned and pressed as neatly as possible.
Young midshipman Aquinar brought the matter up. It was pure happenstance that Fielder and Broadax were missing, which provided the opportunity for him to ask his question.
“Sir,” he asked, still an innocent young boy in spite of the numerous battles he’d seen, “what is meant by the term, ‘a Weber?’ ”
Melville sopped up the last of his egg yolk with a crust of toast, chewing it and washing it down with a drink of his tea as he thought, then he leaned back in his chair. “First I want you to understand that it’s a low term, a term that’s impolite to use. It denigrates one of the greatest of the classical writers. Men whose works have endured and inspired for centuries, well, such men are far greater beings than we will ever be, and you might as well use the Lord’s name as an insult, as far as I am concerned.”
“I meant no offense, sir,” said the boy, blushing.
“I’m sure that you didn’t and no offense is taken. Some people, and I emphasize some, have held that the idea of a great, giant, beautiful female warrior is an abomination. A commercial pandering to the vapid yearning of a portion of the market. A squalid bid to attract female readers. Even if this is true, and I’m not ready to concede it, to denigrate the works of a great author just because one of his most popular characters seems unrealistic, that my friend, is the real abomination. And besides, that’s what fiction is all about, an outlet to fulfill your fantasies.”
“But sir, is the idea of a great female warrior really so unrealistic?” asked the boy, sincerely confused. “After all, we have Lieutenant Broadax.”
“Aye, indeed we do, and here’s to her,” Melville replied, raising his tea cup in a salute, “one of the greatest warriors I’ve ever had the privilege to know. The point is, I guess, that there are great female warriors out there. And they can make significant, unique contributions. But they’re seldom beautiful, especially not the ones from high gravity worlds. At least they aren’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Whatever youthful beauty they might have had fades quickly. Even a woman bears the scars of battle. And they are cumulative.”
He grinned self-deprecatingly and continued. “Hell, for that matter, most of us are no blushing beauties. Look around you. Scrawny me with half an ear missing. Gnarly old salts, hulking marines, and awkward boys. With the singular exception of Lady Elphinstone here, most of us wouldn’t win any beauty prizes.” Around the table his guests grinned and raised their cups to each other in mock salutes.
He took his pistol out of his sash and carefully set it on the table, barrel pointed safely back and to his left. “Most of the great female warriors wouldn’t win a beauty contest. For that matter, most warriors of either gender usually don’t survive over the years just because of their looks. They’re like my pistol here. This weapon has been in my family for generations, constantly at sea. It is short, squat, and deadly as hell. The uneducated eye would call this weapon ugly, but it’s beautiful to me. Perhaps a little like our Broadax. She may not be a beauty in the eyes of the world, but I love her all the more for it. As the poet said, ‘verily, the rose is within the thorn.’ ”
Chapter the 15th
Unhappy Lords, Who Dare Not
Carry Their Swords
They have given us into the hand of new
unhappy lords,
Lords without anger and honour, who dare not
carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright
dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man
looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than
the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evenings;
and they know no songs.
“The Secret People”
G.K. Chesterton
“Osgil,” sighed little Aquinar, who was currently serving as the signal midshipman. “At last we are among friends. Finally we are safe.”
“Aye,” said Lieutenant Archer, who was the officer of the watch. Then he continued, not unkindly, “Now get on with your duties, Mr. Aquinar.”
” ‘Governor welcomes Fang. Should be happy to see captain, wardroom, and midshipman’s berth at sixteen o’clock,’ ” said the little signal midshipman to the officer of the watch, who relayed the message to the captain, five feet from its source.
“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” replied Melville with a voice and continence that communicated dismay. “We cannot refuse. Please reply, ‘Many thanks, accept with pleasure: Fang.’ ” They were at the main Pier of Osgil, which rose out from Flatland on the upper side. He turned to his first officer who was standing beside him. “Mr. Fielder, you know the moorings here as well as anyone, so carry on.”