The Guns of Two-Space (14 page)

"Aye!" added Broadax with glee. "Hit 'em frum ever' direction an' they'll drop like a dockside hooker's drawers. Personally, I wouldn't bet my hairy pink hind end on the theory, but it'll be fun tryin'."

"Good enough," said Melville with a laugh. "Lt. Archer, I'm counting on you to wait until we have them well and truly occupied in the bows, and then move like lightning to their quarterdecks. You step lively now, you hear me? When you make your move you must be
fast
so that they don't get a chance to fire one of those 24-pounders at you on the way by. I want you to personally defeat whatever cur is in command on the quarterdeck so their Ship will accept you as commander. Their doctrine is like ours, and the senior cur should be on the upper quarterdeck. It's important that you kill their commander, or personally take his surrender."

"Aye sir!" Archer responded, his eyes sparkling with pleasure as he realized that he would command their prize. "I'm to take out whatever cur is in command of the upper quarterdeck, and take command of the Ship." Then he added with a cocky grin, "And a wise choice, if I may say so, sir!"

"Well, you're of damned small use here!" replied Melville. His face seemed to be wrestling with his mouth as he tried to suppress a laugh. "And try not to get yourself killed in the process," he added. "Remember: incoming fire has the right of way, there's no such thing as a fair fight, and I
need
you to take command of the prize. And take Mr. Hayl as a messenger."

"Aye, sir!"

As Lt. Archer headed off he heard the captain give a separate set of orders to Hans and Ulrich. It had something to do with the lower jollyboat, but Archer was not paying too much attention.

On his way past Hayl he looked at the young middie with an insane grin on his face. It seemed to Hayl's confused mind that there were a lot of those grins going around. "I'll be leading the boarding party that comes from our boats," Archer said. "The captain says for you to come with me as a messenger. Just stay right behind me, try to keep out of the fighting, and do exactly what I tell you."

The redside gun crews crouched motionless. Each gun captain was glaring down the barrel of his cannon. Then the Ship turned her redside to the enemy and, above and below, the redside broadside began to crash into the enemy bow. On the upperside, where the enemy still had their masts standing, the gun crews paid particular attention to the yardarms and rigging, sending broadside after broadside of grapeshot and canister, which sent shotgun-like blasts of smaller shot to sweep the Goblan "ticks" from the rigging.

Fang
's redside railing was lined with a seething mass of warriors firing cannons and double-barreled muskets at their foe. The enemy Ship was badly crippled, but the battle was far from over. The
Fang
's cannons roared, Guldur muskets cracked their defiance, and death was in the air.

On the enemy Ship the toll was horrendous. Blood overflowed the decks and began to wash over the sides faster than the white Moss could soak it up. It was as if the Ship herself was bleeding, and not her crew.

Melville, his Ship and his guns felt fierce, feral satisfaction when he saw that blood.
Better you than us, you bastards!
 

See the blood in purple tide,
Trick down her batter'd side;
Wing'd with fate the bullets fly,
Conquer boys
—
or bravely die...
 

* * *
 

They had been in almost continuous combat for over eighteen hours now, and the prolonged fight had taken its toll on Cuthbert Asquith XVI. The little citizen of Old Earth was just a passenger, so no one expected him to fight. But they were pleased when he could provide them with a welcome diversion.

"This is insane!" cried Asquith, shaking with terror as he laid curled up in a ball in a corner of the quarterdeck. "What is the difference between this and insanity!?"

Crouching next to him, using the railing as a support for his rifled musket, was Josiah Westminster, a ranger and one of the Ship's crack rifle marksmen, who was picking off enemy leaders with supernatural accuracy. His fellow ranger, Valandil, was doing the same on the lower quarterdeck. A team of sailors and Ship's boys were ramming balls into the double-barreled, muzzle-loading, two-space rifles and handing them to the ranger as fast as he could aim and fire.

"The difference between battle and insanity?" repeated Westminster thoughtfully, looking over his shoulder at Asquith. "Is this a trick question?"

"No!"

"Well," the ranger drawled, looking back at the enemy and squeezing off a careful shot, "just off-hand then, Ah'd hope that with insanity the scenery is better." On the enemy quarterdeck, nearly two-hundred yards away, a Guldur officer spun down with a scream.

Then one of the Ship's boys who was helping to load muskets for the ranger farted loudly—a normal fear reaction. Or maybe it was just the chili-mac they'd had for dinner.

"Hmmm. Your voice is changing," said Westminster, "but your breath still smells the same."

Enemy musket balls were skipping and bouncing across the decks like gleeful, indiscriminate children of the malignant gods of war, leaving random, promiscuous death in their wake. One of them punched through the head of a sailor who was loading a musket, spewing brains and blood out the back of his skull. The unfortunate sailor's monkey had been distracted, reaching low with its belaying pin to block a bullet that would have taken out its master's kidney. Now the little creature wailed in sorrow and despair as the sailor slumped to the deck.

For Asquith that was the final straw. He promptly lost bowel and bladder control, and sat huddled in shame and humiliation in the corner.

"They say that reindeer emit an odor to warn the herd of danger," said Westminster with a friendly grin as he handed off an empty musket and grabbed another. "Ah'll bet it smells a lot like that." The team of loaders around him didn't miss a beat as their comrade died, barely bothering to wipe the gore from their faces as they focused intently on their urgent task of loading muskets for the ranger.

"Oh God, go ahead and rub it in," said Asquith. "I'd expect you bastards to kick a man when he was down."

"No, jist the opposite, mah brother," the ranger replied, touching off both barrels and smiling as yet two enemy leaders spun down. "Hooah," said Westminster with quiet satisfaction. His monkey was perched on his shoulder, gibbering in bloodthirsty satisfaction as it watched its master's shot strike home.

The ranger's dog was sitting next to him, and it echoed the monkey's delight. "Bad! Bad! Bad!" barked the dog.

Then Westminster continued, with a friendly glance over his shoulder at Asquith as he grabbed yet another musket, speaking in a clear, calm voice that carried across the quarterdeck. "Ah want you to know how common that is. It happens to lots of folks in combat. Don't you worry 'bout it, none, and don't you ever let anyone else give you any grief about such matters. Those who've been there, they understand. Let me tell you the story of Captain Bravo."

Then, to Asquith's amazement, as Westminster fired a steady stream of deadly-accurate musket balls at the enemy, while the battle raged all around them, the ranger calmly told his tale.

"Captain Bravo was a famous
marine
officer..."

"Oh lord, here we go," said the marine sentry on duty on the quarterdeck, as he fired off a shot and then shook his head in mock dismay. The sailors on the quarterdeck all grinned. There was nothing they loved more than a good marine joke.

"One day Captain Bravo's ship was attacked by a pirate ship," the ranger continued, pressing off another shot, "and he called to his men, 'Bring me mah red coat!' Then he put on his red jacket and proceeded to lead his men bravely and defeat the enemy."

The ranger's firing and loading never stopped. On the gundeck
Fang
's cannons thundered with an unwavering, unrelenting cadence of death. The sailors at the wheel never departed from their careful attention to their duty. In the rigging above them more sailors were standing by to adjust sail. And every man stood ready to respond instantly to the orders of their commander, Captain Melville, who stood at the rail beside Lt. Fielder, with a grim smile and a keen eye to the big picture. But even as they took note of the myriad, life-and-death details of taking their Ship into battle, even as their friends fell dead and wounded around them, the
Fang
s listened with rapt attention while Westminster spoke, punctuating his tale with a constant stream of deadly rifle fire.

"Later they were attacked by
four
pirate ships. Again Captain Bravo called out, 'Bring me mah red coat!" and then he led them into victory against overwhelming forces. Finally his men asked him, 'Captain Bravo, tell us, sir, why do you ask for your red coat before battle?'

"Captain Bravo replied boldly, 'So that if Ah am struck in combat you will not see the blood, and will not lose heart by knowing that Ah am wounded!' Well, you can bet that his men were mighty impressed."

The ranger continued to fire as he spoke, like a clockwork machine, never missing a beat or a shot.

"A few days later the ship was attacked by ten pirates! So the men all waited expectantly for Captain Bravo to call for his red coat. Then he stood up bravely, and in a clear voice called out, 'Bring me mah brown pants!'"

Asquith looked on in amazement as everyone within ear-shot of the ranger burst out laughing.
H.M.S. Fang
was a crack Ship, with very high morale, and now their morale rose just a notch higher, each man a bit more confident and certain of himself, knowing that they could jest in the face of death.

"Damn! That's funny!" laughed a sailor, almost hysterical with a bizarre cocktail of laughter and tension.

"Wit is a ranger's secret weapon," replied the buckskin-clad Westminster. "If we weren't funny, smart, and damned good-looking, we'd just be marines in sensible clothing."

Captain Melville's young dog, Boye, was whimpering beside his master, in contrast to the ranger's dog who seemed to be eagerly anticipating the coming boarding operation. Every fiber of Westminster's dog, Cinder, communicated the pure joy of a good hunting dog watching his master pull the shotgun down on a crisp fall morning. While the captain had to periodically reach down and pat Boye reassuringly as the young dog quivered and huddled against him.

The two dogs also had monkeys on their backs, echoing the attitudes of their hosts. Cinder's monkey seemed eagerly intent upon the coming battle and waved its belaying pin about gleefully, while Boye's monkey clutched its belaying pin tightly as it trembled in fear.

Westminster was plying his steady stream of unrelenting death upon the enemy, as his monkey and dog watched and provided moral support, and a small cloud of loaders handed him a continuous supply of double-barreled muskets. The enemy was firing back, but at this range their musketry was largely ineffectual, while the ranger's shots struck home with remarkable consistency.

Then the ranger looked over at Captain Melville's whining, cowering dog and said, with mocking affection, "Hey, Boye! If you were shorter and longer you'd make a good dachshund."

The dog, hearing its name, looked at him and cocked its head.

"You know why? 'Cause you're
such
a weenie! Yer a weenie dog! A wimpy, weenie dog!" The dog actually seemed to look embarrassed.

"You see that dog?" Westminster asked Asquith, never missing a shot as he talked. "Everyone expects a big mutt like him, from a great line of warrior dogs, to be brave and fierce. He's the son of mah dog here, you know. But the truth is, even though he's got most of his growth, he's still a pup. He's not even a year old, and he'll be skittish and uncertain until he grows and experiences more. Don't judge the dog by the pup, and don't judge the warrior by the recruit. We all need to grow. Give yourself that opportunity to learn and grow. As long as you live, forgive yourself for the bad days, learn from the good days and," he concluded, putting a bullet in the head of an enemy officer for emphasis, "git on with life while you have the opportunity."

Lt. Archer was on the lower gun deck, getting the cutters over the greenside. Archer had picked Petty Officer Bernard Hommer to serve as his senior NCO in this attack, and the two of them were giving out commands and instructions to their boarding party faster than young Midshipman Hayl could understand them.

Nothing seemed to make sense to Hayl. He just stood, gobsmacked by events and distracted by details. It was as though he were looking at a fantastically detailed painting. Hayl was struck by Archer's elegant red goatee and sideburns. And he observed that, unlike most sailors, Petty Officer Hommer kept his curly blond hair long and his locks were like a golden helmet as the two young warriors laughed together. The little middie was strangely touched by the beauty, the vigor, and the vitality of these two young men as they prepared for battle.

Finally Archer looked over his shoulder at Hayl, who was obediently staying right behind the lieutenant, and asked, "Are you ready?"

Suddenly a memory from a childhood book came back to him. "Help, Mr. Wizzurd!" said Hayl with a weak grin and a feeble attempt at bravado, "I don't want to
be
a navy midshipman any more!"

"Haha! That's the spirit," replied Archer with a wink. "Come on a-long!" he sang as he scrambled down into the cutter, "Come on a-long, with Ell Tee Archer's rag-tag band! Come on a-long! Come on a-long! We're the finest band in the land!"

It all seemed like a bad dream. Just a few hours ago they were sailing peacefully through such incredible beauty, enjoying a pleasant pistol match on the lower quarterdeck, and now his world was filled with death and fear. Like so many young boys across so many centuries, Hayl found himself thinking of his mother, his family and his home, wondering how he got here, and wondering if he would ever see home again.

* * *

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."