God of War, Part One

Posted on Thu Feb 1st, 2024 @ 4:51pm by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Foster
Edited on on Thu Feb 1st, 2024 @ 4:53pm

2,844 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Raising the Mast
Location: Off the coast of Spain
Timeline: 1805

Matt sat at one of the stations in Stellar Cartography. He reviewed the latest corroborating evidence of the ship's situation: a series of Vulcan subspace communications. The timestamps embedded in the messages verified the current date: the 20th of October, 1805.

He passed the information up to the briefing in the observation lounge. He would have been at the meeting, but he felt that he could better coordinate the science team's efforts from here. He glanced around the room, feeling pride in his people. Alone, or in groups of two or three, they spoke quietly as they worked. All he had to do was review their findings and coordinate with other parts of the ship.

He'd just turned back to look at the screen when a bright flash of light blinded him for a moment. When his vision returned, he turned to check his staff. They were no longer so quiet, and they were no longer in uniform. Each wore different clothing, many like old sailors, but all appeared appropriate to people currently living on the planet below. He looked down at his own clothing. He wore a blue jacket and trousers. The style of it tugged at his memory. Like the others, it was consistent with the time period currently occupied by the ship. He looked over his outfit again. He thought it might be the uniform of a warrant officer in the British navy.

He stood to get his team's attention and try to reestablish some order. There was another flash of light. When it cleared, his footing was unsteady. The deck seemed to rock back and forth.

"We're not yet at the ship, sir," said a voice behind him. "You don't want to fall out."

Matt looked around. A young man, wearing an outfit not dissimilar to his own, with the ghost of a smile on his lips, sat at the tiller of the pinnace in which Matt found himself. Three sailors on each side pulled at oars, trying unsuccessfully to pretend they weren't watching him.

"Oh, right," Matt said. He lowered himself to the seat among the crates and bundles that filled the pinnace.

He looked around, trying to get some idea of where he was. The pinnace moved through the open ocean, with no land in sight. The water was relatively calm. Tall ships surrounded the boat at various distances. From the ensigns flying and the yellow and black pattern painted on them, he was among the British fleet, in the Atlantic off the Spanish coast. He looked to see the pinnace's destination.

The ship was about a hundred meters away. They approached from her port bow. She couldn't have been more than 60 meters in length. Two rows of cannon protruded from her side, but every other gun had been pulled into the hull. As they got closer, Matt could see the figurehead. It was a man in Roman armor holding a sword and shield. He recognized it immediately and knew what ship it was: HMS Mars.

Men swarmed the decks and rigging. A carpenter hung off the side in a seat, checking a section of the hull. As small as she was, her crew numbered over 600, more than that of the Victory, in orbit above.

The pinnace closed on the Mars. Ropes were tossed down, and the boat was moored to the ship. A ladder was lowered as a crane was moved into place, with a cargo net hanging from it. Matt shouldered the sea bag he somehow knew was his and began climbing the ladder. When he reached the deck, the officer of the watch and the first lieutenant were waiting for him.

"Permission to come aboard?" he asked.

"Granted, sir," the watch officer replied, then went to supervise the unloading of the pinnace.

"Your orders?" the lieutenant asked. Matt reached into a pocket, again not knowing how, but knew it would be there, and handed the folded paper to the officer. The first lieutenant unfolded the orders and looked them over.

"Surgeon's Mate Matthew James," the man said. "Well, Torkington will be pleased. He's been quite vocal about being the only medical man on board."

He handed the orders back to Matt. "I'm First Lieutenant Hennah," he said. "You'll be taking your meals in the wardroom. I'll have someone show you to your cabin. Report to the surgeon once you've stowed your bag."

Hennah hailed a passing sailor. "Foster, show Mr. James here to the surgeon's mate's cabin."

"Aye, sir," the sailor replied. "This way, sir."
Matt followed the sailor, an older man who moved with ease and confidence across the rolling deck. The science officer was surprised at how quickly he was regaining his own sea legs.

"Oh, sure," muttered the sailor with an Irish lilt. "As if ol' Matthew Foster hasn't got anything better to do than drag around some high and mighty..."

Matt stared at the man. Matthew Foster?!? His knowledge of the Mars stemmed from research he had done because he was named after an ancestor who'd been a sailor who had served aboard her. The very man who led him across the deck, in all likelihood.

Foster continued grumbling as he went aft to the main companionway. It was located on the ship's centerline, just a few meters forward of the ship's wheel, which was located just forward of where the mizzenmast passed through the quarterdeck, under the overhang of the poopdeck. A sailor stood on either side of it, each with a hand on it. The lieutenant on the deck above called down a course correction. The sailors moved the wheel. Matt adjusted automatically as the ship heeled slighted to starboard.

Foster went down the companionway. Matt followed him. They passed through the upper gun deck. Matt paused to allow his eyes to adjust. He looked around. The quarterdeck ended just forward of the main mast, and the foc'stle began 15 or 20 meters further along, leaving an open space above the upper gun deck. The ship's boats were berthed there, but there was enough light for the ship's sailmaker and his assistant to sit, carefully inspecting one of the sails.

Along either side, the cannons that had been pulled in swarmed with their gun crews. The gunners were cleaning and checking the guns. One cannon had been hoisted up so that a pair of carpenters could repair its carriage.

"Come along, Mr. James," Foster said. "We still got a ways to go."

Matt followed the sailor down the companionway to the lower gun deck, where it was darker but with similar activity to the deck above. They descended further, to the orlop deck.

The orlop was darker than the decks above. It was lit mostly by oil lamp, with only a small amount of natural light filtering down through latticed hatch covers. The walls were painted white, which helped with the lighting, but it was still dim. Foster led him aft to a series of doors set into walls that paralleled the shape of the stern of the ship. They stopped at one of the doors. It opened into a narrow cabin with a single bunk.

"This is your cabin, sir," Foster said and left, grumbling to himself.

Matt stepped into the cabin. It was quite dark. He called for a passing volunteer to get the cabin's small oil lamp lit. Once he had light, he closed the door and examined his living space. There was just enough room for him to turn around. The bunk was narrow but looked long enough for Matt to lay fully stretched out. It was tall enough to reach Matt's chest. There was a set of drawers and a cabinet built into the bunk's base. A simple chair and a small table completed the furnishings. The lamp hung from a chain fixed to the deck above. Matt's head nearly brushed the ceiling, making the lamp a bit of a hazard.

Matt sat on the chair. He pulled out his orders and looked at them. Sure enough, the paper showed that he had been assigned to the Mars as surgeon's mate. He puzzled over why it listed his last name as James, which also happened to be his middle name. There had to be some reason, but he couldn't fathom what it might be.

He opened his sea bag and looked through it. It held another set of clothing like the one he wore and a dress version of the jacket. There was a heavy wool coat as well. He found a writing kit, a shaving kit, and wrapped with a flint and steel, a Starfleet communicator.

He tapped it and said softly, "Foster to Victory, can you hear me?" Silence. Well, it couldn't be that easy. He put the communicator away. There would be time later to try it again.

He put away his gear. In the cabinet, he found a leather satchel containing a surgeon's kit. He threw the satchel's strap over his shoulder and left his cabin to find the ship's surgeon.

He found Torkington holding his daily sick call on the upper gun deck, just forward of the main mast. He'd been hidden by the mast when Matt had passed through earlier. As the Starfleet officer approached, the man was talking to a sailor.

"Take it easy on that hand, Lowe," the surgeon said. "You've got 3 days light duty. Make a note of it." That last sentence was directed toward a volunteer who had the surgeon's logbook. The young man wrote slowly and laboriously.

"I'm Matthew James, your new surgeon's mate," Matt said, once the surgeon had finished.

Torkington peered up at him. He was a short man with a round face. He was older than Matt, maybe in his mid to late 40s. When he stood, he had the powerful, compact build of a brawler. He shook Matt's hand with a strong grip, and Matt returned it as well as he could. Matt seemed to have passed that test, for the surgeon nodded as he released the younger man's hand. But he was not done testing Matt.

"It's about time," he said with an upper-class accent. "You were supposed to be here 3 days ago."

Matt shrugged, "You know the Navy, hurry up and wait."

"Hmm... yes," Torkington replied. "Curious expression, but I catch your meaning." It was odd, that cultured voice coming out of someone who looked like he should be bare-knuckle fighting in some quayside dive.

"This is my last injury of the day, James," he continued as he stood and stretched. "Why don't you have a look at him?"

"Of course," Matt said. He sat on the stool the surgeon had vacated. "What is the problem, Mr...?"

"Boys," grunted the man who limped up and dropped onto the bench in front of Matt. "I vas coming down the main topmast und I got this." He pulled up the left leg of his slops.

The man spoke with a strained German accent. His sun-bleached hair and beard made him look older than he was. Beads of sweat covered his deeply tanned forehead, and there was a tightness at the corners of his mouth as he sought to hide his pain. Matt looked down at Boys' leg and was taken aback for a moment.

A sliver of wood, about 20 cm long, had slid half its length just under the skin on the inner side of the sailor's left calf. Blood oozed around the splinter at the entry wound. Matt rummaged through his bag to find an instrument that resembled a pair of pliers.

"Do you want something to bite?" Matt asked. Boys shook his head. The science officer gripped the splinter with the pliers and pulled it out quickly. The sailor gasped. Blood flowed. Matt allowed it to run for a moment before covering the wound with some clean cotton rags that Torkington handed him. He held the cloth in place until the blood stopped flowing. He then dressed the wound.

"You want to change the dressing every day. Wash it with new sea water when you change the dressing," Matt told him. "You're to stay out of the rigging for 3 days. Come back to see the surgeon or myself in a week to have it checked."

He handed the splinter to Boys. "Take this to the carpenter and tell him where you found it." Torkington raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. The sailor took the splinter and hobbled away.

"You handled that well, James," the surgeon said after the sailor left. "But sending him to Mr William?"

"Splinters on the top main could be a sign of a problem. I wouldn't want it to shatter in the middle of a battle."

"No, I suppose not," Torkington replied thoughtfully. "Let me show you around the ship."

The surgeon led Matt to the sick bay. Located at the forward end of the upper gun deck, the bay held only a pair of sailors being treated for scurvy. Torkington put away his gear before quickly checking the sailors. Once he had finished with them, the surgeon led Matt down the forward companionway to the orlop deck.

As they made their way down, Torkington asked, "What do you think of our mission, James?"

"Napoleon must be stopped wherever he threatens us, on land or at sea," Matt said.

"And our part in it?" the surgeon said. "What of it?"

"I think there’s going to be a battle tomorrow," Matt replied.

"Yes, likely so," the surgeon said. "And we must be ready ro play our part."

They went aft to the section of the ship just forward of the main mast. Here, at tables suspended by rope from the beams of the lower gun deck, sat a number of young men. Four of them sat clustered learning about navigation from a lieutenant. A pair of the young men sat across a table from each other, both to make best use of a lamp. One was reading a book and the other sewing a tear in a pair of breeches. Matt smiled to himself. Officers in training were called midshipmen because they used to be berthed amidships. And here the Starfleet officer was seeing living history: here were young officers in their quarters in the middle of the ship. But this part of the ship had another, darker use.

"This will be the cockpit, once the battle begins," Torkington said. "We'll be stationed here."

Matt nodded. He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle his duties here. The cockpit was where wounded crew were brought for treatment during battle. It would be difficult and stressful. Some of his apprehension must have shown on his face.

"Will this be your first battle?" Torkington asked.

Matt thought furiously for an appropriate response. He had been in several battles, but what would this ancient sailor know about Kzinti, or about Orion pirates? "Uh, the first I'll be in, yes," he said at last. "I saw a few as a child during the rebellion."

"The rebellion?" Torkington nodded. "I thought you sounded American."

"My father was a Loyalist," Matt replied. "I was born near Boston, but we were forced off our land and moved to Toronto."

Matt was rather proud of his improvised back story. More importantly, Torkington seemed to accept it.

The surgeon nodded again. "A difficult situation," he said. He walked around the cockpit, checking the supplies there, from the bundles of clean bandages to the surgical tools to the buckets of sand that would be spread onto the floor to help with footing. Once he was satisfied, Torkington released Matt to get cleaned up for supper in the wardroom.

There was tension in the air in the wardroom. Most of the warrant officers had pooled some of their wages to buy better provisions and seemed determined to relieve that tension via the old axiom 'eat, drink, and be merry'. Since Matt had just arrived and thus didn't have a share in the pool, he had to eat what the crew did. Supper was lobscowse made with beef. He quietly ate the hearty, stewlike dish with fresh bread and watered-down ale. It was one the best meals he'd ever eaten. He excused himself early and returned to his cabin.

Once he finished getting ready for bed, he got out the communicator. He opened the door to the cabin a crack to see if anyone was outside. It was clear. As an additional precaution, he opened the back of the device and adjusted the volume until he could just barely hear it.

He tapped it and said, "Foster to Victory."

He waited for a moment before trying again. No response. Next he tried a broader approach, "Foster to anyone within range."

Still no response. Matt hid the communicator and crawled into his bunk. He'd try again tomorrow, if he survived the battle. With that cheerful thought in his head, Matt closed his eyes and allowed the ship's motion to rock him to sleep.

 

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