Yes! more gwad-awful fan fic. This time it's Captain Wilde, commander of the Zootopian Sloop-of-war Night Howler. Selaxes is doing some more stories and I've been sucked in again.

Nicolas woke with a particularly petulant whine. "Too early for civilized folk."

"And who is to say the likes of you are civilized?" Judy taunted. She was a particularly early riser, and had been instructed by her captain to get him up well before dawn today. As captain he was not one to tarry abed, though given his vulpine druthers, relished at least a few extra hours. But he had special plans for the day that demanded this execrable early rise.

"You cut me so, cruel woman. Yet, as I have been deemed an Officer and Gentlebeast of the Zootopian Navy, I must obviously be a creature of the highest calibre."

"Or at least, the 'right' calibre." the mischievous Bunny poked at her Fox's belly, all too close to his sheathed masculinity.

"Ah, ah!" He gripped her paw in admonishment, "That was not what I had in mind for this ungwadly early rising. And there is too little time before proper sunrise to afford the distraction, my wanton wife."

He got dressed in the dark, well practiced as a ship's captain, as the demands of his duties knew no hour nor waited for a light to be struck. To which Judy huffed ever so slightly when she got a lamp up, missing him in his undressed glory. He, on the other paw, had the appreciation of his Mate's slim grey form before she too began to dress for the day's duty.

"While you get pretty," Judy gave him a withering glance, as she doffed her simple and unflattering midshipmammal's uniform, "I'll be getting things ready for the morning's festivities." That included rousing the ship's drummer boy, a rather incongruously large Zebra of a lad, who was no more enthusiastic than his captain for the attention. But true to his duty, he was up with his master on the aft deck in just a moment.

The Night Howler's Captain surveyed the ship and the set of sky and sea. Only the night keen eyes of the watch were with him in discerning the pre-dawn horizon and assessed the somewhat filthy weather. Gusty and wet, but not actually stormy, though the strong base swell would give a good pitch and roll for what he had in store for his crew.

"All hands, battle stations!" And at the command, the drum rolled for every hand to their post. Though predawn, and most not yet out of bed, the Captain knew that enemy action could come at nearly any time, and in low light or foul weather, preparation did not have the luxury of sighting at a distance and the protracted approach that action under sail might otherwise allow.

Their previous encounters had been without fault, but they were also under nearly ideal conditions. This would be a test of their mettle under less optimal circumstance.

In admirable time, each division signaled readiness. "Please note the time, Mr. North" The Captain instructed the Midshipmammal who was recording the minutes of the action for the log. It was good, but could always be better. But rather than simply repeating the drill, he decided to press on to the next step. "Mr. Butterworth, inform the gunnery master that he and the other senior crew leaders have been taken by an unlucky bit of grape shot."

Giving the runner a few moments to relay the message, the Captain considered the sea state and called to the helm, "Prepare to come into the swell, I'd like a good roll to give our gunners a bit of a work out." The helm and sailing master called out the appropriate commands to the mammals on deck and aloft to adjust the rig and sail, with appropriate warning for the pitch in the turn and subsequent roll thereafter.

"All batteries load drill and be ready to fire on command" and the rumble of heavy gun carriages could be felt as well as heard as they were 'loaded' and then prepared to be run out. At the ready signal, "Port batteries, run out and prepare to fire as you bear-" a pause, "Fire!"

And for a good while with the ship in maneuver, the gunnery crews slaved over their 'hot' guns. The powder boys relayed ball and pantomimed charges of powder to the crews who acted out the swabbing, charging, and loading of their mix of bronze and iron pieces while the gunners aimed and 'fired' at the non-existent enemy.

With the current sea state, maneuvering the guns required timing and extra care. Each piece weighed the better part of a ton, and to attempt to haul it 'up hill' in a roll or keep it in check from running 'down hill' was half the purpose of the exercise. The firing masters too needed practice in timing their shots to the ship's roll, especially as the match-lit guns often had a little hesitation, as they were touched off.

Then it happened.

Shouts, a scream, then felt more than heard, the thud of metal and wood shuddering through the length of the hull and a chorus of more screams from the gun deck.

"Helm, straight in the swell! Get us slow and steady! Stand down from battle stations!" The captain and more experienced crew knew what had happened even before a runner came up. "Captain, second starboard gun got loose in the roll. Three crew hurt, one badly!" His Judy was down there, as a midshipmammal in training she was required to experience the roles she might have to attend to as any trainee would. That there was no mention of her implied she was not a casualty.

The Captain nodded to his second, who then began barking appropriate orders, as he sprinted to the gun deck to assess for himself the extent of damage.

The Night Howler's crew was well disciplined; recognizing that order in the face of catastrophe was vital to best serve the situation. So, by the time the Captain arrived, the offending piece was already hauled back to its place and re-secured, the other gun crews standing by their stations awaiting orders. Only those crew of the piece and its victims were out of position, tending to each other's injuries, along with the deck officers and gun masters.

Nick had seen worse, but this was bad enough. Crushed toes, a missing digit, a broken leg, and a crewmammal, not obviously marked, but lying on the deck in obvious pain.

"It's Cooper, got pinned between the guns" Mr. Whitefoot explained, pointing to the scars across the deck and the scuffed carriages of the number two and opposite number three guns.

"How did this happen?"

"Slipped, Sir. Hauling at the gun, and in the roll, we slipped and it got away from us." The lead of the gun crew, now with a broken leg, explained, "Caught young Baiggle's paw in the block." The missing digit.

"Slipped?" And in that moment Nick noticed the wet deck. There had not been any breaking waves, but wind-caught spray through the ports and the spatter of rain had wetted the deck enough to be an issue. In the normal events of a sailor's tasks, a wet and sometimes slippery deck was simply a thing to be adjusted for. But in the heat of battle, especially with the addition of blood and worse, could become a deadly distraction, so the practice of applying sand for traction was common.

"Mr. Whitefoot, why were the decks not sanded?"

"Sir?" Mr. Whitefoot, a rather slight Coyote and still very young Ensign, who was, for the moment, the 'senior' officer of the gun deck.

The Captain looked around to the others, many of which were well-experienced gunners and saw the belated realization on their faces.

It took a further beat for the fact to strike the young officer, and he broke his stance at attention, his paws to his face in grief, "Oh Karma take me, it was just a drill..." and he wailed in his high coyote yip.

"Let this be a lesson for you all, to keep yourselves and your crewmates safe takes precedent over the chain of command. If you see a lapse, call it out. Don't wait for an officer to catch it."

The Captain returned to the Ensign, who struggled to regain his composure. "Mr. Whitefoot. The drill is over, and once the deck is secured, you can dismiss the crew for the day." He leaned in to the Coyote, "I will need a written draft from you by this evening on all the events of this morning."

As that was being straightened away, the Ships' Surgeon appeared at the Captain's sleeve. "Sir!" the rotund Cheetah gasped, less in exertion than emotion, "It looks bad for poor Cooper. I fear he's been crushed in the bowels, lower back and hips..."

Falls from the rigging, crushing injuries from shifting loads, and fire were the great dreads of ship board operations, even more than a watery grave, and the pair knew the likely lingering doom of the poor sailor. As did another.

"Sir!" Nick turned to his Mate, his Wife in all but formality. She had been standing to with the rest before, but upon hearing of the crewmammals injuries, broke ranks. "I'll be attending him for as long as it takes." Though she had already proved to be an excellent assistant to the surgeon, her action would properly warrant comment. But Nick could see an atypical fury in her eye rather than the expected compassion and though it best to pass, at least for the moment.

A stretcher was brought and the wretch was ever so gently maneuvered away to the surgeon's office. He tried to be brave, gripping his crewmates paws in passing, giving them a little reassuring nod, but a terrible faint keen escaped him as his body shuddered and twisted.

Later that morning Mr. Clawhauser approached his Captain. "Sir, have things mostly tidied up. Three toes and a finger short among the crew, and the broken leg ought to mend, though I'll need to keep an eye on the associated wounds to keep them from going foul."

"And Cooper?"

The Cheetah made a sad growl. "Young Mr. Wilde is attending him well enough."

"But?"

"You've seen her care for others. But she's taken this so - badly." He groped for words. "It is like she is personally affronted, furious with the situation."

The Fox kneaded his brow; this was a new and inexplicable aspect to his beloved Rabbit. "I'll talk to her."

So it was that at the noon bell he made his way to the surgery. There he found the poor creature, braced by bundled blankets to best pose and accommodate his crushed body. He lay slack jawed, unconscious by means of some potion to spare him the terrible wounds, the space already trace with the tragic stench of his fate. And there was his fair Bunny, half-sprawled on the bed besides him, stroking his wretched and weathered brow.

"Judith."

"I won't leave him this time." She muttered, almost hissed, never taking her eyes off the sad old dog. Then, more adamantly, "No one deserves to die alone."

A sentiment the Captain, her Husband, shared all too well. Comforting the dying was one of the harder lessons of his youth, but one taken most to heart. That she said 'this time' meant there was some as yet unknown history to her. He sat besides her, taking her other paw in his and waited.

Finally.

"My younger brother, William. I had all too many brothers, many dull louts, others wastrels and rakes, too much like the worst of my Father's habits and character. But little William, despite his sire, was of the most even temper, and..." At this, Judy turned and gave he Nick a weak smile.

But she turned away, looking at something not in the room as she continued. "We were out for the day in a horse cart, poor old Robbie. A wheel slid off the bank and we all tumbled down to the streambed. William got the worst of it, caught under the cart. Old Robbie panicked; there was blood, and the likely wrath of my father. He ran off. Never did hear what happened to him."

She sighed, and turned back to her best beloved. "I saw how badly he was hurt. I knew what was going to happen. But I ran. In the moment, I told myself it was to get help. But even then I knew I was just running away so I wouldn't watch him die."

Given what little he knew of the Hopps chronology, this was likely something out of her early childhood, and a circumstance that would make many adults quail. And he could appreciate her determination. She was a creature of deep passions and he was not about to begrudge her this vigil.

"Is there anything you need?"

"No." and she gave his paw a reassuring squeeze. "But he'll want to see his mates, and Mr. Whitefoot, and you, before the end."

Nick relayed that notion to his surgeon, and poor Mr. Clauhauser was dismayed at the prospect. "That means letting him come off the draught, and I can't bear to think as to the likely pain of it." He wrung his paws in consideration. "Fates strike me. And it may also hasten his passing." The Cheetah was a rather gentle soul and he was terribly torn over the issue of retaining life, even in the face of such suffering.

"So let it be by my command and responsibility, on my soul and before the Fates." The Captain's announcement was mostly for his friend's sake, as he was not so much a pious mammal. But if there was to be a final judgment, he was prepared to face it for those he held dear.

It was some hours later that he was summoned back. Cooper was awake and in something close to good spirits, given the residuals of the potions. But he was beginning to show a fever, and all knew that time was running out.

"Cap'n Nickolish, glad you could make it." The old Coyote announced blearily. "Me mates an' I have been talkin' 'bout what a pleasure its been servin' with ya." His watch mates stood around him, trying to look cheerful for their dying comrade and were clearly relieved to see their captain.

"I'm glad you still think so, given your sorry state."

"True. Rather have gone between Beth and Little Ruthie back at the Copper Rose, but there are worse ways." The two large ladies in question could well have crushed him as easily as the gun carriage, a running joke for those in the know.

Cooper was determined to keep the tone light, in his own slightly doped fashion. "Cap'n, I'd like ya to keep Whitefoot up. The lad's still off about things. Hell, half of us didn't catch it, and we know better." He feebly waved to the miserable looking Ensign and his mates gave the young Coyote some comradely chuffs.

"And you, Whitefoot," speaking to him more directly, "You know the Old Way, eh?" Seeing the sad nod, "Good. So you'll say the words when I'm gone, an' all will be square between us."

It would be another day before that would happen, though, thankfully, Clauhauser's treatments kept him sedated through what could have been the most terrible hours of his passing. The same could not be said for poor Judy, who stayed with him without rest for the whole time, swabbing his fever drenched body and otherwise assisting the Surgeon in caring for his bodily needs.

Later that night, with all but the overnight watch on deck, The Captain and the Ensign leaned on the stern rail. "So, how are you holding up after killing your first crewmammal?"

The Coyote recoiled, "Sir!?" he could only choke.

"No. That is what an officer is fated to do. This time it was by accident, a small oversight that cost a crewmember his life. Tomorrow, you might be faced with ordering your crew to a knowing death." The Captain withdrew a small flask from his coat and offered it to the Ensign. "That is the small and special hell we have to live with as officers."

"How do you, we...?"

"As it is with gold or blood, misers and spendthrifts rarely succeed in the long run. Its all in wise investment, recognizing what you are really buying, and what is the full cost." The Fox was not by any means an old grey muzzle, but he still marveled as to how much age there seemed between him and the Coyote. Offering sage advice like he would expect of someone twice his count in years.

"The best of us might cipher out a solution that costs little or nothing in that particular currency. But. Don't let seeking a 'best' solution blind you to the timely one. Delays can cost far more than haste." Nick thought of another factor, and his claws dug into the railing. "Finally, don't fob off those decisions to some other poor soul. There is a special damnation for that kind of cowardice, as well as new or different costs in that deferment."

"Thank you ever so, Sir." The Ensign found he needed to steady himself at the rail and failed to stifle a yawn. "Permission to take my leave, as it seems my bunk is calling me."

The Captain saluted the wobbly young Officer away, grateful that his Surgeon's medicinal enhancements to the flask would promise the poor lad some proper rest. He had had his own sleepless night in his youth and did not envy the rough education that still lay ahead for him.

He considered the flask himself. No. Captains, good captains at least, and as he implied, have their own special hells, and that included no respite in that kind of oblivion.

But he did have his own small reprieve, as he heard and smelled his mate in their shared bunk. There was still the tiny tang of the day's tragedy about her that no amount of washing would take away. But he did not begrudge it. Taking the bitter with the sweet was the most honest course in life. He could tell she was deathly exhausted and took special pains not to disturb her as he climbed in to bed. Nevertheless she instinctly shifted and snuggled into her 'big red bed-warmer'.

A good crew, a sound ship, a loving mate, all the ingredients he needed for his own earned rest.