He could barely move his head, but with his one good eye, he gazed around the compartment. Two dead men. A lot of blood. Wait! He was back in the magazine itself! There were no muskets, just barrels of powder secured all around.
If I’m in the magazine, where is that flickering light coming from?
He looked up, but couldn’t quite see. After much wriggling, he managed to force his head back just far enough.
Oh, bravo!
he said to himself as the charred rope parted and the burning rum bottle dropped.
The current ran swiftly here and the men and women in the launch had rowed for their lives. All knew
Ajax
might turn at any moment and chase them down, but a couple of those on the boat suspected there might be further reason for gaining distance while they could.
Ajax
’s own momentum and the prevailing wind kept her pointed east, while the current carried the launch and its occupants west-northwest. Therefore, they’d gained almost two miles’ distance from the ship when the night suddenly lit with a blinding flash that drew all their stares.
The entire aft half of
Ajax
erupted amid a yellow-red ball of fire, scattering masts, beams, yards, timbers, shards of burning rope and drifting canvas far across the sea. There was little steam left in her boiler, but a great steamy plume shot skyward when seawater touched the hot iron. Another similar blast demolished the forward part of the ship when the other magazine went. The bowsprit was launched entirely out of view like an enormous javelin.
Ajax
’s death took only seconds, but to those in the distant boat, it seemed to last much longer. The rolling, staccato, thunderous punch of the blast finally reached them with a physical jolt, and for what felt like whole minutes, flaming debris, blocks, an entire gun and carriage, bodies—or parts of bodies—rained down to splash amid the already vanishing flames.
“My ship,” murmured Rajendra.
“My God, Silva, what have you done?” Sandra whispered.
Dennis stood up in the boat and glared around at the dozen or so survivors. “Why is it ever’ time somethin’ like this happens, it’s ‘Lawsy me, what’s ol’ Silva done now’? I’m sick an’ tired of it, hear! Might give a fella the benefit o’ the doubt now an’ again!”
“Did you . . . do something . . . that might have destroyed that ship?” Rebecca asked quietly.
Dennis looked harshly at her for a moment, then glanced at his feet. “Well . . . what if I did? What were we gonna do?
Row
off from ’em? That wadn’t ever gonna work, not after Rajendra and his bunch decided they wanted to come with us! Sneakin’ off ourselves was one thing. They wouldn’ta noticed us gone till they came to feed us the next day, and we woulda had a lot of ocean to hide in.” He glared at the men from
Ajax
again. “A ship’s captain, engineer, carpenter—an’ who knows what else—disappear in the middle of a distraction like was necessary to get so many off, somebody’s gonna take notice! Somebody
did
!”
Rajendra stood too, slightly jostling the boat. “You . . . murdering filth! You
murder
my ship and all her crew and then have the nerve to say you did it because of
us
? Because we came with you? How would you have escaped without our help—without the help of some of the men you killed this night who had to stay behind?”
“It wadn’t
your
ship no more, genius!” Silva bellowed. He was fed up. “You were in the same fix we were. Don’t you
dare
stand there an’ act all sancti-fidious at
me
when you wouldn’t even rear up on your hind legs an’
try
to take your ship back! When
you
blew Cap’n Lelaa’s ship outa the water with all
her
people on it! You coulda saved your ship then, if you’d pulled your pistol an’ shot Billingsly square betwixt the eyes! That prob’ly woulda been the end of it right there, because whatever else you are, or your crew was, you were the
goddamn captain
! Instead, you said, ‘Yes, sir! You’re the boss!’ an’ killed two hundred of
our
folks! Then you slunk around whinin’ how it wadn’t your fault!”
Silva looked at Sandra, knowing she, at least, would believe his next words. “I had me a little plan to get us off the ship. Mighta worked. We mighta got off without killin’ hardly anybody”—he shrugged—“or I mighta still blown up your ship. That was always plan B. When I heard your plan, I figgered it ’ud be easier—an’ safer—for
us
an’ the
princess
. But only if I dusted off plan B an’ made it part o’ plan A! Well, the plans worked, yours an’ mine, an’ here we are. I’m sorry if I killed some good fellas, but I ain’t
that
damn sorry.” He pointed at the pistol on Rajendra’s belt. “You can try to shoot me now, an’ maybe that’ll prove you ain’t as yellow as I think you are, but I’ll kill you an’ you’ll just be dead instead o’ helpin’ out now, when your princess needs you. Or you can prove you weren’t never yellow at all—just confused an’ a little scared, in a fix you hadn’t come upon before. I’ve heard that happens to folks. You can prove that by bein’ a good captain for what’s left of your crew, an’ by helpin’ Larry an’ Captain Lelaa—if she’ll have you—navigate our way to the boosum o’ Larry’s lovin’ home.”
Slowly, Rajendra sat. Some of what Silva had said must have struck a chord, because he lowered his eyes and then stared at the few distant flickering fires that marked the grave of his ship and crew. His expression was desolate. “Who is to be in charge, then?” he finally asked, controlling his voice.
“Lieutenant—rather, Minister—Tucker,” Princess Rebecca said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now that we’re all on the same side, she is the highest-ranking official present, myself excluded. If you prefer, you may consider her as my proxy, but you
will
obey her.”
“What about
him
?” asked the engineer, referring to Silva.
“As has been most . . . eloquently . . . presented, if Mr. Silva is to be arrested, I must have Captain Rajendra arrested as well. What purpose would that serve? Mr. Silva will retain his position as my chief armsman and personal protector—provided he at least consults me before destroying any more of His Majesty’s property.”
Dennis looked at the girl. He’d more than half expected her to despise him for what he’d done, and the relief he felt was indescribable.
“Well,” he said, a bit huskily, “I’ll sure try.”
Sandra took a deep breath. “All right, let’s get on with it. Captain Lelaa, you have the helm. Lawrence, assist her with the compass, if you please. Captain Rajendra? I assume this vessel has a sail?”
CHAPTER 24
“
R
eport from the crow’s nest, Captain,” Reynolds said. “Sail on the horizon, bearing zero one zero.”
“Very well. Helm, make your course zero one zero, if you please,” Matt ordered. He raised his binoculars.
“Making my course see-ro one see-ro, ay!” replied Staas-Fin at the wheel.
“Uh, Skipper?” Reynolds continued. “Wouldn’t this be a good time to put my plane in the water and let me fly over there and have a look?”
Matt restrained the grin that tried to form. Reynolds took his new calling as a naval aviator very seriously, and by all accounts he was a good pilot. He and his small flight and maintenance crew cared for the Nancy meticulously. They’d even worked out a number of the problems associated with stowing, rigging out and recovering the plane, and protecting it from the elements. They still hadn’t had a chance to actually fly the thing yet, and partially that was due to the time it required to launch and recover the aircraft. Mostly, Matt admitted to himself, he personally didn’t want to risk the valuable, fragile resource the plane represented, or the young, excitable, but steady ensign he’d grown so fond of. So far, in addition to his Special Air Detail duties, Reynolds had been stuck in his old job as bridge talker, for the most part. He was starting to feel a little put-upon and it showed.
“Not just yet, Ensign. The sea’s got a little chop to it. Besides, I expect that’ll be
Achilles
, based on our position. If we spot anything on the horizon we’re slightly less sure of, you can risk your crazy neck in that goofy contraption then.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Fred replied, a little wistfully.
The sail was indeed
Achilles
, and they easily overhauled her at twenty knots by early afternoon. Both ships flew their recognition numbers as they approached, even though each captain would have known the other’s ship anywhere. It was a procedure they’d agreed on in advance among themselves—just in case.
Walker
slowed to match
Achilles’
nine knots. It was a respectable pace, considering the wind and the drag of the freewheeling paddles. Jenks was undoubtedly conserving fuel, and running the engine wouldn’t have given him a dramatic speed increase in any event. Matt recognized his counterpart standing on the elevated conning platform amidships, between the paddle boxes. Stepping onto the port bridge wing, he raised his speaking trumpet.
“It’s good to see you,
Achilles
!” he shouted, his voice crossing the distance between the ships with a tinny aspect.
“You cut a fine figure, Captain Reddy,” Jenks replied. “Your beautiful ship is quite the rage aboard here! To have you so effortlessly come streaking alongside within an hour of sighting you has been a marvelous sight to behold, while we here labor along and toil for every knot! I must protest your choice of such a drab color for such an elegant lady, however! Gray, for heaven’s sake! And I do fear I perceive a streak or two of rust! Clearly you’ve had a difficult passage!”
Matt laughed. He couldn’t help it. For the first time, perhaps, he caught himself
liking
Jenks.
“Rust, he says!” the Bosun bawled on the fo’c’sle. “Did you hear that, you shif’less pack o’ malingerers? If there’s a
speck
of rust anywhere on this ship, I want it chipped and painted if you have to hang over the side by your useless
tails
!”
Lord
, thought Matt yet again,
in spite of
everything
, some things never change
.
Thank God
. Of course, in his own way the Bosun was a genius. The man was a hero to the crew—to the entire Alliance—and even “Super Bosun” was an inadequate title. He had the moral authority of a thundering, wrathful God, and his increasing harangues were probably carefully calculated to keep the Lemurian crew from dwelling on the now obvious fact that they’d steamed beyond where any of their kind had ever traveled. Possibly only two things kept the more nervous ’Cats diligently at their duty: the persistent and familiar sense of normal gravity that proved they weren’t about to
fall
off the world, and the absolute certainty the Bosun would contrive to
throw
them off if he ever caught them cringing in their racks.
“Maybe we should steam in company for the day and through the night,” Matt shouted across. “Then spread out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d be honored if you and your officers would join us for dinner. Juan”—he smirked slightly—“and Lanier have been preparing something special in anticipation of your visit.”
“Delighted, Captain Reddy. It would be
my
honor.”
Dinner was served in the wardroom with as much pomp as Juan could manage. He hovered near the guests with a carafe of monkey joe in one hand, towel draped over his arm. His wardroom breakfasts had become legendary, but he rarely got a chance to entertain. For this dinner, he was at his most formal best, and though mess dress hadn’t been exactly prescribed, everyone managed as best they could. Matt’s own dress uniform was one of his few prewar outfits Juan had managed to maintain. He’d even sent it ashore with other important items before
Walker
’s last fight.
Earl Lanier entered with as much dignity as possible, carrying a tray of appetizers. He’d somehow stuffed his swollen frame into his own dingy mess dress and wore a long, greasy apron tied around his chest and under his arms that hung nearly to his shins. Laying the tray on the green linoleum table, he removed the lid with a steamy flourish. Nestled neatly around a sauce tureen were dozens of smoky pink cylindrical shapes, decorated with a possibly more edible leafy garnish. Matt’s face fell, as did the faces of all the human destroyermen. In his ongoing effort to use the damn things up, Lanier had prepared an appetizer of Vienna sausages, or “scum weenies,” as some called them. Juan almost crashed into Lanier, forcing him into the passageway beyond the curtain, where he proceeded to berate him in highly agitated Tagalog.
“Ah, cooks and their sensibilities!” Jenks said, spearing an oozing sausage with a fork. After dipping the object in the sauce, he popped it in his mouth. “Um . . . most interesting,” he accomplished at last, forcing himself to swallow.
“Yes, well . . .” was all Matt could manage. The “appetizer” remained little sampled except by Chack and some of the other ’Cats, who actually seemed to like the things. Sooner than expected, Juan returned with the main course: a mountainous, glazed “pleezy-sore” roast. He quickly removed the offending tray. The excellent roast was much more enthusiastically received and consumed with great relish. Juan also brought in some other dishes: steamed vegetables of some sort that tasted a lot like squash, and some very ordinary-looking sautéed mushrooms. There were tankards of fresh polta juice and pitchers of the very last iced tea known to exist on the planet. The ice came from the big refrigerator-freezer on deck behind the blower, and Spanky and Lanier themselves had teamed up to repair it. Ice, and the cold water that came from the little built-in drinking fountain, was always welcome, and of course the truck-size machine allowed them to carry perishables.
The dinner was a huge success, and to Juan’s satisfaction, everything was much appreciated and commented on. He might kill Lanier later, but for a time, he was in his favorite element.After the last remove, Jenks spoke up. “A most flavorful dinner.” He patted his stomach. “Perhaps too flavorful!” He turned to Juan. “You and Mr. Lanier have my heartiest compliments! Even the iced tea! How refreshing! We usually take tea hot, you know. Even if we had a means of making ice at sea, I don’t suppose it has ever occurred to anyone to ice tea before!” He paused, and everyone looked at him with keen interest. Of
course
the Empire would know tea! Planting and growing some of the “founder’s” cargo would probably have been one of their first imperatives!