“What the
hell
are you doing?” he bellowed, in a voice carrying the length of the ship. He ran forward, yelling as he went, “Starboard battery! At my command! Fire as they bear!” Reaching the foremost gun under the fo’c’sle on the starboard side, he elbowed the Lemurian gunner aside and peered through the gun port, sighting along the top of the barrel. A moment more and it would be pointing at the enemy ship. All thought of finesse, and firing at a specific point, was gone. They had to get this first broadside off as quickly as they could, as effectively as they could, and break the shock that had seized the ship. Stepping back, Chapelle looked at the ’Cat gunner.
“Get hold of yourself,” he growled. “So they’ve got guns. So what? They don’t know how to use them, do they?” The gunner jerked a nod. Chapelle glanced through the port again. “Fire!”
The refugees in the boats cheered lustily when the first blossoms of smoke appeared. Safir had told them what to expect, and they probably thought the stabbing flames and smoke were the result of
Donaghey
’s fire. But in the front of the barge where she, Alden, and Haakar-Faask stood, there was silence. The queen clutched her protector’s arm, and her blood felt like ice.
“Holy shit.” Pete gasped.
“Should we return to shore?” Faask asked her quietly.
“Not yet.”
“No, not yet,” Alden agreed grimly. “We need to see this.”
One by one,
Donaghey
’s guns replied to the unexpected barrage, as Russ Chapelle raced down the line, exhorting the gun’s crews to do their duty. With each resounding crash it seemed the effect of the enemy surprise lifted a little more. By the time he reached the last gun under the quarterdeck, he believed the crisis was past. All the crew were veterans of fierce fighting, and many, survivors of
Nerracca
or transferees from
Walker
, had even been on the receiving end of
Amagi
’s mighty salvos. The constant drill and discipline they’d learned also helped them recover, and soon they were firing with the same skill and dedication they showed during the daily exercises. Guardedly satisfied, Russ mopped his brow and left the gun divisions under the direction of the officer trainees, or midshipmen, commanding them and ascended to the quarterdeck. Garrett was standing near the wheel, glassing the results of their fire on the first Grik ship. Chapelle was hard-pressed to see through the smoke, but it looked like they’d done little damage. A few shot holes in her sails, maybe. He shook his head.
“Sorry about that, Skipper,” he said, joining
Donaghey
’s commander.
“Nothing to be sorry about. It shook everybody up. Me too. My God . . .
Guns
!” He lowered his voice. “Thanks.”
“What for?”
Garrett’s lips formed a small smile; then he gestured at the enemy ships. They were about to cross the second ship’s bow. The starboard battery of the first—they seemed to have only five or six guns to a side—fired another ineffectual broadside that did little more than churn the sea in their wake, but the gun ports were open on the ship they approached.
“At least their gunnery isn’t very good,” Chapelle observed. Just then, a rolling broadside erupted from the next ship in line. Like the first, the angle was poor, but the range was much closer, and they felt an unmistakable shudder beneath their feet when a couple of shots struck home. A high-pitched, keening wail arose from forward.
“They’re learning fast,” said Garrett grimly. He turned to his second in command. “As soon as we rake the third ship, we’ll come about and do it again. Make sure we keep our distance. If we foul one of them, the others will gang up on us and board”—he paused—“and their crews are a lot bigger than ours.” He didn’t need to remind them what would happen if they were overwhelmed. A quick death, at best. He glanced astern at the distant, bobbing barges. “We have to win this, and we have to do it quickly.” He looked at Chapelle. “I want you to hammer those ships if you have to aim every gun yourself.” Russ nodded and raced back down the ladder. Garrett watched him go and then shook his head at Taak-Fas. “A hell of a thing,” he said in frustration.
The cheering in the boats had stopped when it became obvious that all the ships were using cannons—something their queen assured them only the alliance possessed. They watched in quiet awe as the single ship opposed the three, and nimbly maneuvered to cross their vulnerable bows again. The deep, throbbing boom of gunfire reached them from across the water, and white smoke gushed downwind. A small cheer was raised when a Grik mast tottered forward, taking the top of the next one in line. The ship quickly slewed, beam-on to the wind, as the fallen mass of timber and sails dragged it around. As though a preplanned maneuver, the newly presented broadside thundered out and
Donaghey
visibly shivered from the impact. Splashes from debris and shot fell all around her, but she appeared little damaged, and punished her tormentor in response. For a long while, it seemed, while
Donaghey
gathered way, she lingered near the bow of the closest enemy ship, and a furious exchange of gunfire ensued. Two of the Grik were now firing at
Donaghey
while she concentrated all her efforts on the one helpless to respond. Even from the distant, pitching boat, Safir saw that the enemy was beginning to hurt Garrett’s ship, and she shrank from the thought of what he and his crew were enduring. The choking smoke, the noise, the flying splinters and metal that could tear their bodies apart. But she knew what he was doing. He was trying to destroy the enemy by concentrating all his fire on one at a time, and it was working. By now, the closest Grik was a battered wreck. Only her mainmast still stood, and flailing lines and fallen spars hopelessly snarled the yards.
Donaghey
edged past, beginning to play her guns upon the next in line.
Suddenly black smoke gushed from the derelict, and almost immediately the people in the boats saw orange flames leaping from her forward gun ports. They cheered. All three of the other ships—both Grik and alliance—immediately steered away from the one that was afire. The Grik in the center of the line was too eager to get at
Donaghey
, however, and had closed the distance too much. When she tried to turn, her mizzen rigging fouled the shrouds of her burning sister, and they collided and twisted together in a flaming embrace. White smoke vomited skyward, mixed with black, and clouds of burning canvas and ash drifted downwind, some coming to rest on
Donaghey
, as she tried to gain some distance.
A brilliant flash of light followed by a tremendous thunderclap explosion tore across the wave tops at the drifting boats, now less than four miles away. Only the hands of her devoted protector prevented Queen Maraan from falling into the sea. When she regained her balance and looked again, at first all she saw was a monstrous fog bank of dirty smoke and thousands of splashes, large and small, covering an area of several square miles. A few even came uncomfortably close to the boats. As the smoke gradually dispersed, she finally caught sight of the two remaining ships.
Both had been horribly mauled by the massive explosion.
Donaghey
’s sails were a tattered, flailing mess, and her mizzenmast had fallen against the main, fouling its yards and creating a jumble of tangled rigging. She was listing to starboard, and her stern looked like a mountain fish had taken a bite out of it. The Grik still had all her masts, but her sails were shredded to the point of uselessness.
“We must return to shore,” she said, her voice wooden.
“But . . .” Faask began to object, but Safir shook her head.
“Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett cannot concern himself with us now. He will be hard-pressed to save his ship. We are land folk, but I can tell which way the wind is blowing. If
Donaghey
is very fortunate, she will be carried around the point. Perhaps she can make repairs and return for us then. If she does not clear the point, she will be wrecked, and there is nothing we can do to stop that.”
For a long moment she watched the stricken ships drifting downwind. Occasionally a puff of smoke heralded the report of a gun from one ship or the other as they continued to fire whenever they could. She thought she could even hear the shrieks of the wounded and shouted commands over the intervening distance, but that was probably just her imagination. Whatever happened to
Donaghey
now, she’d have to see to her own survival, just as Safir Maraan had to see to the survival of those who depended on her. If
Donaghey
couldn’t return, she knew it would become far more difficult to rescue them. With the Grik guarding the approaches with cannons on their ships, no single ship would dare make the attempt.
Without the explosion that crippled her, she believed
Donaghey
could have defeated all three Grik vessels armed with cannons. The enemy had clearly not known how best to employ their new weapons. But they were learning, and with their limitless numbers, they were unlikely to be so amateurish and unprepared again. Next time there might be a dozen ships sent to do what three had done today.
Safir sent a prayer to the Sun that
Donaghey
—and her friend Garrett—could escape or defeat the remaining Grik ship, and quickly mend her wounds. Perhaps then she might return for them before the enemy did. The thought of Garrett sent a chill down her spine, because it reminded her of someone else. If
Donaghey
survived but couldn’t come back, Safir would be stranded with the rest of the refugees the alliance may no longer have the power to rescue. What would Chack think? What would he
do
? Chack had accompanied Captain Reddy on the expedition to Manila, but with the magic of the Americans’ radio, he’d know what happened as soon as
Donaghey
made port. With the sudden thought of her beloved, a shiver of sadness and fear crept deep into her bones.
“To the shore,” she repeated in a voice she didn’t recognize.
An hour after the explosion, the surviving Grik ship was worse off than she’d appeared at first. None of her masts had fallen, but all her sails were rags, and so far no replacements had been sent aloft. Her deck was like an anthill, stirred with a stick, choked with her surviving warriors. They seemed to have no direction, no guidance at all, and all they appeared able to manage was to rush about and roar with frustrated rage as the wind and current swept them ever closer to the breakers. At least
Donaghey
could still make steerageway, and she’d continued to claw away from the menacing shore until the two ships exchanged their relative positions. The cannonade never completely ceased, but it became sporadic and ineffective. Occasionally the Grik ship commenced a spirited fire, but as often as not the guns weren’t even pointed in
Donaghey
’s direction. It was bizarre. The only explanation was perhaps her Hij officers had been killed, and no one remained to tell the Uul warriors what to do. Once it was clear they had little to fear from the enemy, most of
Donaghey
’s crew ignored the Grik and focused on saving their ship. The Grik was inshore now, and headed straight for the shoals and booming surf of the protruding point.
Garrett sat on one of the quarterdeck gun carriages, mopping his face with his hat and grimacing with pain while the Lemurian surgeon bound his wound. A large splinter had been imbedded in his thigh, and the waves of agony caused by its removal were only now beginning to subside. All around him was chaos like he’d never known. Shattered timbers and shredded sailcloth festooned the deck, and seemingly thousands of frayed and ragged lines created a nightmare web of destruction. He’d seen his share of naval combat in the last year, first against the Japanese, then against the Grik—and Japanese. But he’d always been on
Walker
when the fighting took place. He knew war was terrible, terrifying, and bloody—sometimes catastrophically so—and naval warfare could seem particularly overwhelming. Even so, he’d believed he was ready for a command of his own. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He’d trained to become a destroyerman in . . . well, yes, a comparatively modern navy. He was a good gunnery officer, and managing his new ship’s weaponry wasn’t so different from firing
Walker
’s in local control. He could navigate and stand a watch, and he wasn’t afraid to fight. Thanks to the old admiral’s manual, he’d even learned to handle
Donaghey
in a fairly competent fashion. But this type of warfare—gone for the most part for a hundred years on his own world—was completely different from what he’d been prepared for. The stakes were the same, and so was the objective: destroy the enemy before he could destroy you. The results were apparently the same as well: shredded bodies, blood-splashed decks, and a stunned sense of unreality. But the
way
it happened and the pace of it all were what so disconcerted him. (He hadn’t suspected splinters would be such a menace, for example.) He knew even the twenty-five-year-old destroyer he was accustomed to was far more complex, but somehow, on a sailing ship the complexity was much more apparent—particularly when it had been so horribly brutalized.
Even now, with a pause in the action, the air was filled with screams and shouts, grinding timbers, and chopping axes. The occasional gun roared, when enough debris was cleared to allow it to fire at the equally battered enemy. But above all the unfamiliar sounds of this new/old type of war, there was a deafening silence. A silence of absence. Instead of the comforting roar of the blower, and the grinding, rasping, high-pitched wheeze of the turbines, there was only the capricious wind. A wind that would drive them onto the deadly shoals as well if they couldn’t quickly bend it to their will.
“Cease firing,” he ground out through clenched teeth, when Chapelle approached to report. The blond torpedoman didn’t seem injured, but his shirt was torn and spattered with blood.