by Eric Flint
“No more than two, Captain. Faster, and we may not keep to the path. It lays right atop a trench with sharply rising sides.”
Of course, Dirck realized, because the clever bastards dredged only that part. Like any good trap, it is easy to enter slowly, but disastrous if you try to get out quickly.
But, still . . . two knots? That meant almost three minutes from where they were now to the moment they’d clear the other end of the inlet. Which the Spanish must be anticipating, but we’ve got no choice.
“Leadsman, I’ll give you that two-knot limit, but keep us as far starboard as you can. Pilot, you heard that speed. Runner, get help to move this”—he waved at the tactical plot and everything near it—“down into the pilothouse. Make sure the armored shutters are in place. Pilot, once you’re at the wheel below, take a mark on a fixed object to steer by, in the event we can no longer see our path.” Or they shoot our leadsman off his platform like a sparrow off a fencepost.
After a brief upward sputtering of his troops’ muskets, Dirck resumed. “I want all sail handlers, lookouts on deck, no one aloft. If you don’t have a job, you help form those spare splinter shields into pillboxes, one around the base of each mast. Then pair up with the marksmen.” More discharges aimed up Billy Folly Hill. “You are their reloaders. Marksmen, keep their heads down.” Because if those sappers fix whatever has gone wrong, I’m pretty sure we’ll never see home again.
A distant report from the barrier bank; a single musket ball buzzed over their heads.
“Mounts One and Two, affix rear shields and then bring your weapons to bear on the hill.”
“But sir, we can’t elevate enough to—”
“Bear on the hill—at zero elevation, Master Gunner. And load explosive rounds.”
“To use against what? Sir?”
Simonszoon pointed to where the flanks of Billy Folly Hill met the channel. “There are sixty yards from the point where we enter the channel to where we leave it. Our enemies know we must pass through it slowly. That’s not chance. That was in their minds when they built this trap.” He straightened. “Be prepared for point-blank engagement on the port side as we go through. Any target capable of harming Resolve, you fire and keep firing. And I repeat: all explosive rounds. No reason to save anything. Same goes for all portside carronade batteries.”
“And us?” It was the master gunner of the starboard battery.
“Keep a sharp eye out your gunports. If you see any movement on the barrier bank, blow it into the next world. Master gunner, report on the forward Big Shot.”
“Weapon is inoperable, sir, but the position remains sound.”
“I’ll get something for overhead cover,” de Ruyter called out. “I’ll put one or two of the Wild Geese in there. With Winchesters: those are the guns for pinning down the sappers.”
Simonszoon nodded. “Excellent. And men”—he checked the five-minute glass; it was just over half run—“those are thirty-two-pounders above us. They will be reloaded in another minute . . . and I mean that to be the last time we hear them. Three minutes to open water! Stations!”
Chapter 60
Inlet to Simpson’s Lagoon, St. Maarten
Forty seconds later, Simonszoon nodded at the pilot and Resolve stirred forward again. Like hyenas following a wounded lion, the dozen broad skiffs that had emerged into the lagoon began paddling after her, but kept their distance.
“Sir,” Rik said, “I have been wondering. If you suspect that the channel is a gauntlet that we must run, should we not first shell the banks on either side? It might inflict casualties or at least sow confusion.”
Dirck smiled. “That is a fine thought and well worth trying, except for one thing.”
Rik frowned, then nodded, understanding. “The time and the sappers.”
“Yes: time and the sappers. We can’t know exactly what they have planned, but every second we spend in the lagoon increases the chance they’ll make sure we never leave it. Now, eyes front and alert. This will all happen very quic—”
The master gunner at Mount One stood high in his pulpit. He pointed portside, cried a warning Dirck could not understand over the bark of a Spanish musket that sent a ball ricocheting off the gun’s splinter shield—
—and then it truly did sound as if hell was breaking loose.
Mount One fired at the same instant that three Spanish guns at the base of Billy Folly Hill roared back, their discharge and recoil sending concealing brush flying in all directions. Dirck’s breath caught in his throat: Spanish forty-two-pounders. Probably from the lower decks of the decoys. At twenty yards.
Not even Resolve could withstand the punishment of those shells. Those that hit her portside hull sent strakes flying. The foreyard was blown free of the foremast, took three stays with it, shredding its topsail as the foresail ripped free of the flying spars. The whole hull shook in response to explosions that thundered low in her port side.
On the shore, half a dozen massive explosions tore at the Spanish battery at the base of the slope. Secondaries—ready powder—went off as well, but were almost lost in the overlapping blasts of the eight-inch shells. The concussive force sprang back from Billy Folly’s stony sides and rocked Resolve to starboard. All along the hill-bottom shelf, fires were already raging. If there was any movement there, Dirck could not see it.
Resolve’s damage bells were ringing. Men were shrieking in agony, more were shrieking orders. The engine room rang up. Before the chief could speak, Simonszoon yelled, “Are the engines damaged?”
“No, Captain, but—”
“Then hold two knots steady. For two more minutes.” He turned to Bjelke, who was alarmingly pale but calmly giving orders to the starboard battery to help recrew the port battery’s carronades while maintaining sufficient readiness among its own guns. “Damage report?”
“Still coming in, sir. Considerable structural damage to internal supports. Not taking any water. Two carronades gone, fires being fought. Three other breaches but all well above the waterline and afore the beam.”
Well, there were two reasons for that. Firstly, Resolve’s bow was the first part of her that came abreast of the Spanish guns. But there was another reason the Spanish hadn’t waited for a better broadside shot: if they hit the engines, they might lose their prize. And if a shell found the magazine, that became a near certainty.
Resolve’s bowsprit was moving past the halfway point, the one stretch at the base of the hill where there was no shelf of rock and trees: just a sheer stone face that disappeared into the water. In thirty seconds, they’d begin drawing abreast of the next shelf, which probably had at least as many guns waiting for them. Another dose of that kind of damage might be crippling.
Simonszoon turned to Rik. “No reason not to use your idea now.”
“Sir?”
“All remaining guns in the port battery, and Mounts One and Two are to fire blind at that second shelf. Aimpoint is at each gunner’s discretion. Continue firing until we are clear. Make sure our guns’ fire is spread across the length of the wooded area and—”
Up at the bow, the mitrailleuse was firing again, joined almost immediately by its twin on the port quarter. The enemy sappers had not been cowering, but moving; they rose up, much closer to the center of the slope, and began sprinting.
The two automatic weapons swept over them, tumbling most, sending a few scurrying to cover. The weapons ran dry at almost the same instant, which was just when the first of the portside carronades started firing blindly into the second half of the Spanish gauntlet. The thunder—of the guns, of the explosions—was deafening, rocks and debris flying back at Resolve from the impact points . . . along with another wave of grapeshot from the thirty-two-pounders high on the hill.
But Dirck Simonszoon did not allow himself to be distracted from the greatest threat to his ship: whatever the sappers were trying to reach. Which was why, in the midst of all the flying debris and deafening sound, and despite the peripheral sight of grapeshot blasting a
side the mainmast’s makeshift gabion and shredding its mainsail, he was the one who saw a new wave of sappers—at least two dozen—emerge from behind the cover of the sea-facing slope of Billy Folly Hill.
He snatched up the speaking trumpet, tried to shout a warning down Resolve’s weather deck to where most of his marksmen were clustered—and realized that he couldn’t even hear himself. He grabbed Rik by the shoulder, tried shouting: again, nothing. He jabbed his finger in the direction of the approaching sappers.
Rik’s eyes widened. He bolted out the side of the pilothouse, evidently meaning to run through the hellish flame and smoke and noise to direct their fire.
Some of the surviving marksmen had already seen the sappers, raised their pieces, fired, reached for the next readied rifle . . . only to discover that their reloaders had been killed or wounded by the latest wave of grapeshot. One or two still managed, despite the range and the uphill trajectory, to bring down one of the half-seen figures. The Wild Geese nestled alongside the ruined Big Shot brought down two more, feverishly cycling the levers of their Winchesters.
But that was not enough. The sappers had reached whatever site they had been striving to reach . . . just as the leadsman appeared in the starboard doorway of the pilothouse, bloodied and shouting words that Dirck could not hear until the man jammed his mouth against the captain’s right ear.
As if struggling up from the depths of a cotton-filled mineshaft, Simonszoon heard the words, “Starboard. Channel. Twenty-one. Feet. Go faster.” Dirck grabbed the fellow’s shoulder, wondered how he’d managed to survive the swirling chaos at the bow—and was blinded by a splash.
He wiped his eyes, saw blood on his hand, wondered if he’d been hit at the same instant he noticed that the leadsman was no longer standing in front of him, but had fallen into the pilothouse. He was facedown, a bullet hole in the back of his skull, with a pool of blood widening around his head like a gory halo.
Simonszoon turned, grabbed the pilot, repeated what he’d been told. Amazingly, the pilot still had enough hearing to understand, nod, and eagerly comply.
Resolve began accelerating. More of her carronades fired into the second half of the gauntlet and secondary explosions rocked that shelf. Spanish gun crews, evidently fearing that they would die if they did not fire, or refusing to die without giving reply, threw aside the brush covering their guns. They hauled mightily at the forty-two-pounders, but the massive weapons did not budge easily. At least not before Mounts One and Two saw the activity, swung to bear, and put an explosive round into two of them. The carronades saw and followed the example.
By God, Dirck thought, we just might make it. Closing the pilothouse door before some other sniper on the barrier bank took another shot, he felt and saw Resolve’s bow sliding gently toward the deeper water to starboard, saw that it had just drawn abreast of the second half of the gauntlet, most of which was now aflame and in ruins.
God’s Mighty Balls, we’re going to make it!
Billy Folly Hill, St. Maarten
God’s Hairy Balls, thought Captain Manrique Gallardo, I’m not going to make it.
But he accepted that sitting and staring at the surprisingly small hole that a bullet had punched in his rounded stomach really wasn’t achieving anything. And since he’d been stupid enough to personally lead this last attempt the reach the charges, he might as well make something of it.
Swaying to his feet, he saw the ruin that had been inflicted on the demon ship. You’re not so mighty now, are you? Gaping holes in your side, two with flames and black smoke pouring out, that round iron chimney sheared away, two masts gone. Yes, you are quite a mess. Of course, looking at what was left of his own forces—flames consuming the charred remains of men and guns—did temper his sense of achievement somewhat.
But not as much as the fact that the damn demon ship was still moving.
He’d originally considered running an extended fuse, to give himself time to get behind cover, but that was before the stupid little bullet had gone through his gut. Now, he was happy to use as short a fuse as he could.
He staggered the last few feet to where he’d directed his now extinct sappers to conceal the first of the string charges and sighed. At least he wouldn’t feel anything. The only disappointment, he decided as he reflected upon his earlier philosophical musings, was that he didn’t really feel like a hero or a martyr. He just felt like a fool for having run out here at all. Because as he’d rightly observed, “Better them than me.”
But now, as it turned out, he was one of “them.” As feelings went, that certainly wasn’t a pleasant one. Still, he knew of a way to get rid of it.
He unwound the slow-burning fuse from his forearm, touched it to the fuse, sat back, and thought, Yep; this is what comes of being a hero, you fool.
Inlet to Simpson’s Lagoon, St. Maarten
No sooner had Dirck Simonszoon surrendered to the opiate of optimism, than the universe slapped him in the face. Literally.
Despite his deafness, he heard an explosion loud enough to herald the end of the world. Its force blasted through the iron shutters, rattling the doors of the pilothouse and pushing him back toward the rear wall. Shaking off the sensation, he heard his men screaming in different languages, opened the shutters to see—
To see the channel-facing slope of Billy Folly Hill exploding upward as if it was, in fact, a bomb itself. Stones the size of wine casks and crates were flying in all directions, some toward Resolve. And through the bow wave of white dust rushing toward them, he could hear the stony growl of an upslope landslide building into an angry, descending roar.
Without waiting for instructions, the pilot had already pushed the throttle to half. Resolve leaped forward as he cheated the wheel another half point starboard. Dirck blinked, nodded. Maybe they could get out ahead of the tidal wave of angry stones—
The pilothouse’s starboard side door opened and Rik stumbled through. He saw the dead leadsman, looked at Dirck, blinked—probably at the blood covering him—leaned close and screamed as loud and shrill as a little girl: “Starboard side. Floats rising. Out of the weeds.” He looked back out the door and over the side. Simonszoon’s hearing was coming back, enough to hear the Norwegian exclaim, “No, the weeds are planted on the floats! I think—”
Dirck didn’t really hear the three explosions, but he felt them quite distinctly, because they went off in a rhythmically perfect sequence.
Each one hit Resolve like a hammer, staggered the pilot, who lost control of the wheel for a moment . . . the same moment that the rocks from Billy Folly Hill started crashing down upon—and in some cases, through—the deck.
Simonszoon closed his eyes, knowing what he would—and did—feel next. Even as his ship was still reeling from the pounding of the three mines on the right, the rockslide from the left pushed back. Resolve groaned, seemed to crack someplace deep within herself, and then, finally, the world was as still as it was soundless.
Dirck Simonszoon opened his eyes, ready to see the full measure of ruin, to help him witness and thereby believe the unbelievable:
Resolve was trapped, and it was all because of him.
Chapter 61
Off the southern coast, St. Maarten
Eddie Cantrell handed the flimsy back to Tromp, turned to Cas. “I need Mr. Svantner and the signalman’s mate down here in my quarters. Smartly. Tell the master signalman he is to man the set until relieved, and his first job is to send this in the clear: ‘Contingency: Last Dance.’” Eddie repeated the message slowly and precisely to make sure Cas understood every letter. As the boy raced past the door, he grabbed its handle and pulled it closed behind him without missing a step.
Maarten Tromp came away from the window of Intrepid’s not-very-great great cabin. He smiled faintly. “Technically, I believe it was my decision when to send that code.”
Eddie smacked his forehead. “My apologies, sir. I’m—well, I’m a little distracted. A lot of problems to solve at once.”
Tromp wave
d away his concern. “I suspect that is our enemy’s intent. And I agree with your decision to send now. We can’t allow our enemies to be the only ones who have impeccable timing, today.” He sat at the table, leaving the head seat for Eddie. Who nodded his thanks, but shook his head and started pacing. “Whatever is behind those smoke ships three miles to the east is going to be on top of us in under an hour. Admiral, what do we do about Resolve?”
Tromp folded his hands. “We must determine whether she can be salvaged, first.”
Eddie crossed his arms. “Frankly, sir, I don’t hold out a lot of hope for that. But if salvage proves feasible, we got a good start on it when you ordered the two tugs out of reserve and to move toward the inlet at full steam. They’ll probably get there about the same time as the two jachts you sent.”
Tromp smiled. “Which is your politely oblique way of affirming that the plans for getting Resolve’s crew off and towing her are already well in hand. But also, that we must now decide what to do if she cannot be saved. I would hear your thoughts on the matter, Commodore.”
A knock on the door. “Svantner?”
“Yes, sir. And Signalman’s Mate Franz Croll is with me.”
“Come in, and shut the door after you.”
They did, and seeing Tromp, both gave up-time salutes. Spreading like the flu, that, Eddie reflected.
Tromp acknowledged them from his seat. “We are deciding upon the fate of Resolve. I believe the commodore is about to tell me that we must scuttle her.”
Ignoring the goggle-eyed stares of the two new arrivals, Eddie frowned and muttered. “If we can. From what Dirck sent, I doubt it.”
Svantner cleared his throat. “Sirs, Resolve is—is lost?”
Tromp glanced at the flimsy and read. “Cannot assess points of grounding or degree of damage. Slow flooding amidships may indicate breaches obstructed by sand or rock. Prepared to evacuate crew and destroy in place.”
