“She just go to slee’,” Lawrence said reluctantly.
“Blame me. Tell her I made you wake her up. You’ll be amazed what you can get away with when you do that. She can’t eat me, an’ I don’t care what rank they scrape off. They’ll just make me keep doin’ the same stuff anyway. I will eat you if you don’t get her over here chop-chop!”
“Eat!” Petey chirped happily. Lawrence snarled at him and moved off into the gloom where Lelaa slept. Fairly quickly, he returned with the’Cat in tow. She seemed alert, but still exhausted.
“What is it, Mr. Silva?” She was glancing at the moon and stars to make sure they were still on course.
“Feel the water.” Dennis paused. “Hell. You can hear somethin’ now. Kinda like a freight train a long way off. And the wind’s picking up, but the waves ain’t.”
Lelaa had never seen a freight train, but the reference wasn’t lost on her. She knew it was some kind of land steamer, and she cocked her head, ears questing. Her large, bright eyes widened. “Heavens above!” she gasped. “Wake everyone this instant! Rig lifelines—long ones—on everyone! The proas should float; the wood is naturally buoyant, but many may be swept away!”
Lawrence was translating rapidly to Chinakru, and the ex-Tagranesi raised his voice in alarm, spreading the word from boat to boat. Silva was impressed by how quickly the Lemurian sea captain took unquestioned command, mere moments after being awakened.
“Keep the lanterns lit. Some may survive and we’ll be widely scattered. Take in all sail! Out paddles! Steer north . . . for that star!” she instructed.
“Is it a wave?” Sandra asked, drawing near with a sleepy Rebecca in tow.
Lelaa blinked rapidly. “I fear so.” She looked at Dennis. “Your primary duty is the protection of these females, is it not?”
“Ah . . . yeah.”
“Then get them secured! As I said, use a long line. They may become separated from the boat—or it may overturn. They must remain secured, but not lashed, do you understand?”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Lelaa looked around. The flotilla was disintegrating into confusion. Some were steering north already, but others continued on, seemingly unaware. “Mr. Silva, fire that monstrous gun of yours! Get everyone’s attention! Lives are at stake!” She faced forward. “Cap-i-taan Rajendra to the tiller!”
Nodding, Silva snatched up his beloved Doom Whomper and discharged it in the air. The growing, rushing rumble didn’t exactly mute it, but it did seem less loud than usual. Chinakru was startled by the shot, but quickly resumed his loud harangue. More boats turned. Silva slung the big musket and pouch tightly around his body, then tied lines around Sandra, Rebecca, and a just-arrived, confused Sister Audry. “Abel,” Dennis shouted, hoping the boy heard him, “you and Brassey strap in tight, but with a leader, see? Take a turn around the stoutest thing you can find!”
Finishing with Sandra and Rebecca, Silva interrupted Lelaa’s pacing and tied her down as well. She didn’t seem to notice. She was staring aft now, into the south. A groggy but almost panicky Rajendra lunged past them to the tiller, yelling for his other surviving Imperials to secure themselves as best they could, and Silva tried to make it to him with yet another line. The stern of the proa began to rise noticeably. A bewildered, terrified Petey cried out and launched himself at Rebecca, who caught him and clutched him close. Dennis couldn’t really see the wave; it was black as night, and no discernible crest rode atop it, but the angle of the sea was growing more “wrong” by the moment.
“Damn you, Rajendra,” Dennis shouted, flinging the line at the man now struggling mightily with the tiller. “Secure yourself!”
“Damn you, Mr. Silva!” Rajendra bellowed back. “Save the princess! We will resume our dispute in hell!” The stern continued its inexorable upward rise and Silva fell roughly atop Sandra and Sister Audry, who lay covering Rebecca with their bodies.
Sister Audry gasped under the weight of the impact. “Have you a line, Mr. Silva?” she demanded weakly as the proa passed thirty degrees—and kept going.
“I’ll manage!”
“Then . . . you may cling to me—this once—for the sake of the child! She may need you yet!”
The roar was all-consuming now, and the proa flipped onto its back. After that, there were only the terrified screams.
CHAPTER 29
New Scotland Dueling Ground
“Cease independent fire!” Lieutenant Blair bellowed hoarsely at the top of his lungs. “Load and hold!”
All Dominion reserves had to be present now. The battle, since the despicable opening cannon fire against the Imperial bleachers, had raged for more than three hours, and attrition had taken a terrible toll on both sides. The troops were evenly matched in discipline and roughly so in equipment, but largely due to the Lemurian shields, now practically useless, the exchange had so far been in favor of the Imperials. Another mixed company of Marines had marched to join “Chack’s” line, delaying his plan but giving it twice the weight. No such reinforcements seemed available to the Dominion troops. Their infantry still had the advantage in numbers, but by only about two hundred men. That advantage was growing, however, because even as the Doms kept firing, the Imperial line had suddenly ceased. All became quiet there, except for the screams and the sounds of balls striking flesh.
“Battalion,” Chack yelled, his voice cracking, “prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by a bloodthirsty roar as nearly four hundred bayonet-tipped muskets were leveled at the enemy.
Seeing this, the fire from the Dominion line immediately slacked, and bloodied troops in now stained and dingy uniforms heard commands from their own officers. Some dumped powder charges on the ground.
“Battalion,” Chack roared again, “without cheering, without a sound—listen for The drums—charge bayonets!”
The block of Imperials and scattered Lemurians surged forward. Some did cheer, caught up in the moment, but not many. Sword in hand, Lieutenant Blair raced forward, pacing his men, slightly ahead. A flurry of Dominion musket shots staggered the front rank, and Blair himself spun to the ground, but somehow rose and continued on. The gap between the enemies narrowed quickly from an initial seventy yards to sixty, to fifty. Chack trotted behind the troops, surrounded by his own surviving Marines. Blas-Mar was there, bleeding from a neck wound, and Koratin was helping support her, his wild face stained with blood and gunpowder. O’Casey was beside him, a pistol in his hand and a gleam in his eye. When the loud Dom command of “Armen la bayoneta!” came, Chack didn’t even need it repeated. Just a little farther now.
“Drummers!” he shouted, when less than twenty yards separated the opposing forces, and a thunderous roll sounded around him. The block of infantry ground to a halt, spreading out quickly on the flanks. Ahead, he barely saw beyond the taller men that Blair had stopped, swaying, sword raised high.
“Take aim!” someone screamed. It might have been Blair.
“Fire!” Chack shrieked with everything he had. A single, tremendous, rippling volley slashed directly into the helpless Dominion troops, mowing them down like wave tops scattered by a Strakka wind. “Charge bayonets!” he bellowed again, and this time, the cheer was overwhelming. They slammed into the teetering Dominion troops like a spikebristling sledgehammer. Out of the corner of Chack’s eye, he saw one of his Marines advancing the Stars and Stripes, trilling like a defiant demon. The oddly similar Imperial flag went down, but was immediately snatched up by another man who seemed utterly oblivious to anything other than driving forward, flag held high. Ahead, through the slashing, stabbing bayonets, Chack saw the red banner of the enemy go down. It too rose again, but then went down to stay. A renewed roar swept through the Marines, and they drove forward even more fiercely than before.
They were among the enemy now, even Chack. He realized sickly that this fight had devolved into an “open field melee” such as General Alden had always warned him against—but the American Marine had also told him that any sane enemy would brea
k in the face of a charge like the one they’d delivered. Even the Grik would have broken; he’d seen it before. The Doms were being slaughtered, and they’d recoiled, stunned by the surprise volley and the ferocity of the attack, but they didn’T break—and now the fighting filled the dueling ground with desperate individual combats, like hundreds of duels themselves. Alone on the field, Chack didn’t have a muzzle-loading musket. As always, he carried his trusty Model 1898 (dated 1901) Krag, but with the fighting so close, he was afraid to fire it. He’d foolishly drawn a load-out of precious smokeless, high-velocity, jacketed rounds, seeing himself as standing back and knocking off enemy officers. Silva had always told him that velocity didn’t necessarily equal penetration, but he just didn’t know if the jacketed bullets changed all that. Better safe than accidentally shooting through an enemy and hitting one of the “good” guys. The heavy musket balls were already doing enough of that, he feared. The ’03 bayonet on the end of his rifle worked just fine, however, and it was black with drying blood all the way to the guard and dripping with fresh. Melees like this were a last resort—a failure, Pete had inferred—but at least they’d practiced for them, and the Imperial Marines seemed to know their business too.
Corporal Koratin went down, taking Sergeant Blas-Mar with him. Chack fought his way to them, but O’Casey beat him there, firing pistols as fast as he could grasp them and pull the triggers. His last one misfired and he threw the whole tangled bundle of pistols into the face of a man while he went for his cutlass. Chack saw Blair dragging himself along the ground. He did shoot a man preparing to bayonet the Imperial in the back. Then the fighting carried him along and he saw Blair no more.
A towering man, evidently an officer, with dark skin and flowing black mustaches loomed before Chack. Even as he brought his bayonet up, the man slashed down with a heavy sword, cutting through the top handguard of the Krag and slicing into the steel of the barrel between the rear sight and the barrel band. The hard steel proved too much for the sword, however, and more than half the blade broke off and stuck into the ground. Chack almost dropped the rifle and his hands stung with the force of the blow, but he brought it back up and drove his bayonet into the man’s belly.
“Monos Demonaicos!” The man gasped, and Chack thrust again, higher, riding the weapon down as the man fell. “Mi Dios!” screeched the officer as Chack twisted his rifle and pulled the bayonet clear, “Estoy viniendo!” Blood fountained from the man’s mouth.
Something struck Chack’s left shoulder, driving him to his knees. It had to be another sword, he thought, belatedly rolling away from the blow. He knew he was cut, maybe badly, and only the tough rhino-pig armor had saved him from being hacked in two. He brought his rifle up and there was nothing on the other side but sky, so he shot the man in the face. A hand grabbed him and jerked him up from the bloody slurry the dueling grounds had become, and to his amazement, he recognized the Bosun.
“What’s the matter with you?” Gray demanded, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. “Rootin’ around on the ground like a private soljer, when you’re s’posed to be in charge o’ this mess!” Gray was physically dragging him out of the press.
“Wha—what are you doing here?”
“We finished our little chore. Can’t get to the ship—Frankie’s on his own—so we decided to help you finish this.”
“Where’s Cap-i-taan Reddy?”
“With Jenks.” He nodded toward the far side of the field. “The whole Imperial Guard, two hundred of ’em, is fixin’ to hit the Doms in the ass.” He paused. “You done good.” Without warning, he flung Chack to the ground. “Have a look at him, Selass. If ten percent o’ that blood he’s wearin’ belongs to him, he’s a goner.” Selass knelt beside him, covered with blood as well, blinking terrified concern.
“But . . . I’m fine,” Chack protested. He gestured at the fighting, still close by. “Blas-Mar, Koratin, all the others . . . they’re still in there!”
Gray looked at Stites, who’d replaced his BAR with a Springfield and bayonet. “Relax,” he said, “we’ll fish ’em out. God knows why, but the Skipper wants live ’Cat heroes out o’ this fight, not dead ones. You stay put!” His gaze swept across the other Lemurian wounded who’d crawled or been dragged from the fighting. “You fellas keep him here, got that?” With only a muttered “Gettin’ too old for this,” Gray opened his bolt and checked his magazine before he and Stites plunged back into the fighting.
The Imperial Guard finished it. There were barely two hundred living enemies, almost all exhausted and wounded, when the Guard fell on them from behind. Some fought to the very last, and others even slew themselves, but in the end, nearly forty were taken prisoner despite their beliefs. Those that could walk were quickly rounded up and herded to a livestock pen near the harbor where they could be confined under guard. Forty survivors out of nearly a thousand that began the fight. Of the four hundred who’d made the charge with Chack, a hundred were dead and another hundred were badly wounded.
“They fight just like Japs,” Matt muttered. He was limping slightly from a superficial bayonet wound he’d taken in the calf, inflicted by a man he’d thought was dead.
“Are your ‘Japs’ truly so fanatical?” Jenks asked. Through it all, he’d somehow managed to avoid any injuries beyond a few small cuts and splinter wounds.
“They don’t surrender very often,” Matt confirmed. “At least where we came from.” The memory of a Japanese sailor standing on an overturned boat, surrounded by voracious fish, preferring a terrible death to captivity, suddenly sprang to mind.
“Well, we’ve finished them here. All that remains is the result of the sea battle off the harbor mouth.” He grimaced, knowing Matt was keenly concerned about his ship. “Now that surprise is lost, the enemy can’t hope to enter the harbor, but they will still fight to damage as many of our ships as they can. They retain an advantage in numbers, if not quality, and that is their only chance to seize any semblance of victory. There will be war between the Empire and the Dominion; there already is. Thanks in large part to you and your people, it will now be a protracted war instead of a one-day affair. Come, let us hurry to Government House. The Governor-Emperor has had himself moved to the observatory so he can view the battle.”
“You think he’ll make it?” Matt asked quietly.
“God willing. He will almost certainly lose one leg. The other is in doubt. He’d already be dead if Andrew hadn’t thrown himself across him.”
“Let Selass have a look at him,” Matt suggested.
Jenks nodded. “I will recommend it.”
“How’s Andrew?”
“Failing quickly, I fear. I’ve sent for Sean to be taken to his brother’s side . . . if he himself survived.”
Matt limped quietly alongside Jenks, who deliberately kept his pace slower than he obviously would have preferred.
“At least your wife’s safe,” Matt ventured. He looked at Jenks’s face and saw the tears well up in his eyes.
“Aye. There’s that.”
There was chaos at Government House. A large number of Marines—that Matt thought might have been better employed elsewhere, earlier—stood guard, facing outward from the residence with bayonets fixed, but Jenks led Matt through them without being stopped. Messengers came and went, and officers, some bloodied by riots or even assassination attempts, milled about on the columned porches. Tired horses, tied to the columns themselves, leaned against one another with foamy sweat running from beneath their saddle blankets. Some of the officers wore naval uniforms, and Matt wondered how many were in the same “boat” he was. When the bulk of the Imperial Fleet at Scapa Flow steamed out to meet their attackers, most of the ships were commanded by junior officers. Even if he could sympathize a little, he felt a growing annoyance to see so much brass not doing anything.
Jenks paused in his flight up the stairs to the porch only long enough to greet an older man in a cocked hat and a soiled but richly decorated coat. “Lord High Admiral McClain,” he said, s
aluting. “I must see the Governor-Emperor.”
The man nodded. “He’s expecting you,” he said gravely, gesturing toward the observatory with his nose. “Aloft.” He looked at Matt. “Both of you.” He paused, but clearly wasn’t finished. “My compliments, Captain Reddy,” he continued. “We’ve not met officially, but His Majesty speaks highly of you. I was impressed by your swordsmanship—as well as your cunning. Particularly the latter. I find myself lending more credence to some of the wild tales I’ve heard—which forces me to reevaluate a few opinions I’d formed concerning your entire account of the situation in the west.” He waved a blood-spattered kerchief he’d been holding against a cut on his cheek. “Dreadful times lie ahead, I fear. The commodore has long been a proponent of aggressive exploration, at least in the seas of this hemisphere.” He sighed. “I have opposed that in the interests of security through isolation . . . but we aren’t really isolated here at all, are we? Not anymore. We . . . thought the Dominion was our only real threat, and that they might serve as a buffer for what might lie beyond, but even if they’re now our most pressing threat, they’re not alone, are they?”
“No, sir,” Matt said quietly. “And they aren’t even the closest. Reed proved that.”
“But apparently he is their creature. One must now contemplate how much of this Company subversion over the last decade might be laid at his feet, and how much sway over other Company officials he might still exert.”
Rising Tides Page 46
