Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

"Boy, I shoulda known ya were teched in the head, wot with them queer looking duds an' all. The war with the British, who else?!"

  Mark took Hardy aside for a quick conference.

  "What war is he talking about?" Mark covertly checked his shifter, keeping it from prying eyes in the bar. "My watch says 1814, how about yours?"

  "Yeah. Mine too."

  "So, it ain't the Revolutionary War."

  "What other war was there with Britain?"

  "It's gotta be the War of 1812."

  "Wasn't that just in 1812? Did it last all the way through 1814?"

  "Savannah would know."

  "So helpful. In case you hadn't noticed, she isn't here."

  "Maybe it just started in 1812."

  "What do we know about this war?"

  "I'm trying to think…there was a big battle in New Orleans — I remember that much. My teachers didn't exactly spend a lot of time on it in school."

  "Didn't Washington DC get burned by the British?"

  "Sounds right. Now that you mention it, isn't that when Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner."

  "Yeah...but that was over in Maryland, I think."

  "That battle would be something to see. Maybe we could join in, lend a helping hand."

  "Are you boys gonna pay for them drinks?" interrupted the barkeep.

  "Oh, sure." Mark flipped him a gold piece, hoping the man wouldn't notice the date stamped on it. Neither one of them had come prepared for this decade. They'd both outfitted themselves with clothes and currency from the 1860's.

  The barkeep seemed satisfied. He puttered off, stopping by the booth with the sailors and saying something to them before he disappeared into the living quarters behind the tavern.

  Mark and Hardy sipped on their ales. Mark commented on how much he'd like a place to go lie down for a while.

  "That can be arranged," said a voice from behind.

  The speaker was a tall, burly sailor, the largest of the three who'd been sitting in the booth. His dingy, blonde hair was long, falling way past his shoulders.

  They'd turned to face this sailor when he spoke, and Hardy realized too late that one of the shorter sailors had snuck up behind the bar and was swinging a bottle toward the back of Mark's neck. Where was the third guy?

  The blow hit home, hard. Mark's legs gave out from under him and his body sank to the floor. In an instant, Hardy's hand was moving, reaching to activate his shifter, but his finger was still a few inches away when something struck the back of his neck and then his whole world went black. His last thought was that he guessed he knew where the third sailor had gone.

  Last night I nearly died,

  But I woke up just in time.

  ~ Duke Special

  A gentle rolling motion lulled Mark into a wakeful state. Wherever he was, the light was very dim. He couldn't make much out except for the faint image of a short wooden ladder illuminated by the only light visible, which emanated from a hole directly above it. The putrid stenches of human filth and sweat mingled to assault his senses.

  He felt confined. His first instinct was to reach for his shifter.

  A hand grabbed his wrist.

  "Don't shift," Hardy whispered.

  "Why not?"

  "I think we're on a ship."

  Made sense. The rolling sensation, which could only be waves. The stench of the lower decks. If Mark hadn't been so groggy from being knocked on the head, he would have caught on sooner himself.

  "I think you're right."

  "If we shift out of here, we're gonna find ourselves treading water. Probably in the middle of the ocean for all we know."

  "Those sailors...man!" Mark rubbed the back of his head and neck.

  "Yeah, we need to pay them back for this."

  "First, we need to get above deck and figure this out. Are you tied up?"

  "No. I think we've been shanghaied."

  "Shanghaied? I read about that somewhere. Didn't think it was such common practice."

  "They don't need us tied up once they get out to sea. Where are we gonna go?"

  "Pretty miserable business if you ask me. All right, let's get our bearings. Is that ladder the only way out of here?"

  "Think so."

  They crept over to the ladder as silently as possible in the almost pitch blackness of the hold. They couldn't evade detection forever, but the longer they could observe others without being seen themselves, the better.

  Sticking his head up through the hole, Mark looked around. They were definitely on a ship of some sorts. The space above their hold looked to be a food storage area. Barrels filled with unknown contents and bags of dry goods stacked five high lined the walls with gaps only for entering and exiting the room. A lone table stood in the center of the small room, and on it a candle burned. There were two chairs at the table, and one of them was occupied by a young man dressed in the uniform of the British Royal Navy. He was writing in a ledger.

  As Mark lifted himself further from the hold below, the boy suddenly became aware of his presence. He rushed out, screaming “Cap'n, Cap'n!” and disappeared through a doorway.

  "There goes the element of surprise," Hardy remarked.

  "What did you want me to do, sit there and stare at him? Come on."

  Hardy followed Mark up out of the hold.

  "Let's see what we can find out before the 'Cap'n' gets us."

  They emerged into salty, ocean air and bright sunlight, which momentarily blinded them, their squinted eyes having become accustomed to the darkened holds below. It was hard to believe they were actually on a real-life sailing vessel of old, but here they were. Just like the movies, except real...much more real.

  Men were busy all over the ship, adjusting and tying off riggings, moving stores, scrubbing the deck. Several of the men glanced their way as they came up the ladder, but didn't stop what they were doing.

  The 'Cap'n' stood in a doorway at the back of the ship, which probably led to his quarters. His uniform was that of a British naval officer.

  "Shank!" he called.

  All work on the ship instantly ceased. The crew wanted to see the show. A balding, sweaty beast of a man appeared at the captain's side. Apparently, this was Shank. The captain gave the man some orders, the details of which Mark and Hardy couldn't hear from their distance.

  "Sparrow, Taylor!" Shank barked.

  Two surly men came to life and moved toward Mark and Hardy.

  "What do you think, Hardy?"

  "I think we can take ’em."

  "There's a lot of them, and we're in the middle of the ocean."

  Hardy grinned. "Certainly you're not going to let a little thing like horrendous odds stop us."

  Mark grinned back.

  Sparrow and Taylor moved in closer, never guessing these two shanghaied men who'd just regained consciousness would be capable of putting up a fight of any sort.

  Hardy's left arm shot out, his fist slamming into Sparrow's throat. Sparrow sputtered, hands to his Adam's apple, choking and gasping for breath as he sank to his knees. Hardy hadn't hit him hard enough to kill, but the guy would be out of commission for a while.

  Taylor readied himself, seeing what Hardy had done, but it was too little, too late. Mark feigned a move backward, but came around with a solid roundhouse to the temple. Taylor fell to the deck, out cold.

  Instantly, ten to twelve more men leapt into action, but the confining space only allowed four or five to attack at once, and these men weren't trained in hand to hand combat. Most of them probably brawled aplenty whenever they went ashore, but it was a far cry from the training Mark and Hardy had received in Special Forces.

  They were experts in this kind of fighting. The odds were a little rough, but the fight resembled more of a dance moving to graceful music than a brawl. Their movements complemented each other, flowing like finely-tuned choreography. Men fell, and rose, and then fell again.

  They were having fun.

  Abruptly, Mark froze, which caused him to tak
e a fistful to the temple. The pain was ferocious, but he didn't move. He was staring into the muzzle of a flintlock pistol. He cleared his throat, letting Hardy know the gig was up.

  The captain was calmly pointing the large-barreled pistol at Mark's head, a bored expression on his face. Shank held another gun on Hardy. They were close enough they wouldn't miss, but far enough away Mark and Hardy would have no chance of disarming them before they fired.

  "Quite impressive, lads, but not good enough, I'm afraid. Welcome to the HMS Huntingdon. This here's my ship. You've got exactly three seconds to decide if you want to submit to my authority and that of the British Navy, or we'll put a round through each of yer heads and dump you overboard for the sharks. Makes no difference to me, so decide."

  Mark looked into the man's eyes and saw true apathy. Relenting, he nodded once.

  "And you?" He waved his pistol Hardy's way.

  Hardy also capitulated. They were out of options. They couldn't shift until they got close to land, and no matter how good they were, there were just too many men on the ship to overcome, especially if guns were involved. It was less risky to give in until they were in a better position to shift away.

  "Good. You two will man one of the cannon below during battle. The rest of the time, you'll scour the decks. Shank will instruct you once you've come to."

  Shank moved behind Mark. He lifted him in a massive bear hug and squeezed, turning Mark's world a painful black.

  When he awoke, he was below deck again, together with Hardy. Shank was immediately aware of their return to consciousness and yanked them up to their feet. Sweat rolled down the man's meaty arms as he stabbed a finger at one of the cannon and spat out incoherent orders regarding the finer points of its operation.

  They soon learned their cannon was a 32 pound carronade. It took five men to operate it well during combat, though three or four could manage if needed. Shank declared Mark to be the "rammer" and Hardy the "loader." These were the most dangerous, and thus least desired, of the gunner jobs since they required you to stand directly in front of the business end of the barrel a good bit of the time. If the cannon went off prematurely, both rammer and loader were likely to be decimated.

  Mark's job involved inserting a rod with a damp sponge on the end of it down into the cannon's barrel to clean it out and quench any remaining sparks from the previous charge fired. Hardy would then load a bag of gunpowder, which was called the charge. Using the other end of his ramrod, Mark then had to ram the charge down the barrel. Throughout this, another man, the "ventsman" would cover the firing hole with his thumb to keep air from getting in and fanning any sparks. His was the critical job that could mean an early end for Mark or Hardy. This ventsman then pricked the charge and filled the hole with powder. There was another man in charge of aiming the gun and a fifth would actually light it.

  It was dangerous work. Mark hoped they'd find a way to get off the ship before they had to actually fight. He didn't relish the idea of putting their necks at risk for no good reason.

  The days passed uneventfully. The skin of Mark's hands blistered and cracked from scrubbing the decks endlessly. The captain was exacting revenge for the damage they'd done to some of his crew members. Outside of what it was doing to his palms, Mark didn't mind the hard work, except for the very bottom hold. The stench of rotting food and human refuse down there was overwhelming.

  "Ho!"

  They heard the cry clearly, even through two decks. The swab manning the crow's nest had spotted something.

  After several minutes, crew members began flooding the lower holds, slinging open shutters and shoving cannon into position.

  Shank's massive form darkened the open hatch leading to the deck above. His steps were deliberate and as solid as those of a rhino. The man had to weigh more than three hundred pounds, and it wasn't all fat.

  "You two!" He motioned threateningly at Mark and Hardy. "Man, that cannon. We're gonna teach those Americans a thing or two today!"

  He moved on, barking rough orders at scrambling men.

  Mark looked to Hardy. "Don't know about you," he whispered, "but I’m not about to fire on fellow Americans."

  "Me neither. What are we going to do about it?"

  "Look man, it's a flat-out disgrace that two Special Forces' men can't take over a ship full of amateurs."

  Hardy chuckled. "Yep. So, what's the plan?"

  They swiftly formed one. They needed to secure the captain and as many weapons as they could, but the captain was primary. Through him they could control the troops. The ventsman manning their cannon caught Mark's attention. He was bare-chested, but his pants looked like the ragged remnants of an American-issued uniform.

  Mark hissed at him, "Hey, you American?"

  "Yeah."

  "We're going to make a play. You in or out?"

  "I'm in. They grabbed me six months ago. I've had it. If you can do it, there's probably at least seven other men on board who've been impressed and will join you."

  Mark remembered that one of the primary reasons for the War of 1812 had been Britain's illegal and ruthless impressment of Americans into the British Navy.

  On this ship, they were short on men to man all the cannon, and most stations were operating with a crew of three or four instead of the optimal five. Their senior gunner who would aim the cannon would also act as the "firer," lighting the powder, but he was still distracted helping Shank organize some of the other crews.

  "All right. After you prime the hole, get behind us, and do it quick. Hardy, grab that ax and cut that wooden block out from the side of that rail."

  Just two chops of the ax, and the cannon was freed from a wooden rail that limited the angle at which the cannon could be fired.

  They loaded the cannon's barrel and bade their time. Then, their senior gunner finally made his way back toward them. Mark thought he was going to have to take the guy out, but at the last minute he tossed his slowmatch to Mark. He had to go help another crew above deck. It would be just the three of them on this gun which would make the plan even easier.

  Shank barked orders up and down the line. The American ship must have drawn within range, because a couple of the British cannon roared, igniting the battle in earnest. An explosion ripped the air as something smashed through the upper deck.

  Shank yelled at Mark and Hardy to get into the action. Seeing no response, he advanced and began bellowing at them, face purple with rage at their apparent inactivity. He drew his pistol.

  They did their best to look repentant, pretending to be hastily aiming the cannon. Mark counted to three and then yelled, "Now!"

  The other American had hustled to a position behind them. At Mark's command, Hardy pulled hard on the tow rope on the front of the cannon, and Mark pushed on the opposite side. They swung it around swiftly and halted it just as its barrel centered on Shank's large figure.

  Even in the low light, Mark could see the blood drain from his face. He turned to run, pistol still in hand, but he had no time. Mark touched the slowmatch to the firing hole and the giant gun belched. The cannonball hurling through the air did what Mark's fists had not been able to. Shank was no more, and a large hole now gaped in the planks in the back of the ship behind where he'd stood.

  The rest of the sailors who'd happened to be standing between their cannon and the back of the ship were too stunned by the concussion to react. There was a big difference between being behind a cannon and in front of it when fired in an enclosed space.

  Mark grabbed the American’s upper arm. "What's your name?"

  "Swanson."

  "Are there any other Americans down here?"

  "Just one."

  "Grab him, we're going up."

  Hardy waded through the stunned bodies, grabbing the only other officer below deck. Two blows and the man was out cold. Hardy relieved him of his gun and his sword and shoved the barrel of the antique pistol down his own waistband.

  "Let's go!"

  They bounded up the stairs, fol
lowed by Swanson and another dark-haired fellow. The rest of the men were beginning to recover and a few tried to come up after them.

  They reached the next deck just in time and slammed the hatch closed over the lower hold. They pushed a few barrels on top of it, locking the majority of the crew down there.

  "They're going to keep firing on the American ship," Hardy remarked.

  "No help for it. We've got to secure the captain." Mark threw open the door to a cabinet where he'd seen a couple of other guns. He gave one to Swanson.

  "Hardy, secure the rest of the weapons. I'm going after the captain. Swanson, find the other Americans. Once Hardy's got some more guns, distribute them to the others. After that, take over the helm and get this ship turned. We need to get out of range of that American ship and fast."

  "Our modern pistols are somewhere on board," Hardy reminded him.

  "I'll find them."

  Mark was up the ladder first, the others following.

  The upper deck was in chaos. Men manned even larger cannons, struggled with rigging, and ran back and forth delivering orders. The captain was at the helm, commanding his men. That there was order to the madness was clear, but their leader clearly had room to improve.

  Above deck, a lot more men were in British uniforms than had been below. One officer hurried their way, apparently having been sent by the captain to check on why the cannons below had ceased firing. No one had spotted Mark's mutinous assault team yet.

  Mark motioned toward the officer. Hardy acknowledged and moved to intercept, taking the unsuspecting officer out with a single blow. Mark separated from the two of them and ran swiftly toward the captain, who was still focused on the opposing ship and hadn't yet noticed the altercation.

  Mark rushed up behind him on the balls of his feet. He grabbed him, pressed his forearm into the man's throat and a pistol muzzle into his temple. Another officer manning the rudder wheel saw what Mark was doing and made a move.

  "Don't," Mark threatened.

  The man froze, unwilling to jeopardize his commander's life.