Old, relatively speaking, and helpless against the wind she no doubt was, and smallish at only 168 feet long and around 1,200 tons, with her hull shape and sail plan, a clean bottom, and the wind where she liked it best, she could still log up to sixteen knots. Amazingly fast for any square-rigged ship Greg ever heard of, and faster than the new Scott class steam frigate DDs. And weak though she might be compared to them, she was far from helpless. There were twenty-four eighteen-pounders on her gun deck, four Y guns to launch depth charges off either beam, and a rack for the same weapons aft to discourage the enormous ship-eating mountain fish. Eight twelve-pounder field guns had been hoisted to the main deck from the hold and set on naval trucks the carpenters built to give her some light chasers—and slightly elevated grape or canister guns. She also had something no other Allied ship outside the Republic could boast: an even dozen water-cooled MG 08s—Maxims, as far as Garrett was concerned—and plenty of 7.92 x 57 mm belted ammo. None of the new copies of Browning MGs had been available when Donaghey set out. Maxims were still rare in the Republic, for that matter, having only recently gone into mass production. Inquisitor Choon and Kaiser Nig-Taak had lavished them on Garrett’s ship in exchange (he suspected) for the loan of one of his Nancy floatplanes and its crew, and, even more, for his former captain, now major of Marines, Bekiaa-Sab-At. Bekiaa had remained in the Republic to teach Choon and General Kim what combat with the Grik was really like.
Of course, all these considerations hardly affected Greg Garrett. Particularly those concerning his ship’s inadequacies. From rural Tennessee, just across the border from Corinth, Mississippi, he’d never been on the water in his life before joining the navy and coming to this world as Walker’s gunnery officer. Yet he’d become the most renowned frigate skipper in the Alliance—and loved the old Donaghey with all his heart.
“What’ve you got, Sammy?” he asked his XO, extending his telescope but waiting to be told where to point it.
“A light, Cap-i-taan. Lights,” Sammy added more specifically, pointing due north; then he pulled his large Imperial watch from his pocket and stared at it in the gloom. Greg had long given up trying to match Lemurian eyesight, particularly in the dark, and took its superiority for granted now—a fact Sammy recognized, or he would’ve called Greg earlier. “Maasthead spotted ’em half an hour ago,” he explained. “Most’re still invisible from deck, but one is . . . rather curiously so.”
Greg raised the glass and peered through it with his left eye, adjusting the objective. He grunted. “That, Mr. Saama, is a large fire, high above the sea,” he said, still staring hard. “Stationary,” he added significantly, “like a signal.” He shifted his glass from side to side, but saw nothing else. “Damn strange. What about the other lights?”
“Maasthead there,” Sammy called upward. “Report.”
“Aye, sur,” came the answer. “Dey’s tree lights mebbee five de-gees east o’ de high-up one: white, red, white. Low, hull down if it’s a ship. T’other’s west, mebbe fi’teen de-gees, an’ movin’ slow. Daat light’s yellow, laak de high one. Dim, dough, laak a haze-fuzzy star on de horizon, but is movin’.”
Greg rubbed his face and glanced around. The ship was utterly dark except for a couple ’Cats smoking pipes or PIG-cigs along the leeward rail, the red cherries glowing ridiculously bright. “The smoking lamp is out, and shade the binnacle light, if you please.” He nodded upward. “I’m going aloft.” High in the maintop, puffing from his climb, he extended his telescope again. He still couldn’t see the moving light to the west, but was sure the first was a signal fire on an island, probably Ascension, and it was beginning to fade even as they drew closer. The other lights, however . . . Harsh certainty gripped him, and, tucking the glass in his waistband, he slid down to the deck by a backstay. “We’ll bear away to the west-southwest,” he said abruptly. “Helm, make your course two four zero.”
“Two four see-ro,” confirmed the ’Cat at the wheel, and even though there was no possible way the distant lights would hear him, Chief Bosun’s Mate Jennar-Laan had caught his captain’s sense of urgency that they remain undetected and called the hands to adjust the sails without using his whistle.
“What is it, Skipper?” asked Lt. (jg) Wendel “Smitty” Smith, Donaghey’s gunnery officer. Like Greg, Smitty was an original to Walker, having been an ordnance striker before the squall that brought them here. In his mid-twenties and already balding, he’d taken to muzzle-loading artillery easier than Greg, and, for Donaghey at least, was probably a better gunnery officer than his captain would’ve made. He’d come on deck with a “tribune” (basically, a major, the way the Republic Army reckoned such things), Pol-Heena. The Republic was strange in many ways, a more bizarre mixture of different cultures—from different histories—than anyone they’d met. They used some “normal,” understandable rank structures, but sometimes added ancient, otherwise unused titles to differentiate seniority under various circumstances. For example, anywhere else Pol was just an ordinary major, or maybe prefect, depending on who addressed him, but as a tribune, he automatically had seniority over any other Republic major—or ship’s master—he encountered during the course of his specific mission. And unless that officer was also a tribune on a mission of his own, he could compel his assistance. He better be able to show he really needed it, however. Only a legate (a similar title bestowed for similar reasons on colonels) or a general might supersede him. Greg likened the titles to commodore, as they were temporary in nature but meant to add authority for a given task and prevent confusion. It confused everybody else on Donaghey, though, and they didn’t pay it any attention. The crew called Pol major or tribune indiscriminately. From a practical standpoint aboard ship, he acted as Marine Lieutenant Haana-Lin-Naar’s XO, while she taught him how to fight Grik like a Marine. The main difference between what she showed him and what he already knew was an up-close and fiercely personal brutality he’d never imagined he’d need to learn. One of his Republic companions was Kapitan Leutnant Koor-Susk. He served as Sammy’s sailing master, even though the Alliance had finally done away with that rank, as it didn’t have enough sky priests to fill the role and required all officers to learn celestial navigation.
“I’ve no doubt that’s Ascension Island,” Greg answered Smitty, nodding a greeting at Pol. “You can see the rugged outline of the mountains against the stars, and I’m almost sure there’s a steamer anchored in that little bay our old charts show just below Whale Point.”
“What makes you think she’s a steamer?” Sammy questioned.
“Electric lights,” Greg told him. “The masthead light is bright white, and there’s a red light lower down. A portside running light,” he added. “And a bright stern light, too. She’s lit up like a Christmas tree without a care in the world.”
“Sounds like a Leaguer,” Smitty agreed. “Arrogant bastards. And either way, she wouldn’t be lit up like that if she didn’t think she could defend herself. So probably a warship,” he deduced, echoing Greg’s own thoughts.
“Yeah. We have to assume so, just as we have to assume they control Ascension. Damn!” Greg added, thumping the bulwark with his fist. “I wish we could tell somebody! It might at least get a garrison—and some guns—to St. Helena quicker!”
Sammy nodded in the darkness. They’d sailed in silence, on orders, since leaving the cape—not that they’d had anything to report. Now, even if sending a message wasn’t too dangerous, they’d passed the point they could realistically expect Alex-aandra to hear them. They’d heard a lot, from Alex-aandra’s far more powerful transmitter. They’d still been close enough to learn of the defeat of the most recent Grik attempt to retake the Celestial City, and had picked through the increasingly weaker coded signals recounting the tragic losses north of Mahe. They could still piece a few bits together until about two weeks before. But if they couldn’t hear Alex-aandra anymore, there was little chance anything they sent would be picked up. Particularly by anyon
e friendly. The next opportunity they had to communicate would be when they sailed into range of Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask’s tiny transceiver possibly still aboard the New United States ship Congress in the Caribbean. Hopefully by then, they could pass messages to Shinya and Second Fleet as well. But Fred and Kari, and certainly Second Fleet, were still a long way off.
“What are we going to do, Skipper?” Smitty asked.
“Stay away from Ascension, for one,” Greg replied, handing his telescope to the gunnery officer so he could see for himself. The masthead lights of the distant ship had been visible from deck for a short while. Now, with them turning away, they were receding again. “But we’ll try to keep an eye on the other ship the lookout saw. I’m thinking the other lights, going slowly west, must’ve been the stern lanterns of a sailing ship, which means, most likely, she’s a Dom. If that’s the case, I’d love to know what they were doing at Ascension, talking to the League. And it might be a good idea to find out.”
“Doms have steamers,” Sammy pointed out. That was true; side-wheel sailing steamers like the Empire of the New Britain Isles had long relied on. And until recently, they’d been largely confined to this ocean to oppose what they must’ve considered the nearer, more dangerous threat—at least until they stirred the whole Alliance against them. That closer adversary was the apparently small but powerful navy of what Fred and Kari called the New United States. It was composed of various locals as well as descendants of US–Mexican War–era soldiers and sailors occupying much of what Greg and Smitty remembered as Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Alabama. Have to add that to Nig-Taak’s world map, once we’re sure of the borders—and what lies beyond, Greg reflected absently. Maybe someday we’ll get the whole thing filled in. But so far, we’re probably sure of less than. . . what? Five percent of the globe? Silva and Cook explored more of Borno—where our capital is!—than anyone else from Baalkpan ever has. We’ve seen a lot of Pacific and Indian Ocean coastlines, mostly inhabited by enemies, and Nig-Taak was sure enough of some fairly odd Atlantic shores to record them on his great atlas, but most of those shores remain unknown. And we know almost nothing of continental interiors.
“They do,” Greg agreed with Sammy. “But why send one when we hammered so many west of the Pass of Fire? And they can’t carry enough fuel to cross the Atlantic under power, anyway,” he argued. “My bet is, she’s a dedicated sailor like us, for the same reason: long legs and no longer fit for the line of battle.” He barely saw thoughtful nods in the dark.
“So. If she is a Dom, do you mean to pursue her? To, ah, detain her?” Pol asked.
Greg looked at him. “Of course. We are at war with the bastards.” He glanced at the dying fire on the distant island, now just the merest speck of orange light. “We’ll try to keep the stern lantern in sight from the masthead, but crack on all night, staying to windward. I’ve no doubt we can get ahead of her. Grik Indiamen are better sailors than Dom galleons, by all accounts, and I’ve never seen the Grik we couldn’t give half our sails with this fine breeze on our quarter.”
“But if we’re west of her when the sun rises, won’t she see us before we see her?” Sammy asked.
“We don’t know what her exact heading is, but my guess is she’ll keep west-northwest. We should be able to stay to windward, slightly south, and take in topgallants before dawn.” He snorted. “And if our ’Cat lookouts can’t spot her first, I’ll make sure they’re transferred to the black gang on some tub of a steam transport—because they’re going blind.”
“But if the Doms resist us—they’re very liable to, I understand—won’t the League ship at Ascension hear the cannon fire?” Pol asked, concerned.
Greg grinned. “With this wind, even that Dom should make seventy, eighty miles before dawn. So unless the Leaguer follows, which is possible, I suppose,” he confessed, “or gave the Doms radio, which is far less likely in my opinion, they’ll never have a clue what happens.”
“And if they do follow?” Sammy persisted.
“Then they should catch up by dawn and we’ll see the lights they’ve been considerate enough to show. We’ll bear away farther south, out of sight, then cross their wakes and continue on our way.”
Smitty shook his head and almost shivered. “Well, I just had a weird thought. What if that ship, the one we’re set to chase, isn’t a Dom?” he asked suddenly. “What if it isn’t anybody we know at all?”
Sammy blinked at him in a fashion mingling curiosity and dread.
Greg smiled. “Well . . . that would be interesting,” he conceded, then shrugged. “And I guess it’s even possible that whoever she is—Dom or not—the steamer isn’t even a League ship either.” Nobody really believed that, but they couldn’t say it was impossible. “Either way, though,” he continued, “that’s what we’re here for. To find out what’s what.”
• • •
“On deck!” came the cry from the masthead. “Sail, nort’-nort’wes!” Half a dozen Imperial telescopes rose along the starboard quarterdeck rail, pointed in generally the right direction and stabilized by elbows touching wood. Donaghey was sailing stiff with hardly a pitch under topsails and staysails alone, and the rail was rock steady. The sky above remained a light purple, with wisps of gilded clouds scudding along, but had begun to blaze bright orange in the east. The wind had strengthened, but the glass—the crude water barometer in Greg’s cabin—remained unchanged. Soon, they could even pick out the distant sail from deck, and Greg glanced impatiently aloft. The lookout should’ve been able to tell if the ship was alone by now. He certainly couldn’t imagine a League steamer plodding along behind. But the longer he waited, the longer the target had to spot them—and react. Even if his plan went perfectly, they’d be seen very soon, and he wanted to be flying first.
“Just as you predicted,” Saama-Kera said, blinking admiration. “Well done, Cap-i-taan.”
“Just guesswork—and luck, Sammy,” Greg said, his weathered face reddening. He stared intently at the lookout.
“What more do you see?” his exec demanded loudly, as impatient as Greg.
“Nuttin,’ sur.”
“Very well,” Greg said. “All hands to make sail, Mr. Saama.” He smiled, glancing at his bosun. “No need to whisper, now.”
“All hands to make sail!” Sammy thundered, and Jenaar-Laan swept forward, blowing the corresponding series of blasts on his whistle. ’Cats that had been sweeping the deck clean fore and aft stowed their brooms and raced up the shrouds while others exploded from below, already carrying their hammocks. These they tightly rolled and stuffed in the netting amidships before racing aloft as well. Some, gunners and Marines or others unfit for duty above, went back for the rest of the hammocks. Greg raised his telescope again and studied the haze-fuzzed silhouette less than eight miles away. “Stand by to come right, to course zero two zero,” he told the ’Cat at the wheel.
“Aye, sur.”
Greg waited a moment longer, then said, “Execute.” A flood of shouts and whistles followed his command, even as the wheel turned and a seemingly chaotic but carefully choreographed flurry of activity ensued. The mizzen sail loosed and the yards came around, the sails on the main and mizzen spilling their wind. The foresails pulled the ship around until the fore staysail started to flutter and the mizzen came up taut, far out to port, helping the ship complete her turn.
“Rudder’s amidships!” shouted the ’Cat at the helm, and his call carried forward, repeated by the bosun and his mates. Immediately, ’Cats hauled on lines to reposition the yards and sheet the sails home—all to take best advantage of the wind based on the ship’s current heading. Greg tried to keep his face impassive, but his heart bounded in his chest with love for his ship and the long-serving crew who knew her so well that all he had to do was give a course and say “execute.” He doubted there’d ever been a skipper of a square-rigged ship with so little to do in that regard. “We’ll have th
e forecourse and topgallants, Mr. Saama,” he said, looking up. “And as soon as the target runs, we’ll set the studding sails.” The wind was nearly directly aft now, not Donaghey’s favorite point, and he wanted to close the target as quickly as he could. But the target didn’t run. For long minutes, stretching to half an hour, while the range shortened to five, four, and, unfathomably, three miles, the target didn’t respond at all. And anyone could see by now she was a Dom, with her faded red, almost pink sails, and the barbarously shaped golden crosses painted on them.
“I was going to send the hands to breakfast as soon as the chase began,” Greg told Sammy doubtfully, “but maybe we’d best sound general quarters and have the cook and his mates make a pile of sandwiches.”
“Ay, ay, sur,” Sammy said, equally confused how the enemy could’ve ignored them so long. “Sound gener-aal quarters! Clear for aaction!” he said more loudly. “Cooks to make saamitches!” There wasn’t much else left to prepare, and there was little further activity on deck. The ship had already been cleared for all intents and purposes. Gun’s crews gathered closer to their weapons, helmets replaced Dixie cup hats, and armorers passed out pistol belts to gun captains and ensured the arms lockers between the guns had sufficient cutlasses and axes. Marines clambered up the shrouds with rifles slung, or lined the rails. There came a rumble almost beneath Greg’s feet, and a gasp of gray smoke from a little exhaust pipe that snaked a short distance up the mizzenmast when the four-cylinder Wright-Gypsy-type generator engine, just like the ones used by Nancy floatplanes, whipped to life. It would power electric lights below, particularly in the magazine, where exploding case shot was kept, in the ammunition handling room where thick fabric-powder cartridges were stored in hundreds of robust Baalkpan bamboo pass box tubes, and in the wardroom, where the surgeon waited. The generator also powered the comm gear, which they wouldn’t use unless things went very badly and Greg chose (and had the opportunity) to make a final report, hoping someone might hear, and the fire-control circuit, which they’d certainly use directly.
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