Donaghey had been the first Allied ship, besides Walker and Mahan, of course, to use electricity, originally in the form of a wind generator sufficient to power a crystal receiver and then a weak wireless set. She needed more juice for the firing circuit and needed it on demand, not on the whim of a capricious wind. Even though Allied storage batteries had improved, they still remained unreliable and drained quickly. Besides, a sufficient bank of batteries and capacitors for their purposes would take as much space as the generator and a fairly large fuel tank. The fuel tank, for the generator and floatplane, was below the waterline. But the generator produced more electricity than they needed, thus the electric lights.
Perhaps someone finally saw them, or maybe heard the insistent clanging of Donaghey’s alarm gong and the long roll of the Marines’ drums thundering in the waist, because the Dom suddenly let fly her aft sheets and veered away, her staysails flapping in the wind. Greg raised his telescope and saw utter pandemonium erupting aboard the other ship: men running to and fro, a few beginning to climb the shrouds. A line of officers in large, lacy tricorns stared at them, over the poop, as if amazed. A few gunports opened and guns ran out, but only a few. It seemed forever before the Dom shifted her yards and trimmed her sails in anything like an appropriate manner, and all the while Donaghey narrowed the gap. Even when the Dom seemed as squared away as she was able, running directly away to the northwest, Donaghey visibly gained—even without her studding sails.
Greg continued to study the ship, ignoring his steward, who snatched his hat off his head and tried to reach high enough to replace it with a helmet. Without thinking, he crouched to let the short Lemurian complete his task. He did notice when the little ’Cat buckled his cutlass and pistol belt around his waist, but never took his eye from the glass. He hadn’t fought Doms before, and their ship wasn’t actually what he’d call a galleon either. It had a quarterdeck and poop, but there was no ridiculously high stern castle like the word usually conjured in his mind. Probably one of their heavy frigates, he mused, and it seemed to roughly match the standard dimensions: 170′ x 50′, and about fifteen hundred tons. Likely a crew of about three fifty, he added to himself. It was handsome in a way Lemurians might appreciate, with gilded carving around the broad stern galleries and colorful paintings down its sides, fore and aft, above the gundeck. And the gundeck was a bit disconcerting. All the ports were open now, revealing sixteen heavy guns per side, probably twenty-four-pounders, and Greg had no doubt there were half again as many nine-pounders on the decks above. Considering their relative sizes and apparent power, he supposed the Doms must’ve run on instinct, surprised by the appearance of their foes. They probably hadn’t been expecting to run into anything and their lookouts must’ve been dozing. Wouldn’t want to be them, he thought with a chill, remembering the lurid accounts of Dom bloodthirstiness he’d heard. Still, all those officers peering over the transom are glassing us as well now.
“I wonder what they’ll do now they’ve got a haan-dle on their confusion,” Sammy said beside him. “An’ realize they’ve got us outgunned. Oh! Here come the saamitches!”
Greg glanced up at the maintop—the “fighting top,” now full of Marines with their Allin-Silva rifles—and Smitty Smith and a pair of ordnance strikers, already calculating ranges and clustered around the extremely crude but effective gyro Sonny Campeti had come up with. It was little more than a plumb bob in a wood-framed glass box, but it allowed Smitty to coordinate their salvos, or broadsides, and fire them as true as muzzle-loading smoothbore guns were capable of. Gunners would match his shouted elevations and train their weapons to lead the target as directed, and the guns would be fired electrically by a common circuit leading to primers in their vents—which would be closed at Smitty’s discretion when his plumb bob swayed across a fixed point in the box. “They’ll die anyway,” Greg answered grimly, scooping a sandwich from the offered plate and taking a huge bite.
They’d closed the range to half a mile and were gaining quickly despite anything the Dom could do. He chewed and swallowed. “Run up the battle flag and give them a shot from one of the bow chasers,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll surrender.” He doubted that. A few Dom ships had surrendered at Malpelo, completely surrounded and hammered into helplessness, or had been boarded and their officers killed. But quarter wasn’t something expected in this war, by either side. The concept was utterly alien to the Grik, with a few notable exceptions, and just as unfamiliar to most Lemurians until recently. They still didn’t quite get it. They’d only ever wanted peace, to be left alone, but if they had to fight it came with the instinctive acceptance that they had to kill whoever drove them to it or die themselves. But maybe . . . Greg reconsidered, the Doms’ll think we’re a New US ship when they see our flag. They’re kind of similar. And they’d had reports from Fred and Kari that Doms would surrender to the “other Americans.” He didn’t know if it worked the other way around.
A huge cheer arose amid stamping feet when the Stars and Stripes swept up the mainmast to the very top and streamed away, reaching to the north-northwest. It was a very large flag, with all Donaghey’s major actions embroidered on the stripes in golden thread. Walker’s flag, similarly decorated, bore the most of those by far, starting with Makassar Strait and Java Sea on another world. But the record of the many bitter actions Donaghey had survived, usually victorious, infused her crew with a fierce satisfaction. To punctuate the cheers, the starboard twelve-pounder on the fo’c’sle barked over the headrails, its report somewhat flat with the wind aft. There was time for the breeze to sweep the smoke to the left before the shot plunked into the sea close enough to wet the officers on the enemy poop with the splash. Another cheer surged.
Almost immediately, smoke blossomed from two ports below the Dom poop, and a pair of splashes kicked up about two hundred yards short.
“She’ll start hitting us soon,” Sammy observed. “You want us to heat the chasers up? Fire like we mean it?”
Greg considered while he quickly finished his sandwich and washed it down with a swig from his canteen. Donaghey’s gunnery had reached such a state that soon she could yaw and deliver a concentrated salvo of a dozen eighteen-pound solid shot directly into the enemy’s vulnerable stern. That was what she’d loaded first, for the range advantage solid shot had over case. But range hadn’t turned out to be an issue. Even if it had, a much higher percentage of Donaghey’s guns would find their mark than the Dom could even imagine, supposing he hadn’t been at Malpelo, which was a pretty good bet. The devastation would be horrendous as shot blew through windows and light bulkheads separating the officers’ quarters from the gundeck—they’d been told Doms didn’t remove those bulkheads during action—and shrieked its length, wounding masts amid shoals of wicked splinters, wrecking carriages, and overturning guns. Mere human bodies wouldn’t noticeably slow them. Some might even exit the bow, making great, jagged holes. But if they didn’t disable the Dom, he’d gain on them and it would take time to catch back up.
“By all means, Mr. Saama,” Greg finally said. “Maybe we’ll knock something important away and get this over quicker. Either way, when we have her right by the tail—within five hundred yards or so—we’ll come left and unmask the starboard battery. We’ll hit her as fast as we can, with two salvos of roundshot. If she strikes her colors, swell. If not, we’ll follow ’em with a third salvo of exploding case.”
“Risky,” Sammy lamented. He blinked seriously, his tail swishing with apprehension. “I know you want to take the Dom ship in-taact. Not only for prisoners to question about its meeting with the League, but I can imagine all sorts of situations in which the ship itself might prove useful. Case might seriously daam-age or destroy it, ’specially if it sets her afire.”
“True, but by all accounts, it’s tough to make Doms quit. A few rounds of case ought to shake ’em up, maybe stun or demoralize the gun’s crews enough to throw off their aim and let us get close enough to sweep h
er with chain, grape, maybe even our machine guns. Then, with the enemy’s sails and rigging cut to pieces, we’ll position Donaghey to rake her again and again with grape and canister while our Marines slaughter their crew with rifles.” He frowned. “We’ll see how much Doms can take before they throw in the towel.” He looked intently at Sammy. “And we’ll board her if we have to, but only as a last resort. The ship, and the information we might get, is worth some of us, but if I think the price is too high, I’ll sink her without batting an eye.” Sammy grinned, trying to lighten Greg’s darkening mood. “Mi-Anakka baat their eyes all the time, Skipper. And this crew may do so resentfully if you sink their prize!” Greg’s lips twitched upward. Ships that took prizes were getting bonus pay now. But that wouldn’t influence his decision.
At the command, both twelve-pounders on the fo’c’sle began banging away with a will. They were firing in local control, with friction primers, aimed by their gun captains, but Smitty was correcting their ranges and calling out when the keel was even. The gunners paid him little mind. They had plenty of practice at this and could feel when the moment was right to pull their lanyards. Soon, shot after shot was tearing home, spoiling the beauty of the target’s stern gallery. The enemy chasers kept at it too, though noticeably slower. The ship shivered from an impact forward, above her starboard hawse, and the courses had a few holes in them now. A shot tore through one of the ship’s boats stowed on the main hatch, sending a shower of splinters aft before it nicked the mainmast, struck the deck, and bounded over the rail. Greg had actually considered bringing his last Nancy floatplane on deck and assembling it, in case he had to look for the enemy. Now he was glad he hadn’t.
“Good shooting, sur,” observed the ’Cat at the wheel.
Greg was nodding, a little surprised himself, when the starboard quarterdeck 12-pdr gun captain, who’d been left out so far, snorted. “At dis range? I could hit ’em fum here, flickin’ a musket baall wit’ a spoo . . .” In that instant, a nine-pound shot struck him where his neck met his chest, nearly tearing his head off. The body pitched back, helmet flying, across the gun in a shower of blood. Blood spattered as far as Greg, spotting his khaki trousers red. Without a word, a pair of ’Cats rushed forward from one of the aft chasers and carried the body below. Greg’s face turned hard as he watched them go; then he looked through his glass again. The range had finally closed to about five hundred yards, absolute point-blank for Donaghey’s guns, and he began to call the starboard battery to stand by and command the helmsman to turn—when he saw the enemy begin to yaw to port. “All hands!” he cried. “Down! Take cover!”
In another age, on his home world, such an order might’ve been appreciated, but would’ve been met with incredulity. Sailors and their officers were expected to stand, unconcerned, and take what was coming. Even here, in the thick of the fight, few would try to conceal themselves. It served little purpose, broadside to broadside, and the best way to make the enemy stop shooting was to shoot him first. But Donaghey would have to take this broadside head-on, delivered cold, and there was nothing Greg could do but present the smallest target possible, hope the rest of the enemy gunners weren’t as good as her chaser crews, and pray his ship and people didn’t suffer too badly before they could hit back.
The Dom ship grew larger, longer, turning quickly. Even before she had a chance to settle, a long, rolling broadside, starting aft and moving forward, erupted from her side, sending white smoke gushing over and away. Most of the big twenty-four-pound balls went high, shivering Donaghey’s sails and sending blocks racing down severed halyards to crash on deck. A fair number probably missed completely. One hit the muzzle of the portside chaser, shattering, and flipped the gun on its side. Screams arose on the fo’c’sle as ’Cats were crushed by the gun or flayed by fragments of the iron ball. More splinters sprayed aft from the shattered boat on the hatch, one hitting Greg’s helmet that he’d providentially dipped. A couple crashed into the hull forward, shaking the entire ship. Then it was over.
“Starboard battery, stand by!” Greg roared. “Helm,” he shouted, glancing at the wheel—only to see the ’Cat there was down, eyes clenched shut in agony, teeth showing bright. Something had fallen on him, probably breaking his collarbone. But the Republic sailing master, Leutnant Koor-Susk, had taken his place. “Helm,” Greg repeated, “come left to three two zero! Execute! Make ready, Mr. Smith!” he called upward. “Commence firing at your discretion!”
“Range four-fifty,” Smitty called down, estimating what it would be when Donaghey finished her turn. “Five degrees left!” The call was repeated and handspikes shifted guns to match the marks on the backs of the carriages with the ones on deck. “Prime!” Vents were pierced and primers inserted.
“Clear!” the gunners shouted as their crews stepped away.
“All clear!” cried Donaghey’s first lieutenant, Mak-Araa. “Baattery is ready!”
All this was accomplished in seconds, before Donaghey’s guns would even bear. Now the turn was complete and Koor called that the rudder was amidships. “Firing!” Smitty warned, staring at the plumb bob in the box. Just before it swung across the mark beneath it, he closed the firing switch. Electricity raced down the wires, igniting the primers in the vents, and the ship heaved as all twelve of Donaghey’s starboard eighteen-pounders spat orange flame and bright smoke simultaneously, backed by two twelve-pounders in rapid succession. There followed the ripping-sheet sound of heavy projectiles in flight, cut off by a staccato thunder of impacts. Younglings, holding tubular pass boxes and watching from the comparative safety of the companionways, erupted from below and ran to their appointed guns. Only Smitty, above the great cloud of smoke, could see the results, and he quickly called corrections. In fewer than forty seconds, Lieutenant Mak yelled, “All clear. Baattery is ready!” once again. Again, Smitty roared that he was firing. Another concussive blast shook the ship and shot pounded the Dom.
“Load case shot!” Greg shouted, even while the enemy remained invisible beyond the dense fog bank of smoke rushing down on her. Slowly, she began to emerge as the smoke dispersed. “God almighty,” he breathed. Smitty’s range estimates had been dead-on, but he may’ve led his target a bit much. Understandable, since Donaghey had never engaged a target so closely with her new fire-control procedures in place. Not that the result was a bad thing. At least for them. And to top it off, Greg’s ship had never fired such densely patterned salvos in her life. It looked like every round had struck forward, battering three of the enemy’s gunports into one, and the few that missed the hull seemed to have struck the foremast. It was still leaning far over to windward, the stays somehow holding it, but then they began to part, whipping high in the air, and the entire thing, practically from the fo’c’sle deck, crashed over the side into the sea. Men were seen jumping in the water, and Greg wondered how long they’d last. They hadn’t seen many mountain fish, but the Atlantic seemed just as thick with other predators as elsewhere. The main topmast and topsail went with the foremast, settling like a shroud over the fo’c’sle, and the drag of the mast quickly brought the Dom ship around until she was bows on to Donaghey’s next broadside. “Belay loading case!” Greg shouted. “Those that already have, draw ’em out. Load grape! Helm, resume your original course.” He turned to Sammy. “When we’re within two hundred yards, we’ll come left again and heave to.”
“Aye, sur!”
Donaghey straightened, surging closer, then bore away once more, backing her foresails. For five long minutes, she punished the Dom frigate with grape shot, shredding fo’c’sle, sails, boats, and bodies down the length of her main deck. The forward bulkhead behind the shattered headrails became a sieve, and similar destruction must’ve been done all along the gundeck. Men taking cover behind cannon or in the waist might’ve survived the onslaught, but soon nothing moved amid the carnage they’d wrought.
“Cease firing!” Greg roared over the din, and his order quickly spread. Two more guns
fired before there was silence, and Greg paced to the rail, taking a leather speaking trumpet his steward handed him. Donaghey was fewer than a hundred yards from the Dom’s sagging bowsprit now, the wind blowing her down on the helpless ship. He glanced at the water churning with blue-gold shapes, tearing at corpses floating amid smoldering clumps of wadding from his guns. The bodies had either fallen or been thrown over the side of the Dom. Not exactly flashies, he thought absently. Not as big, or quite as many as we’ll probably find in coastal waters. But just as hungry. Maybe they follow ships? He shook his head.
“Is anyone alive over there?” he shouted. “Your captain? Any officers?” A few shapes stirred slightly, unwilling to reveal themselves, but some obviously still lived.
“I doubt they speak English, sur,” Sammy told him wryly. His blinking didn’t match his tone, however, and it was clear he was sickened by what they’d done.
So was Greg, but he was more sickened by their own losses. “Uh,” he said, racking his memory. He’d never heard Spanish in his life before going to the Philippines to join Walker, and hadn’t been there long enough to pick up much. Then again, many Doms spoke . . . other languages, God knew what, and apparently only their officers used Spanish exclusively. “Smitty,” he called above, “do you speak Spanish?” He’d had a Filipino wife—of sorts—in Cavite.
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