“Run,” yelled Scott at the two Marines as he ran for the far end of the ironclad, aiming to jump into the water.
At that instant, several hatches popped open on the roof of the ironclad and men began to swarm out of them.
Scott aimed his sawn-off shotgun at the nearest man and fired both barrels into his face, killing him instantly. Dropping the shotgun, he drew both of his pistols, and without aiming, he opened fire at the next closest man.
The top of the ironclad erupted with fire as Cole’s Marines on board the Phoenix tried to protect Scott and the Marines as they dashed for safety. A hail of bullets struck down the ironclad’s men as quick as they appeared.
Scott could see the far end of the vessel rapidly approaching. He was firing his pistol as fast as he could pull the trigger at anyone who got in his way. Bullets noisily tore through the air all around him like a swarm of angry bees.
Both Marines, their now pistols empty, sprinted beside Scott.
No one looked back; there just wasn’t time.
A second later, Scott saw the end of the ironclad. He felt himself flying through the air as he leapt. Clawing at the air, he tried to jump out as far as he could. A second later, his feet hit the water. In an instant, he disappeared beneath the wreckage-covered water.
With a low rumble, the ironclad seemed to shudder in the water and then in a blinding bright flash, she seemed to rise out of the water and with a deafening roar like thunder, the ironclad split in half. Flames leapt from the doomed vessel as it quickly sank, dragging with her into the depths the men still trapped inside that had not been incinerated by the blast.
Scott’s head broke the surface, taking in a deep breath of fresh air; he turned his head just in time to see the ironclad torn in two. The force of the explosion sent waves radiating away from the blast. Scott ducked below the waves just as a tall wave raced over where he had been swimming. Popping his head up, Scott treaded water, watching in silent awe as the ironclad quickly slipped below the waves. The only sound came from the air escaping from the stricken vessel as it plunged into the depths of the Mediterranean. Turning, Scott saw the gaping wounds on the Phoenix and the smoke billowing out from her side.
Suddenly, the image of Kate trapped somewhere inside the mangled remains of the lower deck, filled Scott’s mind. Swimming as fast as he could, Scott made for a rope ladder hanging down from the upper deck. Both Marines swam beside him, trying to keep up.
Captain Moore stood on the deck of his battered vessel and looked about. It had been his first engagement since the Mexican War, twenty years ago. Looking about at the damage to his vessel and the blood-covered deck, Moore silently prayed that this was also the last battle he would ever fight.
A tall, black-haired officer in a soot-covered uniform walked over beside Moore. It was his First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Ketchum. “Captain, we’ve lost a fair number of the men today,” said Ketchum, taking a long swig from a water canteen to quench his parched throat.
“Yes we have,” said Moore. “Sam, I need you to take some men below decks and see how bad the damage is. I’ll remain up here with Lieutenant Cole and begin to sort out our losses.”
With a friendly salute, Ketchum called over to a half dozen uninjured sailors and then headed below deck to see how bad they had been damaged in the fight.
Kate pulled with all her might, trying to get a heavy piece of wreckage off the legs of a badly injured sailor. No matter how hard she tried, she could not budge the debris off the man’s legs. Kate felt the hands of someone else grabbing onto the mangled piece of wood. Together, they slowly managed to pull the wounded man to freedom. Looking over, Kate saw it was the tall black sailor she had seen earlier helping move an injured sailor to the ship’s surgeon. With a smile, the sailor started to drag the body of the wounded man back towards a set of stairs that led to the ship’s infirmary.
Seeing that there was little else she could do on her own, Kate turned to help the black sailor, when she froze in her tracks. Making his way towards them through the wreckage was a man whom she had hoped never to see again. It was the thug from Mont Saint Michael. Kate would never forget the way his cold reptilian eyes had leered at her. Her skin instantly began to crawl.
“You,” yelled out Duval. “Don’t move!”
The black sailor did not recognize the voice. Turning his head, he was surprised to see men with pistols in their hands making their way towards him. Acting on instinct, he quickly drew his pistol and fired it in the direction of the nearest intruder. With a moan, the lead man doubled over and then dropped to his knees with blood seeping from a wound in his stomach. Kate quickly dragged the injured man behind an overturned cannon while the black sailor took aim and fired again.
Kate ducked down, reached inside her dress pocket, and pulled out the revolver Scott had given her. Aiming her pistol down the shattered hallway, Kate began to fire her pistol, hoping that if she didn’t manage to hit anyone, then she might at least keep them from shooting at her.
Duval swore as he took cover behind a shredded wall. The bullets were coming thick and heavy. His men panicked and began to fire their weapons wildly. Yelling as loud as he could, Duval tried to get his men to stop shooting; he needed the woman alive. If any of them hit her, his life would be forfeit, and he knew it.
Lieutenant Commander Ketchum heard the firing from below. He couldn’t believe that anyone could have survived from the ironclad and made their way on board, but somehow some must have. Drawing his pistol, he charged down the stairs and came out unexpectedly in front of Duval’s men. He didn’t hear the sound of the pistol that killed him as a bullet tore straight into his temple and came out the other side. The men behind him staggered back, taking what cover they could from the unexpected firefight going on below decks.
Scott pulled himself up on deck, his chest heaving as he fought to get needed oxygen into his strained lungs and muscles. Suddenly, he heard firing below deck and knew that Kate was in danger. Running as fast as he could, Scott picked up a couple abandoned pistols from the blood-covered deck and then dashed down the nearest set of stairs leading into the depths of the ship. Stopping for a moment to gauge where the firing was coming from, Scott, accompanied by his two Marines, took off at the double hoping to find a way to get behind the intruders.
Kate’s pistol clicked as she pulled the trigger. She was out of bullets. Looking over at the man beside her, she saw that he was furiously reloading his pistol.
Seeing the look on her face, the man shook his head. All the spare bullets he had with him had just been loaded into his pistol. Slowly, the sailor began firing towards their now unseen enemy, trying to buy them some time for someone to come to their assistance.
Looking around at the bloodied deck in vain, Kate could not see another weapon close enough for her to reach. Soon they would be helpless to defend themselves against their attackers. A feeling of dread crept into Kate’s heart. She gritted her teeth and prayed that someone got there before it was too late.
Hearing the firing slacken and then stop, a thin smile crept across Duval’s face. Turning to the two closest men, he ordered them to edge forward and take the American woman alive. Reluctantly, the two men nodded their heads, thinking it could be a trap; however, their fear of Duval was worse than their enemy. Carefully, they crept over the debris-strewn corridor towards Kate and her protector. They hadn’t gone more than a few feet when all hell broke loose.
Like a berserker from the Viking Era, Scott charged straight out of a side stairwell, yelling at the top of his lungs, both pistols firing a deadly hail of bullets into Duval’s stunned men. Behind him, the Marines quickly dealt with the men closest to Kate before turning and following Scott as he cut a swath of destruction through the bewildered and unprepared intruders. Man after man fell before Scott as he shot them down without pity. They would never have given Scott or anyone on the Phoenix any mercy, and he wasn’t going to give them any either.
Duval felt panic rise up from t
he pit of his stomach. Hurriedly pivoting on his heels, he scrambled back the way he had come.
Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Duval turn and flee. His already enraged blood raised some more. He was going to kill Duval if was the last thing he ever did. Turning his attention away from the few remaining intruders, Scott charged after Duval. He bobbed and weaved his way through the wrecked corridor leading to the captain’s ruined cabin.
Duval’s heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. Throwing his pistol aside, he began to panic and ran for his life.
Scott brought his pistols up and fired off a couple of quick shots, hoping to kill or at the least wound Duval. Both shots missed. Cursing, he continued on. A moment later, he saw Duval jump over the destroyed remains of the door to the captain’s cabin and then disappear behind a jumble of wooden debris. Stopping, Scott quickly peered inside the cabin fearing a trap. Scott took a deep breath and then stepped inside with both pistols held out in front of him, in case he needed them. The back of the captain’s cabin was missing, torn away during the battle. Scott could see out onto the waters of the Mediterranean. His prey was nowhere to be seen. Edging forward, Scott stepped to the far end of the mangled cabin and looked down.
A shot rang out.
The bullet hit the wood beside Scott’s head, instinctively making him duck.
In the long boat, Duval looked up and fired once more. The boat was near empty; only four men had remained with the boat, and they were now straining to pull away from the Phoenix.
Scott stepped forward and fired off a shot at Duval.
It struck the boat beside him, making him flinch.
Scott emptied what was left in his pistols, hoping to hit his opponent, but the distance was becoming too great. Pistols were deadly in close but were near useless the further away your target became.
Turning his back on Duval, Scott placed his empty pistols down and began to make his way back into the bowels of the ship. He had to find Kate. That was all that mattered to him right now. He didn’t feel anything for the men who had tried to take Kate. They had chosen their side in this struggle and paid for it with their lives.
A voice called out Scott’s name.
Looking down the mangled hallway, Scott saw Kate standing there. Her red hair a jumble on her head, soot covered her face. She may have looked a mess, but she was alive.
Chapter 18
Island of Rhodes, Ottoman Empire
The USS Phoenix made a sorry sight as she limped into the old harbor of Rhodes. She was a shell of her former self. Wooden planks had been hastily nailed in place to shore up the damage to the ship’s lower hull. It had taken a herculean effort by every available man, injured or not, to keep her afloat in the hours following their battle with the mysterious ironclad. Work went on all through the night, until by the gray light of dawn the next morning the ship was able to carry on towards Rhodes. It was touch and go if the repairs would even hold, but the ship’s carpenter, a short Irishman, was a truly gifted man and any leak that was found was quickly repaired. Before sailing into port, Captain Moore had insisted that those lost in the battle were buried at sea. In total, twenty-three men had died in the fight. Another sixty-four were wounded, several of whom were not expected to make it more than another day or two before succumbing to their horrific wounds.
With a volley from the remaining ship’s Marines, the bodies, encased in canvas, slipped over the side of the ship.
Kate stood stoically beside Scott, her face blank and emotionless as she watched so many brave men be sent to meet their maker. For the first time in a long time, Kate truly missed her mother. Having died when Kate was in her teens, her loss was a hole in her heart that had never been replaced. Once the service was over, she walked quietly below to the lower decks and went back to help tending the wounded.
Not a single living survivor had been found amongst the debris field floating where the ironclad had sunk. Several bodies were fished out from the water. None of the men had any form of identification on them. Their anonymity added to the mystery.
Scott was surprised that the ironclad had gone down so easily. He had only hoped to damage their boiler so the Phoenix could get away. The fact that the ironclad had exploded led Scott to believe that they had deliberately scuttled their craft rather than allow it to fall into enemy’s hands. One thing was for certain: they were dealing with fanatics, not men who could be reasoned with. Even the Rebs knew when it was pointless to fight anymore and surrendered. These people evidently did not; they would never stop until they had what they wanted.
Scott stood on deck and watched as the Phoenix sailed past a British Warship, her men lining the deck looking in disbelief at the damage to Captain Moore’s once proud ship. Turning his head, Scott looked over at the stone forts surrounding the mouth of the harbor. It was a mélange of Christian and Muslim traditions and architecture. Minarets and domed mosques sat side by side with Christian churches. Scott saw an Imam climb to the top of his Minaret; a moment later, he began his call to prayer, only to have that taken up by the other mosques echoing the call across the port.
A red flag with a white crescent and five-pointed star of the Ottoman Empire flew lazily in the breeze from a white stone brick building at the far end of the main harbor’s pier. The Harbor Master, a heavyset man wearing a dark-blue tunic and red fez, stepped outside of his tiny office and stared in disbelief as the battered Phoenix made her way into the harbor and then dropped anchor.
“Now what?” asked Scott, looking over at Captain Moore.
Unwilling to rest until they made it to port, Moore had not been off his feet since the engagement yesterday. He was everywhere, one moment seeing to the repairs on the hull, the next checking on the wounded. Scott found it easy to respect and admire the man for his courage in battle and his unswerving devotion to his crew.
Moore wearily looked over at Scott. “I will need to send my First Officer to meet the Harbor Master for permission to stay here and then arrange for medical help for some of the more injured men.”
“How long do you think it will take to repair the Phoenix?” asked Scott, dreading the answer.
“Weeks, perhaps even as long as a month,” Moore said, resting his hand on the damaged wooden railing. “I am amazed and thankful to God that we managed to make it into the harbor, considering all the damage we took to the hull during the fight.”
Scott shook his head. The prognosis was worse than he had expected. “Sir, we cannot possibly wait that long,” said Scott respectfully.
Moore said, “Then you’ll have to go on with us, Mister Scott. The Phoenix was lucky to have made it this far. I cannot possibly take her to sea, not until she has been properly repaired and outfitted. What if there are more of those ironclads waiting for us out there? We got lucky yesterday thanks to you.”
Scott knew that Moore was right. “I understand, sir. I truly do appreciate the help you’ve given us in getting this far,” said Scott, offering his hand.
Moore reached out and shook it. Looking Scott in the eye, Moore said, “Mister Scott, I don’t want all of this to be for naught. Too many good men died yesterday. I have never asked you why you needed to come aboard. All I care about right now is my men. I will not allow their deaths to have been in vain. If you need help with anything…men, equipment, money, to help you, just let me know,” said Moore, holding Scott’s hand firmly in his.
“Well, if you say it like that, sir, I’d like to go ashore with Miss O’Sullivan as soon as possible to check a few things out, and if possible I’d like to take two men with us for added security.”
“Do you have two men in mind?” asked Moore.
“As a matter of fact sir…yes, I do,” Scott said with a grin on his face.
Scott and Kate climbed out of the longboat and stared up at the castle overlooking over the harbor as a reminder of past glories.
Scott stopped, looked over his shoulder, and saw their new companions standing there equally amazed at the sheer size of
the castle.
It had been easy for Scott to choose the men he thought would best suit the task ahead of them. He had asked for Marine Lance Corporal Dwayne Gray because the blonde-haired kid was fearless in a fight and an exceptional shot. Standing beside Gray was a man with only one name, Thomas, the black sailor who had been at Kate’s side during the fight. He was a powerfully built freed slave who, like Gray, was not afraid to get into a scrap. It did not hurt that Thomas had become quite protective of Kate since the gunfight with the intruders aboard the Phoenix.
“That’s one mighty big castle,” said Gray, scratching his head as he looked up at the parapets lining the walls of the stronghold.
“Ma’am is that where we are going?” asked Thomas, his voice deep and gravely.
Kate said, “Sorry, not today. Another time perhaps.”
They were all dressed in simple seaman’s clothes, dark-blue denim trousers with white shirts, which the men left loose to conceal their revolvers. Kate had her long red hair tucked under a sailor’s cap to mask her true identity. The port was full of sailors from many different nationalities. They easily blended in, looking like just another group of sailors walking about the city for a few hours shore leave.
Kate pointed out an elderly-looking man wearing a long black robe with a round black felt cap on his head to Scott. Kate smiled and began to chat with the Eastern Orthodox Priest in Latin. To her surprise, he answered back with the odd phrase or word in broken English. After a few minutes of discussion, she had what she was looking for.
“Mind telling us where we are going?” asked a befuddled Scott after the priest left.
“He said that there are three medieval churches not far from here,” replied Kate. “It only makes sense that we start with them.”
“And why might that be?”
“Because the good Father Demetrious said that they all date back to roughly the same time period when Philippe of Normandy would have arrived in Rhodes from the Holy Land,” explained Kate.
The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1) Page 17
