* * * * *
July, 1912, north of Memphis, Tennessee
“The commodore says that help is on the way. Engage the enemy at your discretion, sir,” said Ensign Alby Hinsworth.
“Very well,” said Drew Harding. My discretion! Yeah, right! He was engaging the enemy. With long range fire. But he couldn’t tell if he was doing anything. There seemed to be a constant flow of Martian tripods moving across the river from west to east. Shells from the squadron were falling among them, but it was impossible to tell if they were scoring many hits. What was evident was the fact that there seemed to be much less resistance on the eastern shore. There wasn’t much fire coming from there anymore and the flares were fewer, Drew’s ships were firing their own star shells now. Tripods were emerging from the river and moving ashore. They were getting across.
“Sir? Sir?” A rating was holding the intercom phone and calling to him.
“Yes?”
“Sir, the lookout up top says there’s something going on you ought to see.”
“What is it?”
“He’s not sure, but he asks that you come up top.”
“Very well. Mr. Hinsworth, you have the con.” He went out the bridge hatch and then clambered up the ladder to the observation post on the mast. The observers for the guns worked there.
“Sir!” said the petty officer in charge. “Take a look, sir, they’re up to something.” He pointed to the very powerful set of binoculars mounted on a pintle. Drew leaned forward and peered through the device.
“What am I looking for, Chief?”
“It looks like the buggers are towing rafts, sir!”
“Rafts? What in the world would they be doing that for?” But looking closer in the erratic light from the star shells he saw what the chief was talking about: dark rectangles were moving behind some of the tripods, which were submerged up to their heads. What were they for? He swung the binoculars over to look at the eastern shore. There were dozens of the things drawn up on the bank. As he watched, another one was pulled up and as it was, a cluster of tiny shapes, just barely visible at this distance, clambered out and moved inland.
“Spider-machines! The damn rafts are full of their spider-machines!”
“That ain’t good, sir! Whadda we do?”
“Our job is to keep them from getting across, damn it!”
“Aren’t gonna be able to stop them from way back here, sir.”
The man looked at him and as they locked eyes, Drew knew what had to be done; and the knowledge chilled him to the bone despite the warm air. Without another word, he went back down the ladder. The forward turret fired just then, the vibration nearly knocking him loose.
Back on the bridge, he looked at the men there. His next action could get them all killed, but there was no choice. No choice at all. The commodore and the reinforcements might take an hour to get here. By then it would be too late for them to do any good. All those tripods and all those spiders would sweep down on the city from the north and…
“Mr. Hinsworth, signal the squadron to advance and engage the enemy closely. Let the commodore know what we are doing. Helm, take us up river, full speed ahead.”
To their credit, the men only hesitated for a moment before carrying out their orders. The engine room telegraph rang up full speed and the ship began to vibrate gently. Drew stepped out onto the bridge wing and looked off to the east. There was the faintest glow of dawn in the sky. Good. Hinsworth rejoined him after a few minutes. “All ships acknowledge, sir. No immediate reply from the commodore.” Drew looked rearward and saw that the other five ships were following. In ten or fifteen minutes they might all be reduced to flaming wrecks, but they were following, by God. He rested his hands on the rail of his ship and looked up at the mast. An amazing calm filled him.
“Mr. Hinsworth.”
“Sir?”
“I think this would be a good time to break out the battle ensign.”
“Sir? The… the…?”
“The battle ensign. I know we have one. I think Santa Fe should look her best today, don’t you? Get it run up, won’t you?”
“Uh, yes, sir, right away.”
Hinsworth disappeared and returned a few minutes later with two other men hauling a large bundle of cloth. In the days of sailing ships, they carried enormous flags called battle ensigns. They’d be flown during a fight to help identify friend from foe in the smoke and confusion of combat. The navy still carried them, but they were rarely flown anymore except in ceremonies. Santa Fe’s battle ensign was over twenty feet high and thirty feet long. There was barely enough room to fly it from the cables running up to the observation platform. It took all three men to haul it up. The wind generated by their speed caught the cloth and it billowed out behind them. The red and the blue looked almost black, but the white stripes and stars gleamed dimly in the waning night. Yes, it looked good. Right and proper.
“Ensign, turn on the searchlights and get the machine guns manned. Damage control parties stand ready.”
“Yes, sir,” gasped Hinsworth. Drew was running the kid ragged. But he got the job done. Beams of light blazed out from the ship and lit up the enemy, who weren’t all that far off now. A little over two miles, Drew estimated. Men appeared to man the half-dozen machine guns mounted on the ship. There was one on the end of each bridge wing. The guns had small metal shields to protect the crews, but the men were still terribly exposed. There was nothing for it, however; he was going to need every bit of firepower they had very shortly.
Only their forward guns could shoot at the moment, but they were firing steadily now and it looked as though they were scoring some hits. They’d do better as the range dropped. Hinsworth was back and stood next to him waiting for the next order. Some of his usual bravado appeared to be missing. In fact, he looked scared.
“Mr. Hinsworth.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask: however did you end up with the name of ‘Albustus’?”
“Sir?” The boy seemed startled and then laughed nervously. “Oh, uh, well, I guess it’s a family tradition, sir. My father, my grandfather, way on back, all of them were named that. The first one fought in the Revolution, I’ve been told. He’s buried in New Castle, Delaware, right next to George Read who signed the Declaration. Silly name, I guess, but it’s tradition.”
“Tradition,” said Drew, nodding. He looked up at the huge flag. “Tradition. Well, we have some navy traditions to uphold today, Mr. Hinsworth. Let’s get to it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They moved into the armored pilothouse. The shutters were closed, but they left the rear hatch open for the moment. “Course, sir?” asked the helmsman.
“Right into the center of them. If any get in your way, run them down. In fact, aim to run them down.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The man’s face took on a wolf-like grin, baring his teeth.
Drew looked through the quartz block in the view slit. The enemy were still moving across the river, seemingly oblivious to the approach of the warships. In the growing light he could see that some of the tripods were almost completely submerged and were moving only slowly. The rafts were being towed by cables, but the current of the river was dragging them downstream, and some of their towing tripods looked to be having trouble controlling them. As he watched, a shell from one of the ships hit the water and exploded very close to a tripod; it must have severed the towing cable because one of the rafts was suddenly drifting loose and slowly spinning down the river toward them. A moment later, another shell hit the raft squarely, ripping it apart and sending spider-machines tumbling off in all directions. They splashed into the water and vanished immediately.
“Can’t swim, can you, you bastards?” said Drew, grinning.
But now the enemy was starting to react. Most kept moving toward the eastern bank, but the ones closest to the ships began turning in their direction. Some heat rays stabbed out and he flinched back from the view slit as one swept across Santa Fe. But t
he range was still very long for the Martians and it did no damage.
Not such long range for the humans, though.
The light in the east was growing moment by moment and the searchlights and star shells were barely needed anymore. The gunners aboard the ships were finding the range now and hits were more frequent. A tripod off to the left suddenly blew apart as something tore through it. Another appeared to stumble, disappeared under the water, and didn’t reappear.
Drew was briefly tempted to halt the advance and pound the enemy from a safe distance, but no, the bulk of them were still crossing unmolested further upstream. The range was still too long for really accurate shooting against such small targets. They needed to get in there and wreck as many as they could, slow them up, delay them until Commodore Rush arrived with more ships.
The range closed very quickly, as it always did. Ships or objects which seemed to hang in the distance forever without getting any closer were suddenly just here in what seemed an eye-blink. The guns were roaring continuously as their crews slammed shells and powder into the breeches as quickly as they could. The shriek of the heat rays filled the air and the rattle of the fifty-calibers on the bridge wings could be heard through the open hatch. Cordite smoke swept around them and made it very difficult to see. It was impossible for him to assign targets and the gunners were going to have to pick their targets as best they could.
The ship shuddered and that hateful red glow surrounded them. A heat ray was hitting them and he released stream to counter it. The stink of the cordite was joined by a different smell. His ship was on fire. But the guns in the forward turret roared again and the glow winked out. He looked out port view slit and a tripod, spewing smoke swept by, not two hundred yards away.
“Sir! Dead ahead!” Hinsworth was at the forward slit and shouting to him. He moved up beside him and looked out. The wind was freshening and it blew away the smoke for a moment. Right in front of them was a tripod, but it was submerged hallway up its bulbous head, the glowing red eye in the middle of the face even with the water.
“Ram it! Helm, steer straight for it!”
The Martian seemed to be stuck in the mud for it only made a few jerky attempts to avoid the ship bearing down on it. Suddenly the water just in front of it exploded outward in a billowing cloud of steam. Its heat ray! It couldn’t raise it above the water! Drew found himself laughing out loud as Santa Fe, all three thousand tons of her, slammed into the enemy machine. There was a muffled clang and a slight lurch, but that was all.
Then the red fire was back - some other tripod firing at them - and an instant later an explosion slammed the ship and smoke blotted out everything.
“The forward turret! The forward turret is gone, sir!” cried Hinsworth,
But the aft turret was firing and all the casemate guns as well. They were in the midst of them now. Drew went to the bridge hatch and looked back. Evansville was off their port quarter, burning in a dozen spots, but her guns were still firing. A tripod looming next to her suddenly tumbled backward into the water and vanished.
Vanceberg and Manchester were following, not hit too badly yet, it didn’t seem. But the two converted river boats, Louisville Star and Dixie Dancer, were both burning from stem to stern a half mile behind. Their improvised armor was just not enough against the Martian weapons. He glanced up and was saddened that the battle ensign was just a few scorched tatters.
Suddenly a rating appeared, climbing up the ladder from below. “Sir! Sir! Message from headquarters!” Drew pulled him into the pilothouse.
“From the commodore?”
“No sir, from General MacArthur’s headquarters!” He held out a slip of paper and Drew took it. Read it.
To all commands: Defense Plan M now in effect.
“What the hell?”
“What is it, sir?” asked Hinsworth.
“MacArthur’s pulling everything back to Memphis.”
Hinsworth looked around. “Bit late for us.”
“Yeah.” Drew crumpled the paper and threw it away.
The ship lurched again and there was a screech of twisting metal. They’d hit something. Another tripod? No heat ray was raking them just at the moment and he dared to step out on the starboard wing to take a look. There was nothing he could see at first. Smoke was billowing out of the forward turret and the charred bodies of the machine gun crew were sprawled at the end of the wing. A few tripods were in the river not far off, but they were ignoring Santa Fe at the moment. Many more were farther off and some were firing at the ships coming on behind. He couldn’t see anything they might have hit. Perhaps they’d run down another Martian…
Something moving caught his eye.
A metal bar was hooked over the railing near the bow. It didn’t belong there. Another one appeared. Then something the size of a cow heaved itself up and over. It was a metal egg about six or seven feet long, standing on three articulated legs. It had one arm holding something that looked remarkably like a human pistol and another with a long whip-like tentacle. As Drew looked on in horror, another one appeared farther aft. And another. They started scuttling aft.
He retreated into the pilot house and opened his mouth to shout an order he never expected to ever give.
“All hands! Prepare to repel boarders!”
Hinsworth leaned past him through the hatch, paused, looked, and then ran for the machine gun. Drew swung around, saw that the port machine gun was still in action, and the gunner was blasting away at something close at hand. He grabbed the man who had brought up the message and shoved him toward the ladder. “Go below! Have anyone you can find grab a weapon - axes, hammers, anything! - and get up here!”
He stepped out on the starboard wing again. Hinsworth was pouring fire into the spider-machines on the foredeck. One was already down and bullets were tearing through the second. The third one fired the pistol-thing, which was a miniature heat ray, but the flimsy gun shield was able to absorb it just long enough for Hinsworth to swing the gun over and bring it down in a shower of sparks. The boy had a lunatic grin on his face. “I got ‘em! I got ‘em, sir!”
Drew smiled a crazy smile of his own and stepped toward him…
… just as a metal monster pulled itself up on the bridge railing right behind Hinsworth.
“Alby! Look out!” Drew flung himself forward.
Before the boy could even turn, the long snake-like tentacle with a gleaming blade on the end of it flashed around, slicing Hinsworth’s head from his body. Drew’s momentum carried him toward the machine gun, but he knew he’d never reach it. The tentacle swung back. He was inside the arc of the deadly blade, but the tentacle slammed into him like a pile driver.
An agonizing pain blasted through his shoulder, and then he was flying through the air. He hit the river and the muddy waters of the Mississippi swallowed him up.
* * * * *
July, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee
“Where’n hell’s the commander of those damn lady sharpshooters?!”
For a moment the shout didn’t register, but then Becca Harding suddenly jerked awake. That’s me! She stood up, the blanket she’d wrapped herself in falling away, and looked down from her perch on the city wall. “Up here!”
“Well, git yerself down here! We’ve got orders!”
“Coming!” She made her way past some other soldiers who, like her, had decided to camp out on the wall where they could watch the battle, and let herself down an iron ladder attached to the concrete. It was still dark, although she could see the first glimmer of dawn in the east.
The man who had shouted was waiting for her. She saw that he was an officer with the militia so she came to attention and saluted. He didn’t bother to return it. “Get your girls up and moving,” he said. “They’re shifting us to a new position.”
“Where, sir?”
“Up on the north side of the city.”
“What’s happenin’, sir?”
“Not sure. Looks like the fight over yonder was just a decoy. T
he Martians are over the river to the north and headin’ this way fast. So get a move on! We’ll be pulling out in ten minutes, you be ready to follow.” He turned and walked away before she could even respond.
She ran back to her camp and started kicking tent poles and shouting for the girls to get up. The nearby militia company was already falling in. Old Mo came walking over. “What’s all the fuss, Missy?”
“Get the horses and the carriage ready! We’re movin’ right away!”
* * * * *
Cycle 597, 845.2, River 3-1
Qetjnegartis looked back at the river. All six of the enemy vessels had been destroyed; the burning remains of several of them could still be seen. Their reckless charge had done an alarming amount of damage, but they we gone now and the crossing could be completed. But they must move quickly, the black smoke plumes of more vessels could be seen beyond the thick growths of vegetation to the south. They would be here soon, but they would be too late.
“Keep moving. We must strike the city before the prey-creatures can prepare.”
* * * * *
July 1912, near Rosedale, Mississippi
“Sorry to wake you, sir, but we just got a signal from General Clopton.”
Andrew Comstock squinted at the light streaming in through the door of his tiny cabin. His aide, Lieutenant Hornbaker was standing there, silhouetted by the glare. “Is it important?”
“Looks to be. Memphis is under attack. A major attack. We’re to proceed directly there at full speed.”
“All right, all right, I’ll be up in a minute.”
Chapter Fifteen
July, 1912, Washington, D.C.
“Has there been anything more from MacArthur?” asked President Theodore Roosevelt.
“No sir,” replied Leonard Wood. “Nothing since that ‘Defense Plan M’ message an hour ago. I’ve tried to get hold of him, but his aides just tell me he is ‘indisposed’. I’ve been in touch with Dickman at 3rd Army headquarters, but he can’t get through to MacArthur, either. All we know is that the enemy has crossed the river in great strength about fifteen miles north of Memphis.”
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