The Gold Engine
(A David Marr Adventure)
by
D. Girard Watson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 D. Girard Watson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions.
Cover Art Design: Sarah Brown-Schmidt, www.sarahbrownschmidt.com
Version 2011.05.3
For more information about the author, go to:
www.dgirardwatson.com
Twitter: dgirardwatson
PROLOGUE
"Ready the cannons!"
Jack peered through his viewing glass at the ship. She was fleeing as fast as she could to the far side of New Madrid, headed towards the asteroid belt fifteen million miles away. She was a military transport ship but she was light, fast, and nimble. She was just at the far range of his guns.
"Fire!"
The bow chasers let loose. There was an explosion, and through the smoke, several large holes could be seen in her aft. The crew cheered.
"Quiet on deck!" roared Jack. "Reload!"
She kept moving, but now more slowly. It was a direct hit, and she was feeling it. The only way the Calista had been able to get as close as she did was by flying false colors. She was built in a Spanish shipyard fifteen years ago, and although she was now an American navy vessel, she easily passed as a Spanish frigate. Flying the Spanish colors had helped, as had using signals retrieved from a codebook in a sloop captured several days earlier.
The transport slowed down, but she was increasing the distance between them ever so slightly. Any shot now would be wasted.
Jack sighed. His only hope now was to chase her to the asteroid belt with the hopes that she would need to slow down. The Calista would have to slow down too but, by God, if they had any luck, he'd get her.
He wanted that ship. She had been flying through American space, so she was fair game for capture. If she was coming from Esme, famous for its gold and rare metals, she'd be weighed down. A captain's share of the prize money would easily settle his debts at home. It had been a relatively dry few months on patrol. They'd encountered no Spanish ships in violation of the Treaty of Paris other than the sloop, and although the Navy paid its captains well, prize money could turn a captain and his crew into very wealthy sailors. A hand could earn a year's pay in an afternoon's work.
"Full speed ahead, Mr. Thomas,"
"Aye Aye, sir."
They were moving quickly, but not quite fast enough. The asteroid belt was rapidly approaching. Behind them was New Madrid, a green and blue orb floating in the distance, dominating the view. Ahead was the shimmering movement of stars: the Belt. It would be several hours before either ship made it that far.
The Calista had a crack crew. All of these men had served together before. More importantly, they'd all been in combat together. That counted for more than anything. Jack knew each man, and knew that each would make the right decision when the time came.
Jack paced the deck, his glass constantly focused on the ship ahead. They were beginning to encounter debris from the belt.
The transport was slowing down.
Jack could feel the tension on deck. The crew was just as excited about that plump ship and its potential wealth as he was. They all loved him. Not just for having made them rich in the past, but because he knew what he was doing. He was a proper sailor. He was one of the best commanders in the fleet, and most of these men would have been willing to follow him into the depths of hell.
An enormous crash on the side of the hull knocked some of the hands down. An asteroid.
"No damage, sir" said Thomas, the first lieutenant.
"Take her down to half speed."
They needed to go slower to react to incoming rocks, but so did the transport. The glass again. He stared at the transport for fifteen minutes, judging her speed, the amount of damage they inflicted, and the competency of the crew. It took an experienced captain to take a damaged ship into the Belt, as well as seasoned hands. She was slowing, but more than he would have thought.
"It looks like that shot damaged her rudder," said Jack.
"I think she's trying to turn, sir!" Thomas grinned, "You're right. She's slowing. She's heading towards the asteroid five points off our bow."
They had her.
"Ready for boarding, Mr. Thomas," roared Jack. Thomas gave the order to the boson, and Jack watched as the men grabbed what weapons they could: halyards, swords, and pistols. Marines readied their rifles, taking up positions at the port barriers, which had been slid open to expose the entire side of the ship to the void and were readied for boarding. Some of the men were tense, but most were relaxed. This was just a transport, so they didn't expect much of a fight. Rarely were transport sailors willing to risk their lives for a few pounds of gold, especially when capture was inevitable. No, there wasn't much risk here and soon, they'd all be wealthy.
"Fire two shots off her bow," said Jack to the gunner. "I needn't say it, but check your aim."
"Of course, sir," said the gunner. He was deferential as always, but his eyes were full of reproach. There was no way he or his men would put the ship at risk.
Two shots were fired one hundred yards ahead of the transport's bow.
She slowed. Soon she would stop. It was over.
Cheers on the deck.
The transport lowered her flag. Surrender.
"Alright, lads," shouted Jack above the din. "Put your weapons down. Mr. Thomas, get together ten men to..."
"Ship ahoy!"
One of the lookouts was pointing towards the asteroid that had been the destination of the transport.
"Christ," muttered Jack. He raised his glass.
He recognized her instantly. It was the Sangria, a ship-of-the-line, one of the most powerful in the Spanish Navy. She'd reach them in about half an hour.
"Back to your stations!" he yelled.
It had been a trap, and a well planned one at that. Why, he didn't know. He had a decision to make. In a shoot-out, the Sangria had the clear advantage. She had twice the poundage as the Calista and twice the number of guns. She probably had roughly three hundred men aboard to his one hundred seventy-five, which meant he couldn't even beat the odds by weathering her broadsides, getting close, and boarding. He could run, but that came with risks. The Sangria had a larger engine. She might overtake him, pummeling him all the way across the star system with her bow chasers. If they fought, they might have a better chance. His men were seasoned sailors, hardened by years of engagements. He might get lucky. The Sangria might be filled with lubbers, fresh from the dock, newly pressed in New Madrid. That could make all the difference. Calista was certainly more maneuverable. She had less tonnage, and might be able to dance around the oncoming ship. Maybe he could use the presence of the transport to his advantage.
Jack had faced tougher decisions than this one, but even so, it weighed on him. The ship, these men, his own life, each of these things depended on what he decided to do next. Even after thirty years in the Navy, this part never got any easier. In making this decision, he was completely and utterly alone.
Thomas watched his captain. Jack stared towards the Sangria, his face grim. Then he relaxed, decision made.
"Alright, Mr. Thomas, bring us alongside the transport and then cut the engines. The longer the Sangria thinks we haven't noticed them, the better."
"Aye, sir."
Jack faced the gunner. "Ready the men. Any man who fires before my order will be tied to the hull, flogged, and then given a first hand view of the asteroid belt." Jack's voice was hard as steel.
"Aye, sir."
The Calista continued to move towards the transport, which still hadn't fired its engines. If he could bring the Calista between the transport and the Sangria, the Sangria might hold her fire for fear of hitting the transport and its contents. He didn't hold out much hope of this. No one uses a prized ship for bait. They were close enough that Jack could use his glass to see the main deck of the transport. There were a few men running about, but it was far from a full crew. No, there would be no gold on this ship.
He turned his glass towards the Sangria and her quarterdeck. He saw a tall blonde man with a short-cropped beard in full uniform wearing two post-captain epaulettes. It was Enrico Gonzalez. Jack knew him. A capital seaman, Jack had met him in New Madrid when Gonzalez was being held prisoner for encroachment in American space. He was a decent fellow. Jack had dined with him on several occasions while Gonzalez was prisoner and Jack knew that Gonzalez was a first class seaman. This would not be easy.
Gonzalez was looking at the Calista's quarterdeck with his own glass. He saw Jack. He pulled out his sword, and held it in front of him in salute. Yes, he was a decent fellow.
Next to Gonzalez was a short, bald man. He was missing an ear. He wore a monocle and a dark suit. He looked more like an undertaker than a sailor. Who was he?
"Mr. Thomas, pull away from the transport," said Jack, putting down his glass. "I'm afraid it won't do us much good."
The Sangria was too close for them to run. They'd have to engage. Jack didn't like the odds but he'd faced worse. There was no other choice.
"Take us ten points off of her course."
Thomas nodded. He knew his Captain well enough to know what he was planning. He was setting a course such that the Sangria would get a full taste of their broadsides if she wanted to engage.
Jack stood at the quarterdeck to face his crew. The men and women on board were somber. They knew the Sangria and they knew their chances. There was a silence on deck. It stood in stark contrast to the jubilation of just moments before.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," began Jack as he buckled on his pistols and sword. "I won't sugar coat this. You know what we face. It won't be easy, but I will say this: there isn't a crew in the galaxy that I'd rather lead into this fight. My father was killed by a Spaniard in battle. We've all known sailors who have been captured, killed, and beaten by the Spanish. Now's the time for payback, friends. I'm looking forward to this. If the Spanish want a war then, by God, we'll give it to them."
This met murmurs of agreement. There was no doubt that this engagement would be just the beginning.
"A few hours ago, I thought we'd be taking one ship. Now it looks like we'll be taking two!"
The crew cheered.
"Follow orders, reload quick, and we'll make it out of this alive. Give 'em hell!"
The Sangria veered off course. She was positioning herself to fire a broadside.
Jack looked through the glass again. The Sangria was covered in smoke. They had fired.
"Fire!" he roared.
The Calista shook. Smoked filled the upper deck.
All hell broke loose. He heard the high-pitched whine of grape shot infiltrating the deck hull. He ducked reflexively. The ship shook, and there were explosions as the Sangria's fifty pounders made a mess of their iron clad hull. He heard men scream. He coughed as smoke covered the quarterdeck. He couldn't see.
Damn, it was an expert shot. The Sangria crew was an able one.
"Thomas!" he shouted. He looked around the quarterdeck. Thomas was lying on the ship's wheel, decapitated. One of the new midshipman was on the ground, in shock, crying for his mother. Two of the more experienced officers dragged Thomas off the wheel and threw his body overboard.
Jack, coughing, took stock of the crew. Many were dead and more were injured. Some were missing limbs. Others were at their stations moaning from shrapnel wounds. Parts of the hull had melted from the impact with the hot iron. Blood streamed across the deck. He thanked god for his crew's experience. They rapidly moved the injured below, throwing the dead overboard. This was going to be bad business.
His crew were halfway through reloading, shaking their fists at the Sangria, cursing, yelling, taunting.
He looked through his glass at the Sangria. She had several large holes in her starboard side, but it didn't compare to the damage that had been done to the Calista.
Bad business indeed.
"Fire at will."
Noise from the cannons was deafening. The Sangria was getting hit hard, but so was the Calista. The butcher's bill for both ships would be incredible, but the Calista's would be far worse. The Calista had to surrender or be completely destroyed.
If he lowered the flag, it would end. There was no point in sacrificing the lives of his crew.
"Jenkins!" he yelled to a nearby midshipman. The boy had taken a rifle from a dead marine and was firing haphazardly at the Sangria. "Lower the flag."
"The boy jumped up, and ran aft, trying to traverse the main deck through the chaos. He fell before he reached it.
Jack jumped down from the quarterdeck to get to the flag.
"Lower the flag!" he shouted, "Lower the flag,"
But the hands by the flag couldn't hear him through the din, through the firing of the guns, through the screaming of the hurt and injured. Pain shot through his leg. He looked down. He'd been shot. He limped towards the flagpole and pulled the line.
Nothing. It was stuck.
Some of the nearby hands saw his intent and ran over to help pull down the line. In the exchange of fire, the line had snagged on a bit of the flag post that had been shredded by flying debris. They all heaved. A woman who was helping fell to the ground, screaming. A cannonball had taken off her arm.
They heaved again. The flag came down. The firing from the Sangria stopped.
"Hold your fire!" He shouted. The Sangria's ceasefire allowed him to be heard. The Calista's cannons stopped.
Jack was knocked to the ground. He was confused for a moment. Hadn't Gonzalez stopped firing? He thought for a moment. Ah, some of the rounds must have been on their way before they stopped. Was he hurt? Yes, he was. Badly. He thought briefly of his own life, as he felt it slip away, but the last thing he thought of, as blood pooled from the holes in his chest, stomach, and genitals, was of his son, David, and how much he loved him.
CHAPTER ONE
David woke in a haze. He always savored the brief moment of wakefulness before he had to remember where he was.
He looked around.
It was a nice room with expensive wall paper and fine furniture. He was in a four poster bed the size of a trampoline. A cool breeze flapped the curtains at the balcony window. Beyond he could see that the rail of the balcony was made of brass, shining in the sun.
A plump, blonde girl slept next to him, snoring away. She was naked.
She wasn't a whore. Probably not, that is. He couldn't afford one who kept chambers anywhere near this nice, and upon seeing him, she would have demanded payment up front. Payment that he wouldn't have had. Besides, he didn't really go in for that sort of thing.
He sat up, thought better of it, and settled back down. He tried again. Success. He pulled on his trousers and stumbled to the balcony and vomited over the side onto the cobblestones below. A few passers-byers looked up. An old woman carrying a toy poodle looked at him in disgust. He ignored them.
He slipped on the rest of his clothes and made his way down the stairs. He was in one of the stately, old mansions on Main Street. From the balcony, he had seen the Stork's Nest in the distance, the tavern where he had begun his evening the night before. He
was hazy on the rest, but the circumstances under which he woke were pretty clear. It would be best if he just left.
She wasn't an unattractive girl, but he knew that his presence would be unappreciated, if not by her, than by the owners of the house. As he searched for the exit, he saw several servants, who made a point of ignoring him. An elderly woman, the one exception, gave him a baleful look as she was dusting a vase. Leaving was clearly the right decision, but where was the exit? He was feeling nauseated again, so time was a factor.
He finally made it out the back door. The sunlight hit him like a dagger. He doubled over in the garden, feeling sick again. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. He needed coffee. He grimly headed back towards the Stork's Nest.
"You're in early. It's almost 1," smirked George, the bartender. He put a cup of coffee in front of David. "Looked like you were in for a full night when you left."
"Sometimes a fellow needs to make love to a fat girl."
George nodded.
David looked around. It was the late lunch crowd, mostly fat businessmen smoking disgusting cigars, their suits and vests spotted with food, a few of them laughing too loud. Some couples. No one he knew.
"Any food?"
"It wouldn't stay down."
"Listen, David," said George putting his hand on his shoulder. "You need to eat."
Eat? George, like all bartenders, loved his fellow man but had to put some walls between himself and his customers lest he become too attached to his more self-destructive clientele. Thus even though George was a friend, David was surprised to see the concern on the bartender's face. He must have looked horrible. He glanced in the long mirror behind the bar. He saw a thin, gaunt youth who, owing to his Cherokee ancestry, had a dark complexion. His jacket and tie were worn, rumpled, and dirty. His shirt was a shifting white and yellow landscape. There was stubble. There was a lot of dirt. The only thing that was in order was his mustache. He was a bit surprised that he'd left with anyone the night before.
The Gold Engine (The Gold Chronicles) Page 1