by Eric Flint
He looked around at the ruin in which they stood. “Do I?”
“Yes, you do. And you don’t have time to feel remorse, or responsible, or sorry for yourself. Did you get greedy for kills? Maybe. But you won’t do that again today. Maybe never. Besides, Tromp won’t let you. So get out to Intrepid, get to the bridge, and smash their fleet to pieces.” Eddie stepped back and snapped a hard salute at the older, blinking man, who was apparently struggling to accept the sudden changes to the future he had decreed for himself. “Captain, here are your orders.”
Startled, and not well versed in the formalities that Admiral Simpson had introduced to the USE Navy, Dirck returned the salute haltingly.
“Captain Dirck Simonszoon, you are to report immediately to Intrepid as CO. I shall take command of Resolve for the remainder of her service. Captain, you are relieved.”
Simonszoon had to think for a moment. “I stand relieved, sir.”
He knew to hold the salute until Eddie lowered his own, and then started moving. “Now get out of here, Dirck. And take all intelligence, all charts, all logs. And the radio, broken or not.”
The Dutchman sighed. “I’m arrogant, not stupid.” He grabbed a small crate holding the guts of the radio and three large leather folios. He stopped at the top of the companionway, looked around the battered interior one more time, muttered a string of mostly inaudible curses at himself, and was gone, effortlessly sliding down into the passageways just aft of the gun deck. Eddie heard him make his way into that cavernous expanse and start shouting: “Well what are you layabouts waiting for? Engineers and idlers will be taken off first. Gunners next. Then deckhands and ships troops.”
“Jacob’s ladders are ready to go out the gunports, sir.”
“No, not from the ones abaft the foc’sle! It’s too deep there. Only use Battery One’s gunports. The rockslide is no more than two feet under the water, there.”
If he said, or roared, anything else, Eddie couldn’t hear it.
Rik called up from the same companionway. “All requested personnel have been gathered here, Commodore. Orders?”
Eddie nodded. As he started down the companionway toward the waiting ring of section heads and crewmen, he heard rifles firing out the starboard gunports, followed by the blast of a carronade. Either the Spanish were probing from the barrier bank, or the brush fire was dying down.
Once he was sure of his footing on the lower deck, he squinted into the dimness to look around the ring of faces. Those who’d come from Intrepid were markedly brighter: no powder smudges. “Gentlemen, we will be among the last to leave. Up until that moment comes”—he glanced at Gallagher—“we’ll have to keep the heavy weapons manned. Sharpshooters will lend a hand, too. The rest of you will go either with me or Lieutenant Bjelke as we put together a couple of house-warming gifts for Resolve’s new owners.”
“Sir?” said Croll.
“Bombs,” offered Rik. “It’s time to plant some bombs.” He turned to Eddie. “Lead on, sir.”
Southern barrier bank of Simpson’s Lagoon, St. Maarten
“Captain Equiluz,” reported one of the few sappers who had been assigned to the “Mechanical Appraisal Staff” that was sequestered well back on the barrier bank, “the enemy has closed two of the ship’s gunports. Are they running out of ammunition?”
“No, they are running away.” Equiluz sighed and scanned the top of Billy Folly Hill for Gallardo’s penant. Still no signal from him as to the next course of action, nor any sign that the veteran and much-commended ape was even alive. He had probably been buried under the apocalyptic torrent of boulders that had claimed almost all the other sappers that Governor de Viamonte had sent from Santo Domingo to carry out this most irregular mission.
The obvious fuse failure had been a costly business. Gallardo should not have been called upon to fight or even step on to the field at all. The whole purpose had been to trap the steamship in the lagoon. That way, the allied fleet would have been torn between either saving that ship and its crew or fighting against Admiral Álvarez de Toledo’s flotilla that would even now be flying in from the east. And from which the heretics would be unable to flee when the galleons came round Gunner’s Point and blocked the west.
But because the steam warship had almost managed to exit the channel before it was stopped, the allies were now able to evacuate the wreck without any major effort from the other ships of their fleet. They had committed only two jachts and a pair of high-bowed, fire-belching pinks to the rescue operations.
Which meant that, against all odds, it was up to Antonio de la Plaza Equiluz to lead the Mechanical Appraisal Staff aboard the steamship. A ridiculous and optimistic label for the unit, and the only “staff” assignment in which Equiluz had ever been required to lie in hiding for hours, asphyxiated by smoke and devoured by insects as a comedy of errors played out on land, at sea, and in the lagoon.
But now, lacking any cue to the contrary, it was time for him to play his part. As soon as the steamship was secured, he would lead the six-man Appraisal Staff aboard, identify its key technological elements (many of which were described in absurdly general terms). They would also check for scuttling charges, although there could be no true scuttling in such shallow water, and certainly not after the channel they had laboriously dredged was now almost entirely filled in.
However, since the enemy could not dispose of the ship in a sufficient depth of water, Captain Equiluz would have to be more watchful for bombs than usual. Which, by extension, meant that from the moment the ship was secured, he was probably in a race with one or more unseen fuses. If he won that race, he would be known as the man who had secured the greatest prize ever taken in the New World, and his greatest trouble would be in choosing between the many opportunities and assignations that would surely be offered to him.
And if he lost the race with the fuses . . . Well, he would certainly be saved the trouble of choosing among so many earthly alternatives.
Chapter 63
Off the southern coast, St. Maarten
Dirck Simonszoon clambered up the Jacob’s ladder that had been let down over Intrepid’s starboard quarter and ignored the stares of the boat crew waiting there. Their attention was soon pulled away by the stentorian demands of Eddie’s longboat coxswain, who was shouting for gasoline right now or the commodore might get overrun by the Spanish so do it now and I mean right now damn you all to hell!
Simonszoon could only hope that Eddie was not in such immediate danger, but could not take the time to worry about that. Or anything other than the task before him.
As he approached the rear of the flying bridge, he heard one of the mates call out, “Enemy smoke ships are at fifteen hundred yards, sir.”
As he started up the stairs, he heard Svantner announce in a tone so deferential that it bordered on reverence. “Five minutes to range, Admiral.”
As Dirck’s shoulders cleared the top of the pilothouse, he saw Maarten Tromp tilt his head very slightly. “Lieutenant Svantner, as I understand it, given the capabilities of the inclinometer and electric firing system, we have more than doubled our optimal engagement range. That would mean we are in range now.”
Simonszoon reached the top of the stairs. The mates saw and heard him, but not the other two men.
Svantner’s voice oozed patience. “Sir, those estimates are based on tests.”
“Yes, but if I know Commodore Cantrell, any test of his includes exacting and realistic trials.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Dirck cut in, stepping forward. “Admiral, Captain Simonszoon reporting aboard. Request permission to assume command of Intrepid.” He glanced at Svantner. “I’m sorry, Arne”—the Swede blinked, possibly as much because of Dirck’s compassionate tone as his arresting appearance—“but I was there for one of those tests. I’m satisfied the system works, and I have a strategy to put that increased range to our immediate advantage.”
When there was no immediate response from either of the surprised men, h
e faced Tromp directly. “Admiral, I implore you. Yes, Resolve is gone and it is entirely my fault. But right now, I know what needs to be done and exactly how to do it. Please, if only for the next thirty minutes, allow me to have the benefit of your trust once again.”
“You never lost it, Dirck,” Tromp smiled. “Now, what do you have in mind?”
Inlet to Simpson’s Lagoon, St. Maarten
A runner poked his head though the magazine’s open door. “Commodore Cantrell?”
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Gallagher wants a word. If you’ve a minute, sir.”
Well, I really don’t . . . However, if anything, Gallagher was not enough of an alarmist. “Croll,” Eddie muttered to the electrician from Intrepid, “keep at it. I’ll be back in two minutes.” Probably a lie, but it is my intent. He left with the runner. On the way, he passed Resolve’s engineer. “Has Rik put the charges in the engine room yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Good. Stave in the side of the smoke uptake, as far below the funnel as you can reach.”
“But sir, the engine’s smoke will begin spreading belowdecks. And it will get very thick indeed when the last of the gunports are closed.”
“I’m counting on it,” Eddie answered over his shoulder as he waved the runner on.
As soon as he reached the companionway up to the pilothouse, Eddie could hear that the tempo of the fight to hold off the Spanish had changed. The gunfire was no longer intermittent; it was steady. As his head came up to deck level, he heard two of the thirty-two-pounders go off in rapid sequence. Gallagher turned and said, “Head down, sir.”
“Wha—?”
A sudden torrent of what sounded like crowbars battered the roof of the pilothouse. He heard a thrupp-thrupp-thruppa out on the weather deck. Again, he didn’t realize he had ducked until he was raising his head.
Gallagher nodded. “Things are changin’ a bit, Commodore. Started with that.” He pointed at one of the jachts that had been providing cover for the tugs. She was trailing a steady wisp of smoke and listing, heading out to deeper water and beyond the throw of the thirty-two-pounders. “They finally tapped her near to five minutes ago. Started all the cards going down, it did. The last of the jachts is on her lonesome now, keeping the Spanish from laying into the tugs as they come close.
“But she’s not enough on her own. The feckin’ Spanish have sorted themselves enough that they’ve got marksmen out along the near sides of the barrier bank. Smart, they are. Hide, shoot, move, quick as a Cork pickpocket.”
“At the tugs?”
“No, sir. At the swivel gunners aboard that last jacht. Can’t be sure, but it seems the Spanish sharpshooters are takin’ a toll among those fellows. Sum of it is, the Dutchmen already ’ave their hands full, and now they’re losing their fingers, as well.”
Even as Gallagher explained the situation, Eddie watched the last jacht angle in. Her petereroes coughed at the shore. Muskets sputtered back. The small Dutch ship veered off, one of the gunners clutching his arm or side; it was too far to make out the details.
“That’s when the boyos with the thirty-twos decided they’ve missed playing with us. Now the whole bloody battery is hitting us with grape.”
“Losses?”
“Well, sir, not as such. But those splinter shields are damn near torn t’ pieces and we’ve not many more. And every once in a bit, a Spaniard fires from the edge of that smoulderin’ heap out there on the barrier bank. Wounded more than a few of our lads shooting out the gunports with their muskets. And now, with more of the gunners being taken off, the ranks are growin’ a wee bit thin, below.
“Taken together, sir, the Spanish are givin’ us a taste of what I’ve heard you call ‘suppressive fire.’” Gallagher smiled, clearly proud he had both understood and pronounced the term correctly. “Right now, they’re just fillying with us, to see how much we’ve got to fight back with. Every so often, one of the boats from the lagoon pokes its nose around the far corner of the channel, draws fire from the mitrailleuse or Big Shot—until I told ’em they’re not to take that bait. Wait until they’ve a target they can’t miss.”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah, if they take every shot, they’re going to shoot themselves dry in no time flat. But at some point, the grape is going to chew away the overhead cover on the heavy weapons, and then the boats will be able to swarm our stern. And their sharpshooters will keep our musketeers busy in the starboard gunports.” He frowned. “Here’s what we do. Seal up some more of the gunports. Start with those furthest abaft and afore. Task half of the remaining crews to load their carronades with cannister and hold at the ready. Have the other half start hitting the end of the barrier bank with explosive rounds. Shake them up there, keep them from organizing.”
“A fine plan, sir, but a caution: all that smoke will also be a friend to the fellows who want our blood. We may kill a few, but some could crawl in under the guns, crouch low in the water around us. A few grenades lobbed through the gunports from further down the tumblehome could mean no end of mischief to our fine selves.”
Eddie nodded. “That’s why you and the Wild Geese from Resolve have to be our rat catchers. You just told me you know what to look for and where to look for it. If that’s the cost of keeping our carronades in action and whittling down both their numbers and morale, then it’s your job to catch any rats that sneak up on us.”
“Rat catchers, eh?” Gallagher mused as one of the Spanish cannons roared high overhead. “I like that, I do. Sorry to pull you away from your special work, Commodore. Oh, and one more t’ing.” Grapeshot pounded down like iron hail. “I’ve told one of our fine Irish fraternity to watch over you. Opinion stands that we’re not ready to have you go tattlin’ on our sinful selves to the Holy Father, Commodore.” He smiled. “Not just yet.”
“That’s a very kind thought, Lieutenant Gallagher, but there’s no need to call someone from their post to play bodyguard.”
“Ah, well now, yeh see, sir, it’s already been arranged. He’s down waiting for you outside the magazine.” Gallagher winked. “Thomas Terrell. A true trial to Man, God, and ’is sainted Muther. But he’ll keep you safe, Commodore. Now, I’ll not bother you again unless the bastards are coming over the gunwales, which we don’t seem to have on these ships.”
Off the southern coast, St. Maarten
“Admiral Tromp, if I may?”
“Your ship, Captain Simonszoon. And I’ve no orders for the fleet, even Relentless and her guns, until the Spanish are much closer.”
“Aye, sir. Mr. Svantner, please pass the following instructions to Mount One and Mount Two.”
“Standing by.”
“Master gunners. Targets: four galleons making smoke, dead ahead at thirteen hundred fifty yards. Northernmost galleon is designated Target One, the next as you count to the south is Target Two, and so forth until the southernmost galleon, which is Target Four. Send and confirm receipt.”
The replies were almost instantaneous. “Target designations clear, sir.”
“Helm, bring the bow over one point to starboard.”
“Over one point starboard, sir.”
“Mount One, confirm clear firing vector to Target Two, advise when acquired. Mount Two, same for Target Three.”
Svantner sent the orders, turned to Simonszoon. “So, you mean to eliminate the two galleons in the center? To clear the smoke between us and the center of whatever formation they are concealing. And so, you will open a gap to target them as early as possible.”
Dirck shook his head. “No, we follow by shifting fire to Targets One and Four.” He heard voices from the speaking tubes declaring that both Mounts One and Two had their targets ranged and acquired.
Svantner, who as a Swede was not in awe of the legendary Dirck “the Smirk” Simonszoon, hastily acknowledged the eight-inchers’ status, and forgot proper protocol of address when he almost shouted, “I do not understand! Why waste time on the flanking galleons, once you have a clear lane of fire t
o the ships behind the smoke?”
Simonszoon glanced at Svantner. “XO, you will address me correctly. As for the tactics, you would be correct if the strategy was to destroy as many enemy hulls as we can. However, at this time, our objective is to compel them to flee. To stop this fight before it begins. Now pass on the word: first round, standard shell. Fire when ready.”
In answer to the surprise on every face on the bridge, Dirck pointed back to the plume of smoke that marked Resolve. “We have an excellent crew and excellent officers back there, on an island that still has Spanish on it. If we want to get them back alive, we cannot also become entangled with whatever is behind that smoke.
“If we have to engage, we will. However, they are sacrificing four of their sturdiest galleons just to generate smoke and minimize the time under which we can take their true combat force under fire. So if we take that smoke away, the enemy admiral will have to choose between doubling the time he’s willing to expose the best ships in his fleet to our best guns, or choose the better part of valor. It will be best for us if he chooses the latter.”
Mounts One and Two roared.
Dirck, Tromp, and Svantner all raised their spyglasses.
Inlet to Simpson’s Lagoon, St. Maarten
Rik came running around the corner, almost bumped into glum, silent Thomas Terrell just as Eddie was carefully closing the heavy door to the magazine. Rik was panting and sweat-stained, even more than before. “All charges in place. Also, runner from Gallagher. He says the jig is getting lively and we’re down to two carronade crews. Forward mitrailleuse is out of ammunition.”
“And I,” replied Eddie, “am ready to go. Where are the others?”
“Ready to climb down the Jacob’s ladder at portside Battery One, C gun.”