River of Bones_Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Anything smaller? Faster?” Greg called upward.

  “There’s a sail to the sout’—could be a fri-gaate like us—screenin’. But is too faar. Nuttin’ else right now.”

  Greg was pleased by the report. The ’Cat at the masthead knew exactly what was important to him; whatever the other sail might be, was it in a position to interfere? He paced for a moment in front of another pair of ’Cats at the wheel. Lieutenant Ortiz technically had the conn, but understood that was a courtesy. Still, when Greg suddenly straightened and said, “Steady as you go,” Ortiz couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “But . . . Captain Garrett, we are sailing almost directly at them.”

  “Yeah, and they’re coming right at us. Closing speed’s what—maybe twelve knots?”

  “About thaat,” Mak agreed, blinking curiously at Greg.

  “Do you mean to fight them?” Ortiz asked incredulously.

  A ghost of a smile touched Greg’s lips. “I sure hope not. I have every confidence in my crew and the Nussies you brought aboard to fill it out, but we’re not here to fight—and four liners against this one dumpy frigate make for slightly longer odds than I prefer. Trouble is, with this west wind, we can go north, south, or anything eastward in between. I want to go north, but if we sheer off now, for no apparent reason, they might get suspicious. We’ll ease north a bit,” he decided, and spoke to the ’Cats at the wheel. “Come left to zero six zero, if you please.” He turned back to Ortiz. “I’m betting those liners have someplace to be. Based on their heading, they’re probably beefing up the defenses at the pass—on one side or the other. Let’s try not to distract them.” He scratched his chin. “All the same, let’s clear for action, but don’t run out the guns.” He looked at Mak. “And let’s get all the ’Cats out of sight.”

  Matarife made her slight course correction and her sails were subtly adjusted. Soon it was clear she’d pass to the north of the enemy column, probably just a little beyond the effective range of the Doms’ guns—unless they altered course as well. They didn’t. When they were just inside two thousand yards, west-northwest of the enemy, the new Nussie lookout cried, “On deck! Signal flags on the lead steamer!”

  “We’ll reply and see what happens,” Greg said. One of Ortiz’s sailors had joined the NUS Navy off this very ship after Donaghey captured her. He was still uncomfortable around Lemurians, but grateful for his freedom and a new, less oppressive life. He was also almost pathetically grateful to Greg Garrett personally, despite the action that killed so many of his former comrades. His loyalty and gratitude were particularly appreciated now because he’d been one of very few ordinary seamen aboard Matarife who could read and write a little. He’d been learning letters and numbers, essentially striking to become a signalman, and that’s why he knew the ship’s number and countersign—the appropriate response to the enemy’s hoist.

  Greg crossed his fingers as the unusual pennants soared up the halyard. Matarife’s countersign would probably be out of date, but if the Doms knew her, they’d also know she’d been gone a while. Instead of cannon fire, different flags replaced the first ones high on the enemy’s mizzenmast. Another former Dom, with years of service in the NUS fleet, quickly conferred with the signalman. “They ask where we are bound.”

  Greg had expected that, considering the ship probably should’ve put in at Puerto del Cielo on her return, far to the southeast.

  “Tell ’em we were sent straight to Puerto Dominio with dispatches for the alcalde there.”

  Two more flags replaced the first hoist, and Ortiz told Greg the first simply meant “urgent dispatches” and the second was their destination. That was fine with him—if it worked. The two former Doms and Lieutenant Ortiz breathed a collective sigh when a final hoist was seen.

  “Essentially, it means ‘carry on,’” Ortiz said.

  “You know their signals?” Greg asked, surprised.

  “Yes. The basic ones we just exchanged haven’t changed, in my memory. Somewhat arrogant, don’t you think?”

  “Kinda stupid, you aask me,” Mak interjected, still crouching behind the bulwark, out of sight. Of course, the Grand Alliance had been just as complacent for a while, Greg reflected.

  “Fortunate for us, however,” Ortiz continued a little harshly. “Had they not accepted the countersign, the only response would have been pursuit, ending with an overwhelming quantity of roundshot.”

  “Chance we had to take,” Greg said, glancing at his watch while the big enemy warships passed to the west, the smell of coal smoke now on the wind. “Don’t shorten sail, but let’s spill a little wind so it doesn’t look like we’re slowing down. We can’t go much farther east before we turn north or we’ll never see . . .” He paused, trying to remember the unfamiliar name.

  “Rio Graab-aass,” Mak said with a grin, tentatively standing and staring aft.

  “Rio Grabacion,” Greg corrected, his memory jogged.

  By early afternoon, as soon as the enemy squadron was hidden by its own haze on the horizon, Matarife turned sharply to three two zero north, with just as much westing as her sails would bear. Ironically, Greg now had to be thankful they’d undone the rig improvements Donaghey’s crew had made during the ship’s refit, because otherwise they probably would’ve already been caught. As the afternoon wore on, and the closer they got to Rio Grabacion, the more ships they saw. Most were merchantmen, but there was the occasional sailing warship. They sighted a couple of light craft, rigged like brigs, but also another frigate. All they did in each case was exchange numbers and continue on. Apparently, only higher-ranking Dom officers commanding more powerful ships really cared what they might be up to. Ortiz explained that Matarife’s captain might be—probably was—senior to the commanders of anything equal or smaller in size. For them to demand an explanation could be considered a mortal insult. Most likely, their skippers probably thought it odd that Matarife didn’t demand to know what they were doing.

  The distant coast had never been entirely lost from view, except occasionally from deck, but it slowly grew into another sharp, hilly shoreline almost identical to Boca Caribe across the bay, channel mouth, gulf—whatever best described it. Soon, even Rio Grabacion could be seen, also situated just like Boca Caribe and extending a considerable distance inland, climbing the terraced flanks of low mountains. The only differences were that there were two forts, one on each side of a narrow river mouth, and there were even more Dom warships at anchor.

  “I don’t like this,” Greg muttered. Smitty, Mak, and Lieutenant Ortiz all stood together, gazing over the fo’c’sle rail. “Counting the probably six or seven liners at Caribe, the four we saw crossing, and the . . . dozen or so here?”

  “Looks like fifteen heavies,” Smitty supplied. He was on the leeward corner of the fo’c’sle, and he spat over the rail.

  “Okay,” Greg continued, “but that’s still a lot. Twenty-four ships of the line, on this side of the pass.”

  “Twenty-four at least,” Mak corrected, “and an unknown number of frigates, steam, and sail. Where are they?”

  “Right. And who knows what’s at Dominio, or dispersed to other ports we hadn’t even planned to scout.” (Greg had dropped the confusing rios, bocas, and puertos.) “Not to mention what we haven’t seen still at sea.” He shook his head. “No matter how you cut it, there weren’t supposed to be as many as we’ve already spotted. And if there’re more here than we figured, what’s waiting for Second Fleet on the other side of the pass?”

  “Your concern mirrors mine, Captain Garrett,” Ortiz pronounced. “The Doms must know the NUS Fleet is massing against them, and that would explain their numbers . . . but only on its face. I should think they’d still be more concerned by the proximity of your Second Fleet in the west, it having already done them such grievous harm and its apparent intentions more obvious. Given the admittedly ponderous nature of past NUS Fleet movements, they can’t know h
ow soon we mean to strike—or that we’ll coordinate our attack with yours, can they?”

  Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe somebody goofed up our recon west of the pass, or whoever’s supposed to catch their spies over here isn’t getting it done. One way or another, either their fleet’s bigger than we ever thought, or they build new ships even faster than the Grik. Or,” he continued, scratching his chin, “they don’t need as many ships in the west, for some reason. Maybe something nasty—”

  “On deck!” came a cry from above. “All them liners up ahead got steam up. Four haas pulled their hooks aan is headin’ out torrd us!”

  Greg raised his glass again, then gritted his teeth. “Sure enough. They’re not buying it and they’re coming for us on sight.” He glanced at Ortiz. “Nobody to the south or already at sea was suspicious, which can only mean spies from Cuba—at least—got here before us.” He snorted. “Should’ve waited for us to get closer. They could’ve just blasted us from anchor.”

  “Prob’ly didn’t want us baashin’ up the town with stray shot.”

  Greg nodded. “Maybe. Especially since, with the wind still out of the west, they might be faster than us if we just run with it.”

  “Which we must, if we still want to see what awaits at Puerto Dominio,” Ortiz pointed out.

  Greg didn’t reply. Ortiz was right, and that final visit remained part of their mission, but Greg was increasingly skeptical of success. Not only would they still come away with only a rough estimate, but if spies had spread the word as far as Rio Grabacion, they’d doubtless already warned Puerto Dominio as well. Greg swore under his breath. One of the things that frustrated him most was that they’d practically wasted Matarife—at least in regard to what Greg would’ve preferred to do with her. But if these Doms already knew they had her, the rest would soon enough, and his original, more adventurous scheme would’ve been suicide, anyway. It was probably just as well they’d discovered her cover was blown, and at least they’d picked up a little information to ponder.

  “We’ll try to get a look at Dominio,” Greg finally announced, looking at the Nussie runner hanging back behind Ortiz. “Pass the word aft; come right to zero eight zero. And crack on,” he added. “Every stitch she’ll wear goes aloft. Rig the stuns’l booms.”

  Provisions for “stuns’ls,” or studding sails, were not as conspicuous as the improvements they’d made to the rigging, so they’d kept them in place. Matarife had never worn them for her former masters, but they could easily be hoisted and secured to the ends of her yards. Once aloft and properly adjusted, they drew a lot more wind and might be enough to keep them ahead of their pursuers. If not, they’d have to turn southeast and put the wind on Matarife’s quarter. That was the only—almost—sure way to outrun the enemy steamers. Then again, maybe not. Who knew what the Doms had been up to? They might’ve improved their engines. Greg was increasingly positive they’d improved the damaged ships that made it back after the Battle of Malpelo. Probably with armor. Was that why they were so confident in the west? Finding answers to those questions might be the most important thing they could still do.

  “Aye, aye, sir!” the messenger said, and hurried aft. Almost immediately, the ship began to turn away from the still distant but now clearly approaching Doms.

  The stuns’ls helped, speeding them along at almost seven knots in the moderate airs, but with wind and steam, the four Dom liners slowly gained during the long afternoon. Greg pressed on, however, confident the Doms were topped out at their apparent eight knots—and that Matarife could make ten with the wind on her quarter if she was forced to veer away from her objective. About 1700 hours, with barely an hour of visibility left, the big bow chasers on the leading Dom ship started trying the range. The first shot fell far short, but her gunners knew their stuff and the line was pretty good. Each successive shot came closer.

  “How much farther?” Greg asked Mak. They were back on the quarterdeck, standing near the wheel.

  “Eight or ten miles,” Mak replied, shaking his head, blinking frustration. “Even if we get there, it’ll be daark an’ we won’t see anything.”

  “Yeah,” Greg reluctantly agreed.

  “More smoke fine on the port bow!” cried the lookout. “Bear-een seero four seero! Range ten t’ousaands! Smoke an’ two sails. The sails is slaan-teen sout’!”

  “They’re trying to box us,” Smitty said.

  Greg pursed his lips and nodded. “I guess that’s that. Damned if I know how they cut it so fine. This bunch up ahead must’ve been sent looking for us from Dominio.” A roundshot, probably a twenty-four-pounder from their pursuers, splashed close alongside, wetting them with spray. Greg sighed. “Sound general quarters,” he said. The ship had been cleared for action all day. The insistent gonging of the pipe bell commenced, taken up by others amidships and forward, and Marines rattled their drums at the companionways. ’Cats and men raced from below and started preparing their guns. ’Cat Marines, armed with breech-loading Allin-Silvas, climbed the ratlines, and NUS Marines lined the rails with rifle-muskets between the lighter upper deck guns. The four-cylinder engine out of Fred and Kari’s Nancy fired up below, spinning up the generator, and Greg motioned Smitty aloft to his station with his eyes.

  “We gonna fight ’em now?” Smitty asked over his shoulder, rushing to the shrouds.

  “Yeah. A little, at least.”

  Lieutenant Ortiz had learned a lot about Donaghey’s, and now Matarife’s, fire-control system, but hadn’t seen it in action. That meant he couldn’t appreciate what a force multiplier it could be. “We are vastly outnumbered,” was all he said.

  “Yeah. So? You want to surrender?”

  Ortiz’s face reddened. “Of course not. But any resistance at this point invites crippling damage. We should steer south and retire now while we can—and before the Dom frigates gain enough to cut us off.”

  “Relax,” Greg told him. “We’ll be fine.” He shrugged. “Or maybe we won’t. But with our primary mission so hashed up, there’s one more thing I want to know. Stand by to come right, to one six zero,” he called to the ’Cats at the helm. Then he waited while all stations reported manned and ready. Another pair of shot whooshed by, one flapping the main and fore courses as it punched ragged round holes in them. “Get rid of that damn Dom rag and run up our battle flag,” he ordered. The Stars and Stripes of the American Navy Clan quickly replaced the red and gold of the Dominion. It was a big flag, easy to see, but unlike Donaghey’s, there were no battle names embroidered on its stripes. Besides helping to sink Atúnez, this would be Matarife’s first action for the Grand Alliance. “Stand by for surface action starboard,” Greg called, and his order was repeated. Finally, he turned to the ’Cats at the wheel and said, “Execute.”

  The ’Cats quickly spun the wheel, and blocks squealed as sheets were hauled. “Commence firing,” Greg called above. Smitty called down elevations through a speaking trumpet. There were no voice tubes on Matarife. The elevations were based on his range estimates and were matched to the marks on the carriages. “Fifteen degrees right!” he added, and ’Cats and men shifted their guns with handspikes, matching the marks on the backs of their carriages with those painted on the deck. Ortiz, as acting first lieutenant, had memorized the commands expected of him during drills and now yelled, “Prime!” Gun’s crews pricked the charges in the guns through the vents and inserted electric primers.

  “Clear!” the gun’s crews shouted, stepping away from their weapons.

  “All clear!” Ortiz reported. “Battery is ready.”

  “Firing!” shouted Smitty, waiting for the plumb bob in the glass box to cross the mark that signified the ship was level. Several seconds passed before he was satisfied enough to close the firing circuit. Matarife heaved as all her starboard twenty-four-pounders fired in a single instant, spewing jagged tongues of bright yellow fire and a fog bank of white smoke that quickly gushed back over
the ship and downwind to port. Greg had plenty of time to focus his glass before a tight pattern of shot shattered the sea a hundred yards short and slightly left of the Dom. Pretty good, he thought, considering the range. The guns were already being reloaded as youngling Lemurians and Nussie boys brought charges up from below. Smitty was calling corrections. Greg chuckled when he saw the wide-eyed expression on Ortiz’s face. Wish we had some exploding case shot to fit these twenty-fours, Greg thought. The range is still a little long for those, but it would really get Ortiz’s attention if we blew that Dom out of the water with a single salvo!

  Another pair of Dom chasers crashed in the sea nearby, aft, but Matarife’s sudden course change—and the accuracy of her first broadside—had probably rattled the enemy.

  “Clear!” came the chorus of shouts from below, shaking Ortiz out of his astonishment. “All clear, battery is ready!” he managed.

  “Firing!”

  Another broadside salvo vomited from Matarife, and Greg watched very closely. Smitty was right on target this time, just a few shot missing the mark completely. The enemy sails shivered violently, and the foremast started to lean. With a gathering rush, it rumbled down, taking the main topmast with it, and the entire, entangled mass plunged into the sea. Immediately, the lead Dom liner veered to port as the wreckage pulled it around.

  “Reload?” Ortiz asked. The other three liners had been strung out behind the first but were bunching up now, in disarray. They’d been completely unprepared for how quickly their leader was disabled, not to mention the range at which it was accomplished. A belated, stuttering broadside spat from the crippled Dom as her portside guns were revealed, but their gunners had probably fired without great care on the orders of some outraged officer. None of the shot came close. Greg considered.

  “Cease firing,” he ordered at last. The one Dom, maybe all four of them, were at their mercy, but knowing the common sailors aboard them were as much victims of the Doms as they were made him shy from wanton slaughter. Besides, he thought he’d seen what he was looking for. “But we’ll reload, if you please. There’s still a chance we’ll have to fight past the frigates running south. I kind of doubt it. The moon won’t be up until well after midnight and it’ll be dark as hell.”