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Dead Men's Tales (Tales of the Brass Griffin Book 5)

Page 40

by C. B. Ash


  “Captain, if it is cracked, it would be already trailing out a fine cloud of it now,” Krumer explained, “if we even could see it.”

  “Provided we have not been breathing it the entire time, non?” Noel added, turning the wheel to stabilize their course.

  “If we shove it over the side, it will land on the people we’re trying to save,” Hunter said, thinking aloud. “Worse is that the Revenge likely has her stores full of that ammunition.”

  “So taking her down unleashes the gas,” Krumer commented morbidly.

  “Yes,” Hunter replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “What then, mon Capitaine?” Noel asked anxiously. “We cannot take much more of this!”

  Hunter glanced past the railing towards the orange glow still rising from the pit in the hillside. “The ‘what’ is that we plant her where she does the least amount of harm.”

  “Captain?” Krumer asked, confused.

  “That pit! If we pull ahead, she can’t train her main weapons at us. If her engines are out, we lock lines on her and haul her to that pit. Once there we cut her free and concentrate on her gas bag.” Hunter ran for the stairs leading from the quarterdeck to the main deck. “While I roust some men to handle the tow lines, send word to Wilhelm! I’ve no doubt that wily pirate has more than one means to disable a ship’s engines!”

  Krumer, still uncertain, nodded while he tapped up the code on the opti for the Whirling Strumpet. “Aye, Captain.”

  Noel was not quite as stoic. “Mon Capitaine! Just how do we break her once she is there?”

  Hunter paused at the top of the stairs. ““I’m not positive, Mr. St. Claire. Not yet. We’ll burn that bridge when we land on it.”

  The pilot’s ebony face broke into a wide, bemused grin, “I do love this ship! It is always exciting!”

  Krumer shook his head with a sigh, then placed the call to the Strumpet.

  Chapter 57

  Captain Hunter raced down the stairs of the Brass Griffin. He hit the main deck at a full run. Behind him, the cannons erupted with another torrent towards the Revenge. All across the main deck, the air was alive; the blue-violet glow of St. Elmo’s fire crackled and hissed along the line of artillery, bathing the crew in an otherworldly light.

  The captain rushed across the deck, then grabbed Conrad O’Fallon by the arm. “Hook and line! We need hook and line!”

  Confused, the Scotsman frowned while he tried to understand the Captain’s request. “What?”

  Hunter leaned in to make himself heard over the buzz and crackle of electrical cannon fire. “Hook and line, man! I need five stout crew with me! We’re going to catch the Revenge and reel her in!”

  Conrad’s confused look melted to astonishment. “Reel her in? She’s a bigger girl than the Griffin!”

  “Trust me, Conrad,” Anthony replied with a grin and a brief yet reassuring grip on the quartermaster’s arm.

  William struggled painfully to his feet. “I’ll help ya, Cap’n.”

  Anthony looked over at the singed and bruised young man, then shook his head. “No, Will. I need you resting as much as you can.”

  The Griffin shuddered as another artillery shell clipped her stern. Wood cracked and the vessel seemed to rumble in pain. William flexed a singed left arm, then put a hard look to the Captain.

  “Beggin’ ya pardon, Cap’n, it needs doin’. It’s for the good a’ the people we’re here to get,” Mr. Falke said firmly.

  Hunter hesitated. William had been through enough these past months, from nearly being murdered by a raving lunatic in Edinburgh to almost being burned alive in a scuttled airship only a day or so ago. The crew needed a medic, but Anthony did not want to put the young man through any more.

  “Cap’n, there’s no time to fanny about,” the young man said with a lopsided grin on his bruised face. “So what’re we about to wreck?”

  “Ah know three lads who can be spared from the artillery,” the quartermaster interjected. “Their own station blew a water main, so it had to be shut down.”

  Hunter smiled with barely concealed pride. “Right then, send them along. The general plan is to tow the Revenge, slice open her air bag in a weak spot, so we can scuttle her in that flaming pit. I’ll explain the details as we go.”

  Conrad turned and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Jenkins! Maris! Little Tom! Ye three be with us! The Cap’n’s got a plan!” O’Fallon grinned, “It might be pure dead brilliant!”

  Of the trio, the closest was a man, not so tall as he was wide, with thick knotted shoulders iron-hard from years of work. He rubbed the cold water spray from his face and bald head, then unconsciously stroked his copper red beard. “Oi! On our way!”

  Once the three arrived, William lead the others across the deck to the port side of the Brass Griffin as she turned to pull ahead of the Revenge. Around them burnt airship debris rained down, pelting the deck at their feet with the soot-driven rain, falling from the gray clouds of acrid smoke. Throwing open the wooden locker when they reached it, O’Fallon handed out coils of rope and dull steel grappling hooks. When the locker was empty, they raced off again, this time for the stern winches. O’Fallon, reaching them before the others, immediately began to rapidly thread his coil of rope into one of the machines.

  “Cap’n?” William asked, out of breath when he caught up to the others. “What’s the sign for when Cap’n Wilhelm gets his part done?”

  “We will know,” Hunter replied evenly, threading his rope into a second winch.

  “But,” the young tracker began. His thought was interrupted as he saw the Whirling Strumpet’s sails and gas bag rising up behind the Revenge.

  A twin set of cannons – positioned on either side of the Strumpet’s bow – belched flame and smoke! Aboard the Brass Griffin, a cheer echoed across the deck as the crew watched their ally move into position.

  Suddenly, two long, thin objects shot out, each trailing gray-white coal smoke from a small pair of brass exhaust pipes. Behind them, the small propeller screws spun frantically while stubby, brightly colored bat-shaped fins popped out on either side. Screaming like a pair of wild banshees, the twin devices slammed into the stern of the Revenge, hitting the airship hard enough that her rear bucked high into the air, knocking her crew about the deck like loose bowling pins. The Revenge roughly sunk back down, snapping two of her lines connecting gas bag to deck, smoke and fire billowing out of her rear.

  Her propellers ground to a halt with the sound of nails scraping across new steel as the twisted metal from the explosion wrapped tightly around the screw axle and fouled the mechanisms.

  Hunter grinned knowingly. “The man is Moira’s uncle. Surely you didn’t think he would be quiet about it? Where do you think she gets it from?”

  “Oh,” William said, wide eyed, as he watched the larger ship behind them buck like a wild horse that had been slapped firmly on its rear. The rigging jerked and bounced the ship, the gas bag straining from the abuse. On the deck, those not dazed from the jostling about scrambled for safety.

  Captain Hunter tied off the grappling hook to his rope, then glanced around at the men next to him. Smoke from the Revenge washed over them all, pelting them with soot. “Use the casters. We’ll have only one shot at this! So we’d best make it bloody well count!”

  “Aye!” came the unanimous cry from all around.

  In moments, stubby harpoon launchers, powered by a clockwork-wound bow and resembling nothing short of an automatic wound ballista fired with a series of pops and metallic twangs. Grappling hooks sailed majestically in the air, their ropes snaking out behind them. They arched up, then gently turned downward.

  Just as quick as it started, their graceful arc turned deadly as they slammed onto the Revenge!

  Two hooks bashed through ruined barrels – long since victims of an earlier broadside barrage. Another one deflected off a mast, then slammed into a Fomorian, dragging him across the deck to pin his arm into the wooden railing. The last bashed a Fomorian from hi
s seat at a lightning cannon, the grapple’s spikes driving home in the now empty seat and metal frame near the water intake.

  No sooner had the hooks sunk home, Hunter lunged for a black speaking tube nearby. Quickly cranking the opti to a brief resemblance of power, he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Now, Mr. Whitehorse! Full speed ahead! Let the Griffin have her head and run!”

  “Aye!” came the exuberant reply.

  The Griffin jerked hard, almost knocking the five crew members off their feet. The ropes snapped taut, and gears far below deck audibly whined with the strain.

  A whine snapped through the air, and Jenkins grunted as a rifle bullet slammed into his chest, hurling him to the deck!

  William coughed against the smoke, calling out, “Here they come!”

  Grapple lines sailed out from the Revenge and hooked the Griffin firmly on her rail. Across the wide space of night air, riflemen – Fomorians who had not transformed – took hasty aim with their Spencer rifles and let loose a sharp volley. Bullets rained out over the deck; Hunter and his crew dove flat to the deck planks, the bullets screaming overhead.

  Once the first volley subsided, Hunter scrambled onto one knee. In a fluid motion, his revolver was in his hand. His first shot dropped a Fomorian rifleman where he stood, the second caught another one wielding an ax.

  “We stand here!” Hunter shouted out to his crew. “They must not get aboard!”

  The four men stood their ground while more of the Brass Griffin’s crew raced over to help them. All around, the battle exploded in a bloody ferocity.

  The ships danced about in the air: The Griffin, her bloody claws sunk deep into the Revenge, hauled away at the larger vessel. The Revenge, however, bit back, her crews firing desperately at the Griffin, trying to make a beachhead where they could board. Behind the Revenge the Whirling Strumpet, brightly colored flags flying in a wild display around her sails and gas bag, harried the Fomorian ship with shot after searing hot shot of chain munitions. Between each artillery volley, the lightning cannons erupted with crackling bursts of electrified, high pressure water jets across her deck.

  As the Fomorians fought back, Hunter barked another order to fire, then squeezed the trigger on his revolver. The Griffin’s cannons crackled then roared to mad life, scouring the Revenge. The Fomorian airship struggled like a burnt and bloody rabid beast, clawing the Griffin with bullet and small cannons – a desperate gamble to soften the smaller ship while a pack of Fomorians downed their Hellgate elixirs to begin their nightmarish transformations.

  “They’ll be boardin’ us!” O’Fallon shouted over the chaos. He glanced at the glowing pit that loomed so close, but not close enough for the Griffin to deposit her burden inside. “Cap’n, we’ll not make this one! She just can’t be handlin’ the strain!”

  Anthony looked over and frowned. He shoved his smoking revolver into its holster, then patted the Griffin’s fractured wooden railing. “Hold on girl,” Hunter whispered, “you’ve got her where we want her. Just hold on a mite longer.”

  Captain Hunter looked over the railing toward the Revenge, then around the Griffin’s deck, searching for inspiration. His eyes locked onto one of the mooring lines which lead across to the grappling hook now embedded in one of the lightning cannon on the Revenge. With a savage grin, he reached over and yanked the winch lever back, causing the device to reel in the rope.

  “Cap’n? What are you doing?” William asked, panicked when he noticed the distance slowly beginning to narrow between the ships.

  “Gambling, Mr. Falke, gambling,” Anthony replied. Metal shrieked in agony while the hook skidded over the device, sinking deep into the rubber and cotton hose connected to the base of the weapon. Hunter ducked behind the railing. “Take cover!”

  With a resounding pop, the tube snapped free, spewing water out across the deck while it thrashed about like a giant, mad snake the size of a horse. Immediately, the tube struck two of the Fomorian crew, slapping them off the deck and over the side as if they had been hit by a giant fist.

  “That be it?” Conrad asked suspiciously.

  Hunter shook his head. “On that style of vessel, all the lightning cannon share a single flow from the water tanks. Quite the engineering flaw, I’d say. In any case, the salinated water does more than just carry a charge from a lightning cannon,” the captain explained, “It acts as a temporary ground. Remove the ground …” Hunter let his words trail off.

  “And the lightning starts going elsewhere!” William replied, in wide-eyed astonishment.

  At that moment, the familiar throb of power hummed from the Revenge’s weapons, despite the shouts from its crew to cease fire. Electricity crackled angrily just before capacitors deep under the deck released their burden! Water gushed forth, but with the loose tube flailing about, the precious water pressure dropped to a pathetic trickle. Salinated water streamed onto the deck. Crews leaped in panic away from the cannons just before the capacitors overheated, exploding like bombs.

  The resulting fireball shook the Revenge, finally ejecting the ruined lightning cannon with the missing water intake tube. The cannon flew up, off the ruined deck and over the side, leaving a steaming, gaping hole in the Revenge’s armor.

  Next to Hunter, the Griffin’s opti came to life with Krumer’s voice. “Captain! Inbound message from the Royal Navy! They’ve just arrived and are requesting our position.”

  Captain Hunter scrambled to his feet, bracing himself against the railing. He grabbed the speaking tube with his right hand. “This is our position, Mr. Whitehorse,” the captain clenched his mechanical left fist and hammered it against the wooden rail. “All hands! Cut the lines! Target that explosion aboard the Revenge! We’re sending these monsters and their poison back to hell!”

  Chapter 58

  The flames licked the night sky. Orange embers, like ghosts of the fallen, stirred on the cold Scottish winds and rose toward the stars. Below them, the Revenge lay: a burnt and twisted wreck embedded in the pit of the Fomorian warren. It was a metal-shod tombstone shrouded by a toxic cloud of mustard gas. A memorial to the fallen and a somber warning for the future.

  Hunter sighed heavily, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. He leaned on the Brass Griffin’s charred wooden railing, dressed in his battered leather long coat, watching the former battlefield. Each ember tore at him as each was a person he knew, fought against, or an innocent soul that he failed to save. The captain lowered his head and closed his eyes, both in prayer and remorse.

  Krumer Whitehorse stopped a few paces away, rebuttoning his jacket against the cold wind. “Seeking solace from the spirits? Or is it advice?”

  Anthony blinked, still looking out into the night. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “absolution.”

  The first mate nodded sagely, brushed a braided length of his black dreadlocks away from his face, then joined the captain at the railing. “Same as always, not that you need it. You did what the spirits required: protected those in need.” Krumer took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Nonetheless, have you found it?”

  “Not yet,” the captain replied.

  Krumer knew his captain. He wisely changed the subject. “I would think you’d be haunting the medical frigate ever since Moira, Thorias, and the others were admitted.”

  Captain Hunter gave Krumer a weak, wry smile, “I was until they shooed me away.” He glanced out into the night again, watching one of the Royal Navy ships fly slowly by. “Doctors armed with nearly unpronounceable synonyms for ‘sedative’ usually incite me to make a quick march in the other direction.”

  “I trust they are in good hands?” Krumer asked after a moment.

  Hunter nodded. “Quite. Thorias – while being the very model of why doctors make for the worst patients – knows the chief of medical aboard the HMS Reynolds. Moira and the others are recovering quite nicely. However, Moira’s electrical burns have left her with an unpleasant scarring. The doctors are using Thorias’ technique with regards to the gas,” the captain hesita
ted in thought, “what did he call it… ah yes, the mustard gas. That is, when they aren’t treating the bullet and burn wounds that are aplenty. Fortunately, we have been given a tentative mark of health. Though they want us within arm’s reach for a few days … just in case. Moira already has begun to make it known quite loudly that she’s been away from her workshop far too long.”

  “What of Ian?” Krumer prodded.

  Hunter looked away towards the flames. “They say, if he survives the night, it may be a miracle. If he does, he’ll not be fit to crew a ship again. Even with a cane.”

  The first mate hung his head sadly a moment, then nodded in understanding.

  “And the Fomorians?” the orc asked curiously.

  “Those that survived are being treated as having ‘extreme toxicity’,” Hunter replied, “I trust that means they are dealing with them as they take the brutal path off their Hellgate elixir. There again, Thorias’ particular bit of alchemic knowledge is spreading among the fleet to assist. If they survive, they’ll stand accused at the inquiry along with John Clark and myself.”

  “What?” the first mate protested.

  The captain held up a hand to forestall the orc’s protests. “Let me finish. There must be an inquiry by the Navy, old friend,” Hunter explained, watching the flames again. “John wanted it, and I agree. It will bring to light everything he suffered under, everything you and I experienced. Even things Arcady discovered inside the ruin about the gas and torture chambers below ground. The victims of the Fair Winds deserve this, need this small bit of justice for the memory of those lost. We owe it to their memory. I agree with John. I’ll stand by him and see they get that.”

  Krumer nodded then looked out over the night. Silently, the two, slim white forms of Royal Navy destroyers came into view. Smaller longskiffs, one of which was marked with a red cross, buzzed quickly by the larger ships. Each was busy ferrying personnel to and from the ruined hillside below.

  “What about his son?” the first mate asked quietly.

 

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