Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(44)

Several ’Cats from the Republic of Real People accompanied them on this voyage, a token of Kaiser Nig-Taak’s commitment to join the war against the Dominion. And the island of St. Helena had been right where they’d said it would be, according to charts they brought. Republic ships had sailed that far many times since SMS Amerika arrived in 1914 and revealed its existence. Nig-Taak loved maps and was obsessed with knowing where things were. He’d commissioned what was probably the largest, most comprehensive world map of this earth in existence. It remained woefully incomplete, and vast areas of the globe were represented by approximate—at best—coastlines, but St. Helena had been painstakingly added. They’d stopped there, setting foot on dry land for the first time since Alex-aandra. They found the island, Napoleon’s final address on another world, a charming, temperate, apparently safe haven, populated only by swarms of lizardbirds—none as dangerous as those on islands east of Madagascar—and huge, hard-shelled sea turtles that laid their eggs in crevices on the rocky beaches and apparently dwelt year-round in the adjacent depths. From his Tennessee point of reference, they looked like gigantic, alligator snapping turtles, and he understood they were good eating if they could be caught. In addition, their shells were very durable and even beautiful when sanded and polished—like a dark, amber-shaded mother of pearl—and all sorts of decorative things were made from them. Like just about everywhere they’d been, flashylike fish lingered in the vicinity, but Greg supposed the aggressive, well-protected turtles had less to fear from them than most.

Still, though a permanent Republic outpost had once been attempted, St. Helena was probably one of the remotest islands in the world and turtles alone couldn’t justify the effort to keep it going. With the current crisis, Greg knew a garrison had been planned, but who knew when it would arrive? He’d strolled through the time-and storm-shattered remains of several buildings, while the hands pumped water to fill the empty casks in Donaghey’s hold from a well sunk long ago, and decided a garrison was probably a good idea. Not only was there evidence, old and new, that turtle hunters still came from time to time, but Doms had been there as well, erecting a stone marker claiming the island for their twisted pope. They might’ve even been the same ones Captain Laborde of Savoie let slip that the League was in contact with. And the League itself had also been there, judging by the number of rusting cans and other refuse scattered near old fire pits. That made him wonder what to expect when they reached Ascension Island, and he meant to approach with caution.

“Loo-ten-aant Saama-Kera’s regrets fer disturbin’ yer sleep, sur,” came the voice of a young Lemurian midshipman, “but could yer peese step up on deck? Dere’s a st’ange light on de horizon.”

“On my way,” Greg said, snatching his Imperial-made telescope and following the ’Cat up the companionway and out on the broad quarterdeck. All around was utter darkness, and only the sharp, bright stars made it possible to tell where sea ended and sky began. Two shapes stood by the wheel forward of the mizzenmast, and others lined the starboard rail staring to the north. A brisk, steady wind on the port quarter swept Donaghey along at an effortless ten knots under plain sail alone. All this Garrett took in with little thought. It was the same when he retired and he’d have felt a change. He stepped to the lee rail, joining the shape he somehow knew belonged to the white-and-brown-furred Saama-Kera.

Donaghey didn’t have a “quarterdeck” in the traditional sense, any more than Walker did. Both were flush-decked from bow to stern. Donaghey, named for Walker’s chief machinist mate who died to save his ship, shared other similarities with the old four-stack destroyer. Both were outdated compared to their respective contemporaries, and both had seen more action of various sorts than any other ship in the Grand Alliance. Donaghey was the sole survivor of the first three frigates they’d helped the ’Cats build, and one of only a few dedicated sailors left. The rest were cargo haulers, transports, and DEs made from cut-down Grik Indiamen. With the introduction of steam power, even they were increasingly rare. Their range wasn’t limited by fuel, but they were entirely dependent on the wind and required larger crews to operate. It meant that though Donaghey was held in similar esteem by the people of the Grand Alliance, and her crew of two hundred officers and enlisted was arguably the best in the fleet, unlike Walker, the ship herself had become somewhat . . . expendable. That, and her practically unlimited range, was why she’d been chosen for this mission in the first place.

Old, relatively speaking, and helpless against the wind she no doubt was, and smallish at only 168 feet long and around 1,200 tons, with her hull shape and sail plan, a clean bottom, and the wind where she liked it best, she could still log up to sixteen knots. Amazingly fast for any square-rigged ship Greg ever heard of, and faster than the new Scott class steam frigate DDs. And weak though she might be compared to them, she was far from helpless. There were twenty-four eighteen-pounders on her gun deck, four Y guns to launch depth charges off either beam, and a rack for the same weapons aft to discourage the enormous ship-eating mountain fish. Eight twelve-pounder field guns had been hoisted to the main deck from the hold and set on naval trucks the carpenters built to give her some light chasers—and slightly elevated grape or canister guns. She also had something no other Allied ship outside the Republic could boast: an even dozen water-cooled MG 08s—Maxims, as far as Garrett was concerned—and plenty of 7.92 x 57 mm belted ammo. None of the new copies of Browning MGs had been available when Donaghey set out. Maxims were still rare in the Republic, for that matter, having only recently gone into mass production. Inquisitor Choon and Kaiser Nig-Taak had lavished them on Garrett’s ship in exchange (he suspected) for the loan of one of his Nancy floatplanes and its crew, and, even more, for his former captain, now major of Marines, Bekiaa-Sab-At. Bekiaa had remained in the Republic to teach Choon and General Kim what combat with the Grik was really like.