Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(47)
“Then they should catch up by dawn and we’ll see the lights they’ve been considerate enough to show. We’ll bear away farther south, out of sight, then cross their wakes and continue on our way.”
Smitty shook his head and almost shivered. “Well, I just had a weird thought. What if that ship, the one we’re set to chase, isn’t a Dom?” he asked suddenly. “What if it isn’t anybody we know at all?”
Sammy blinked at him in a fashion mingling curiosity and dread.
Greg smiled. “Well . . . that would be interesting,” he conceded, then shrugged. “And I guess it’s even possible that whoever she is—Dom or not—the steamer isn’t even a League ship either.” Nobody really believed that, but they couldn’t say it was impossible. “Either way, though,” he continued, “that’s what we’re here for. To find out what’s what.”
? ? ?
“On deck!” came the cry from the masthead. “Sail, nort’-nort’wes!” Half a dozen Imperial telescopes rose along the starboard quarterdeck rail, pointed in generally the right direction and stabilized by elbows touching wood. Donaghey was sailing stiff with hardly a pitch under topsails and staysails alone, and the rail was rock steady. The sky above remained a light purple, with wisps of gilded clouds scudding along, but had begun to blaze bright orange in the east. The wind had strengthened, but the glass—the crude water barometer in Greg’s cabin—remained unchanged. Soon, they could even pick out the distant sail from deck, and Greg glanced impatiently aloft. The lookout should’ve been able to tell if the ship was alone by now. He certainly couldn’t imagine a League steamer plodding along behind. But the longer he waited, the longer the target had to spot them—and react. Even if his plan went perfectly, they’d be seen very soon, and he wanted to be flying first.
“Just as you predicted,” Saama-Kera said, blinking admiration. “Well done, Cap-i-taan.”
“Just guesswork—and luck, Sammy,” Greg said, his weathered face reddening. He stared intently at the lookout.
“What more do you see?” his exec demanded loudly, as impatient as Greg.
“Nuttin,’ sur.”
“Very well,” Greg said. “All hands to make sail, Mr. Saama.” He smiled, glancing at his bosun. “No need to whisper, now.”
“All hands to make sail!” Sammy thundered, and Jenaar-Laan swept forward, blowing the corresponding series of blasts on his whistle. ’Cats that had been sweeping the deck clean fore and aft stowed their brooms and raced up the shrouds while others exploded from below, already carrying their hammocks. These they tightly rolled and stuffed in the netting amidships before racing aloft as well. Some, gunners and Marines or others unfit for duty above, went back for the rest of the hammocks. Greg raised his telescope again and studied the haze-fuzzed silhouette less than eight miles away. “Stand by to come right, to course zero two zero,” he told the ’Cat at the wheel.
“Aye, sur.”
Greg waited a moment longer, then said, “Execute.” A flood of shouts and whistles followed his command, even as the wheel turned and a seemingly chaotic but carefully choreographed flurry of activity ensued. The mizzen sail loosed and the yards came around, the sails on the main and mizzen spilling their wind. The foresails pulled the ship around until the fore staysail started to flutter and the mizzen came up taut, far out to port, helping the ship complete her turn.
“Rudder’s amidships!” shouted the ’Cat at the helm, and his call carried forward, repeated by the bosun and his mates. Immediately, ’Cats hauled on lines to reposition the yards and sheet the sails home—all to take best advantage of the wind based on the ship’s current heading. Greg tried to keep his face impassive, but his heart bounded in his chest with love for his ship and the long-serving crew who knew her so well that all he had to do was give a course and say “execute.” He doubted there’d ever been a skipper of a square-rigged ship with so little to do in that regard. “We’ll have the forecourse and topgallants, Mr. Saama,” he said, looking up. “And as soon as the target runs, we’ll set the studding sails.” The wind was nearly directly aft now, not Donaghey’s favorite point, and he wanted to close the target as quickly as he could. But the target didn’t run. For long minutes, stretching to half an hour, while the range shortened to five, four, and, unfathomably, three miles, the target didn’t respond at all. And anyone could see by now she was a Dom, with her faded red, almost pink sails, and the barbarously shaped golden crosses painted on them.
“I was going to send the hands to breakfast as soon as the chase began,” Greg told Sammy doubtfully, “but maybe we’d best sound general quarters and have the cook and his mates make a pile of sandwiches.”
“Ay, ay, sur,” Sammy said, equally confused how the enemy could’ve ignored them so long. “Sound generaal quarters! Clear for aaction!” he said more loudly. “Cooks to make saamitches!” There wasn’t much else left to prepare, and there was little further activity on deck. The ship had already been cleared for all intents and purposes. Gun’s crews gathered closer to their weapons, helmets replaced Dixie cup hats, and armorers passed out pistol belts to gun captains and ensured the arms lockers between the guns had sufficient cutlasses and axes. Marines clambered up the shrouds with rifles slung, or lined the rails. There came a rumble almost beneath Greg’s feet, and a gasp of gray smoke from a little exhaust pipe that snaked a short distance up the mizzenmast when the four-cylinder Wright-Gypsy-type generator engine, just like the ones used by Nancy floatplanes, whipped to life. It would power electric lights below, particularly in the magazine, where exploding case shot was kept, in the ammunition handling room where thick fabric-powder cartridges were stored in hundreds of robust Baalkpan bamboo pass box tubes, and in the wardroom, where the surgeon waited. The generator also powered the comm gear, which they wouldn’t use unless things went very badly and Greg chose (and had the opportunity) to make a final report, hoping someone might hear, and the fire-control circuit, which they’d certainly use directly.