Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(49)
Almost immediately, smoke blossomed from two ports below the Dom poop, and a pair of splashes kicked up about two hundred yards short.
“She’ll start hitting us soon,” Sammy observed. “You want us to heat the chasers up? Fire like we mean it?”
Greg considered while he quickly finished his sandwich and washed it down with a swig from his canteen. Donaghey’s gunnery had reached such a state that soon she could yaw and deliver a concentrated salvo of a dozen eighteen-pound solid shot directly into the enemy’s vulnerable stern. That was what she’d loaded first, for the range advantage solid shot had over case. But range hadn’t turned out to be an issue. Even if it had, a much higher percentage of Donaghey’s guns would find their mark than the Dom could even imagine, supposing he hadn’t been at Malpelo, which was a pretty good bet. The devastation would be horrendous as shot blew through windows and light bulkheads separating the officers’ quarters from the gundeck—they’d been told Doms didn’t remove those bulkheads during action—and shrieked its length, wounding masts amid shoals of wicked splinters, wrecking carriages, and overturning guns. Mere human bodies wouldn’t noticeably slow them. Some might even exit the bow, making great, jagged holes. But if they didn’t disable the Dom, he’d gain on them and it would take time to catch back up.
“By all means, Mr. Saama,” Greg finally said. “Maybe we’ll knock something important away and get this over quicker. Either way, when we have her right by the tail—within five hundred yards or so—we’ll come left and unmask the starboard battery. We’ll hit her as fast as we can, with two salvos of roundshot. If she strikes her colors, swell. If not, we’ll follow ’em with a third salvo of exploding case.”
“Risky,” Sammy lamented. He blinked seriously, his tail swishing with apprehension. “I know you want to take the Dom ship in-taact. Not only for prisoners to question about its meeting with the League, but I can imagine all sorts of situations in which the ship itself might prove useful. Case might seriously daamage or destroy it, ’specially if it sets her afire.”
“True, but by all accounts, it’s tough to make Doms quit. A few rounds of case ought to shake ’em up, maybe stun or demoralize the gun’s crews enough to throw off their aim and let us get close enough to sweep her with chain, grape, maybe even our machine guns. Then, with the enemy’s sails and rigging cut to pieces, we’ll position Donaghey to rake her again and again with grape and canister while our Marines slaughter their crew with rifles.” He frowned. “We’ll see how much Doms can take before they throw in the towel.” He looked intently at Sammy. “And we’ll board her if we have to, but only as a last resort. The ship, and the information we might get, is worth some of us, but if I think the price is too high, I’ll sink her without batting an eye.” Sammy grinned, trying to lighten Greg’s darkening mood. “Mi-Anakka baat their eyes all the time, Skipper. And this crew may do so resentfully if you sink their prize!” Greg’s lips twitched upward. Ships that took prizes were getting bonus pay now. But that wouldn’t influence his decision.
At the command, both twelve-pounders on the fo’c’sle began banging away with a will. They were firing in local control, with friction primers, aimed by their gun captains, but Smitty was correcting their ranges and calling out when the keel was even. The gunners paid him little mind. They had plenty of practice at this and could feel when the moment was right to pull their lanyards. Soon, shot after shot was tearing home, spoiling the beauty of the target’s stern gallery. The enemy chasers kept at it too, though noticeably slower. The ship shivered from an impact forward, above her starboard hawse, and the courses had a few holes in them now. A shot tore through one of the ship’s boats stowed on the main hatch, sending a shower of splinters aft before it nicked the mainmast, struck the deck, and bounded over the rail. Greg had actually considered bringing his last Nancy floatplane on deck and assembling it, in case he had to look for the enemy. Now he was glad he hadn’t.
“Good shooting, sur,” observed the ’Cat at the wheel.
Greg was nodding, a little surprised himself, when the starboard quarterdeck 12-pdr gun captain, who’d been left out so far, snorted. “At dis range? I could hit ’em fum here, flickin’ a musket baall wit’ a spoo . . .” In that instant, a nine-pound shot struck him where his neck met his chest, nearly tearing his head off. The body pitched back, helmet flying, across the gun in a shower of blood. Blood spattered as far as Greg, spotting his khaki trousers red. Without a word, a pair of ’Cats rushed forward from one of the aft chasers and carried the body below. Greg’s face turned hard as he watched them go; then he looked through his glass again. The range had finally closed to about five hundred yards, absolute point-blank for Donaghey’s guns, and he began to call the starboard battery to stand by and command the helmsman to turn—when he saw the enemy begin to yaw to port. “All hands!” he cried. “Down! Take cover!”
In another age, on his home world, such an order might’ve been appreciated, but would’ve been met with incredulity. Sailors and their officers were expected to stand, unconcerned, and take what was coming. Even here, in the thick of the fight, few would try to conceal themselves. It served little purpose, broadside to broadside, and the best way to make the enemy stop shooting was to shoot him first. But Donaghey would have to take this broadside head-on, delivered cold, and there was nothing Greg could do but present the smallest target possible, hope the rest of the enemy gunners weren’t as good as her chaser crews, and pray his ship and people didn’t suffer too badly before they could hit back.