Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(51)
“Is anyone alive over there?” he shouted. “Your captain? Any officers?” A few shapes stirred slightly, unwilling to reveal themselves, but some obviously still lived.
“I doubt they speak English, sur,” Sammy told him wryly. His blinking didn’t match his tone, however, and it was clear he was sickened by what they’d done.
So was Greg, but he was more sickened by their own losses. “Uh,” he said, racking his memory. He’d never heard Spanish in his life before going to the Philippines to join Walker, and hadn’t been there long enough to pick up much. Then again, many Doms spoke . . . other languages, God knew what, and apparently only their officers used Spanish exclusively. “Smitty,” he called above, “do you speak Spanish?” He’d had a Filipino wife—of sorts—in Cavite.
“Not a word, sir. Nothin’ for this, anyway. My girl an’ I never did much talkin’, if you know what I mean. An’ she jabbered in Tagalog mostly, probably to make sure I didn’t catch anything.”
Greg turned back to the ship.
“Sur,” Sammy warned, “we’re gonna run aboard her.”
“Right. Shift the foresails and bring her around alongside.” He raised the trumpet again while his order was obeyed. “Ah, surrendero immediato!” He shook his head. “No fuego, we no mato. Discardo tu armos!” Eyes appeared, peering from behind battered guns, and three men became visible from where they’d all somehow managed to cram themselves behind the mainmast. All looked at him like he had two heads.
“No! No!” cried a man, an officer, lying next to the broken wheel. His hat was gone and his long dark hair was matted crimson. His leg was obviously shattered and his white breeches were soaked with blood. “?No habrá rendición! Manténganse en sus ca?ones. Matadlos a todos!” Donaghey was easing around, edging alongside the Dom that still wallowed there, dragging her foremast like a sea anchor. Most of her forward guns were smothered by wreckage, and few men could’ve been fit to serve them in any case. But three aft guns suddenly fired, one after another. A ball blasted through the bulwark not far from Greg, spewing a blizzard of splinters. Another struck lower. The third crashed through the bulwark forward, scattering several Marines and cutting the foremast shrouds at the chains when it blew out the other side of the ship. Without even waiting for the order, all Donaghey’s guns fired in reply. They were loaded only with grape, which couldn’t much hurt those manning the belowdecks guns, not from abeam, but more bodies tumbled on the main deck and wreckage and splinters exploded away. Then, in the lull of the reload, most gunners calling for solid shot of their own accord, a man was seen rushing toward the fallen Dom officer. Marines shot at him, but he was too quick. As he reached the officer, he paused—then brought a handspike down with all his might, smashing his head.
“Cease firing! Cease firing!” Greg bellowed, but he was probably the only one who hadn’t seen the drama across the water. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Lieutenant Saama-Kera, his executive officer and friend, lying on the deck in a spreading pool of blood, a bright, jagged two-foot splinter protruding from his chest. He was quite dead.
“They struck their daamn colors now,” Lieutenant Mak-Araa called, his tone bitter, practically regretful. “One of her crew tore their flaag down and threw it over the side.”
“Very well,” Greg said roughly. “Prepare grapnels. Inform Lieutenant Haana we’ll lay alongside and board. All hands.” He straightened. “Kill anybody who resists, but if they want to surrender we will let them. Make sure that’s understood.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Gaarr-ett.”
? ? ?
The Dom frigate Matarife was a charnel house. Shredded bodies lay heaped and scattered all over her main decks and it wasn’t much better below. Shockingly, there’d been further resistance when Donaghey’s boarders leaped across—and Matarife’s survivors finally saw their foe. Greg had been right; though her officers must’ve seen his people through their telescopes, the majority of the enemy obviously thought Donaghey was a NUS ship. When Lemurian sailors and Marines swarmed aboard, many panicked at the sight of what they thought were genuine demons. Those wild-eyed unfortunates were promptly slain as soon as they lifted a weapon. Most who could merely fled belowdecks, though a couple actually jumped over the side. In spite of the senselessness of this further bloodshed, Greg was proud of his people. They were justifiably angry but showed remarkable restraint and no one who yielded was harmed. It took a little longer to convince those who hid below, but eventually they surrendered their arms—and wounded—when their own surgeon entreated them to. He did this after he saw Donaghey’s surgeon, a burly teddy bear of a ’Cat named Sori-Maai, and his mates immediately start trying to save the most horribly wounded Doms.
One of the more difficult obstacles, however, remained the apparent fact that neither side could communicate with the other, except by example in Surgeon Sori’s case, and through laborious gestures. Greg’s extremely limited Spanish was actually a hindrance, often causing gross misunderstanding. Tribune Pol-Heena’s tortured Latin was probably of greater use, providing a few common words. A form of Latin had been preserved by Lemurian Sky Priests to interpret their Sacred Scrolls, but also lingered—from another obscure source—in the Republic. Greg hadn’t learned if that source was Byzantine or came from a divergent history in which the classical Roman republic—or empire—survived beyond the tenth century. Unlike Captain Reddy, he wasn’t a historian and had little basis for his opinion, but from what he’d picked up, the latter actually seemed more likely.