Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(52)
Establishing complete control over Matarife took longer than the fight, but, finally, her fewer than a hundred able-bodied men were secured below, her ninety wounded arranged along the gun deck, receiving care, and the 136 dead went over the side. Aside from her surgeon and a mate, the only surviving “officer” was a young boy, probably a midshipman or something similar. He was dressed as an officer, at least, and appeared so terrified of Lemurians that Greg himself took him aft and locked him in a cabin with food and water. He spent a little time poking through the shambles of other cabins, but Matarife’s stern had taken a terrible beating, and a thorough examination would take time. He’d approach the boy later and attempt communication when things were more settled.
“Our butcher’s bill was seven dead, including Loo-ten-aant Saama-Kera,” Lieutenant Mak-Araa told Greg as they surveyed the damage to Matarife’s fo’c’sle. The foremast wreckage had been cut away before the stump could pound a hole in the ship, but then brought alongside. They were discussing whether it was feasible to fish the lower mast back together and reassemble the top. Probably, with additional reinforcing stays. Greg nodded, both at Mak’s words and his sad blinking. “We have nineteen wounded,” Mak continued, “six baad. Sori doubts three will live.”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed solemnly. Sori had worked under Karen Letts and came aboard expressly for this voyage with all the latest knowledge, tools, and medicines the Alliance had devised to care for two distinct species. Greg suspected he was probably better skilled and more experienced than any naval surgeon back home ever was. “I spoke to him a few minutes ago,” he continued. “Thank God we have him. He’s got the stamina of ten ’Cats, and he’s going to need it.” He looked at Mak. “You too,” he added. “You’re XO now, though you’ll have to take over here for the time being, when—if—we get this tub underway.”
“We will,” Mak said, blinking assurance. “Hull daamage wasn’t baad. The rigging’s cut up, but it was a crummy rig in the first place. Have to change it to sail her understrength, anyway.” He glanced at the sky, his tail swishing. “It’ll stay fair. Long enough to reset her fore-maast an’ get some headsails on her. Then we’ll knot an’ splice as we go—though I’d prefer a nice, protected anchorage to do it right.”
“Me too, but no promises. And the more pressing problem is people,” Greg said. Mak nodded. Donaghey’s complement was two hundred officers and enlisted. She actually carried more like two thirty, counting those who’d joined her from the Republic, and the many youngling “powder boys.” That was more than enough to sail and fight her. And she didn’t need nearly as many replacements as a similar ship in an earlier age, because so few succumbed to illness. But she’d just lost nearly thirty people, from a practical standpoint, and Matarife would need more to sail her than Donaghey did. Fighting both ships was practically impossible. At least one must be able to, however, and Donaghey was the better choice. So, though they’d already decided Donaghey would pose as the Doms’ prize when they continued, Matarife would necessarily be extremely shorthanded. “Maybe,” Greg began doubtfully, “some Doms have been cooperative once they figured out we’re not demons. You might get a few extra hands from the prisoners in time,” he ventured.
“I’d be more confident of that if we could talk to ’em,” Mak agreed. “But I’ll try.”
They were interrupted by a small party of ’Cats suddenly standing before them in the midst of the chaotic labor. They had their hats in their hands and Chief Bosun’s Mate Jenaar-Laan was among them. “Yes?” Mak demanded.
“Sur,” Jenaar said to Mak, but clearly addressing Greg. “We got dead. We know we can’t build a pyre, nor bury ’em on land.” He blinked, dissatisfied. ’Cats generally preferred cremation, so their spirits could rise to the Heavens with the smoke, though a growing number of navy and Marine ’Cats had opted for burial in the human destroyermen fashion. “No choice but over the side wit’ ’em, sewed in their haam-ocks an’ smeared wit’ grease so the flaashies don’t get ’em . . . even Loo-ten-aant Sammy.”
Greg nodded. He’d known this was coming and hadn’t been sure how he’d deal with it. Apparently, his crew already knew. “I have to agree with you, Boats. It’s a sorry situation, but there’s nothing for it.”
“Aye, sur. An’ it’s not like it aan’t been done before. It’s just . . .”
“What?” Mak asked.
“Well, we just want to make sure . . .” He was blinking rapidly now. “There’s stories o’ how Waa-kur buried her people with Jaap iron, shells that hit her an’ didn’t blow, when she first came here. . . .”
Greg nodded. He remembered it well. They’d already decided they couldn’t spare the traditional projectiles—of their own, at least—and had sent his shipmates to their watery graves with whatever weighty objects they could spare. “What’s your point?” he asked gently.
“Well, sur, it’s just . . . not all believe you gotta have smoke for souls to rise no more, but some do. Always have. An’ if our shipmates’ souls don’t rise, nobody wants ’em spendin’ forever wit’ a pair o’ daamn Dom roundshot at their feet.” He waved around, encompassing all the ’Cats. Many had paused in their labors to hear this exchange. “We talked this wit’ ourselves before, an’ . . . if it’s okaay wit’ you, sur, an’ you think we have enough, we’d sooner have our own iron wit’ us on the bottom of the sea. Not the iron that sent us there.” He blinked exasperation, afraid his captain didn’t understand.