“Run up our battle flag,” Matt said resignedly. “Obviously they understand what it means. That ought to impress them more than another warning shot!”
“Skipper! They’re turning!”
Matt looked back to the front. At about eight hundred yards, the four ships executed a very tight turn to port that only paddle wheels would have allowed. They still had the wind, and for a moment, the flags all streamed forward from aft. They were red-and-white flags, without the slightest touch of blue, and just as that realization dawned, the starboard side of all but one of the ships erupted in a solid bank of white smoke.
“All ahead flank!” Matt shouted. “Main battery, commence firing! Somebody yank that white rag down and get our own flag up there!”
Fireman Tab-At, or “Tabby,” felt the ship squat down and lurch forward as the throttlemen poured on the steam. She almost fell against the aft bulkhead of the fireroom. Access plates on the deck popped up out of their grooves and slid toward her like big, rectangular blades, and she hopped as they went by to keep from losing her toes. They clanged against the bulkhead behind her. “Feed ’em!” she shouted. “Open ’em up!” They had to increase the flow of air, water, and fuel to keep up with the sudden enormous dump of steam. An instant later, she felt like somebody had put a bucket on her head and started beating it with a stick. As quickly as it began, the heavy drumming ceased, but Walker kept picking up speed. The air lock cycled and Spanky emerged from the forward engine room. He was covered with dark fuel oil from head to foot, but his eyes were white as they darted around the compartment.
“Everything okay in here?” he shouted.
“Yeah…” Tabby started, then amended, “Yes, sir! A few loose plates. What happened?”
“The bastards fired at us!” Spanky bellowed. “The goddamn sneakin’ bastards!”
“Who shoot?” Tabby asked, her drawl and English slipping a little.
“Those goddamn Company Brits. Who else?”
“How you get so oily? Engines okay?”
“Yeah. Somethin’ punched a hole through one of the saddle bunkers, somethin’ big. Must be rollin’ around in the bilge, ’cause it didn’t go out the other side, but it blew oil all over the place. Damage control’s on the way. Any of ’em come through here, tell ’em to pump the bilges into one of the two empty bunkers aft. It’ll be full of crap, but we can’t spare the fuel. Maybe we can separate it out some.” He started forward. “Gotta check the forward fireroom!”
“Commander McFaar-lane?” Tabby asked. “Spanky? You okay?”
Spanky stopped and looked back at her. “Swell, kid. Just gotta check on the old rice bowl.” He wiped at the oil burning his eyes. “Might be your rice bowl too, now. Chief Aubrey’s dead. Whatever came through just kinda smushed his head.” He wiped his face again. “Chiefs don’t last long down here. Never shoulda picked him. He started out as a torpedoman, for God’s sake! Shoulda left him at home!” Spanky sneezed, still wiping his face on his oil-soaked sleeve, and disappeared forward through the swirling, steamy heat of the fireroom.
“Damage report!” Matt bellowed over the rapid salvos of the numbers one, two, and four guns.
“Buncha big dents, three big holes,” Finny replied. “One hole through for’ard engine room, make big leak in fuel bunker. One dead, two injured. ’Nother hole through wardroom, spray Selass with few steel pieces, but she okay. Hole through for’ard berthing space not hurt anybody.”
“ Damn them! Their flagship better be a wreck by now!” Matt growled. He raised his binoculars and stared hard at the geysers erupting around the distant ship. Actually, as he thought about it, it would be a miracle if they’d hit anything with their first salvo. They had explosive rounds now, using a black-powder bursting charge just like in the Great War. It was a lot better than the solid copper bolts they’d been forced to use before, and way better than nothing. The problem was, Bernie was still working out some issues with his cordite. They had all the formulas, but the organic material they had to work with was different and produced different properties and burn rates. For now, they were still using black-powder propellant charges, and it took time to work out the differential math on the gun director. Their sudden acceleration to flank hadn’t helped. Unconsciously, he opened his mouth, trying to pop his ears. They’d installed one of Amagi ’s alarm bells to replace the dead salvo buzzer, but Campeti had forgotten to push the button. “Cease firing main battery,” he called. “Left full rudder! Come to course one eight five!” He needed to give his fire control crew a break, and the only thing that would allow that was a constant course and speed.
“Left full rudder, aye!” answered Kutas. “Making my course one eight five!” Another enemy broadside churned the sea behind the ship, skating across the wave tops and looking for all the world like a giant shotgun pattern in a duck pond.
“They can’t hit a moving target, at least one moving this fast,” Matt observed with satisfaction. “Where’s Jenks?”
“Starboard quarter. He’ll pass astern of us on this course,” Gray answered. “He’s still headin’ right at ’em!”
“Course is one eight five degrees!” Kutas exclaimed.
“Main battery may resume firing as soon as they have a solution,” Matt ordered. He’d opened the range and given his gunners a stable platform. Crrack! Three guns spoke together and smoke gushed aft from number one. Shssssssssh… Splashes rose.
“Down fifty!” they heard Campeti shout from above. “Match pointers
… Fire!”
“Good hits, good hits!” cried the lookout in the crow’s nest. New splashes erupted around Walker and she shuddered from a heavy, booming impact forward.
“Trying to lead us,” Matt observed with grudging admiration. That had taken quick thinking and steady nerves. “What’s the condition of the first target?”
“She hit pretty bad, it look like. She steam in circle, out of line.”
“New target, designate far left steamer,” he ordered.
“Campeetee say we can’t shoot at her,” replied the talker a moment later.
“Why not?” Matt raised his glasses. Damn, what’s Jenks up to? Achilles was still steaming forward, broad battle flag streaming, and she’d moved almost directly between Walker and her target. Splashes began to rise around Jenks’s ship.
“Come left to one five zero! Redesignate far right enemy ship!” Matt ordered in frustration.
“Making my course one five zero, aye!”
Matt didn’t want to close the range and risk any more serious hits, but he needed to be closer to support whatever it was Jenks was up to. He studied the enemy battle line through the lingering haze of the day and the gun smoke of battle. What was left of the line. The enemy had opened the battle- started it, he fumed-in an extremely disciplined fashion, but in the face of Walker ’s salvos, that discipline had fallen apart. The far left ship he’d meant to engage was rushing headlong for Achilles, just as the far right ship had turned toward Walker. The largest, presumably most powerful, had made a wide, looping turn to port that now had her steaming away, off the starboard beam of the ship Walker was bearing down upon. The only ship that had maintained her position in the original formation seemed to have struck her colors! At that moment, no one was firing at anybody. What a mess.
“Guns one and three will bear on the advancing ship!” shouted the talker.
“Commence firing!” An instant later, the two four-inch fifties boomed.
At a range of only six hundred yards, it was almost like engaging the smaller, slower Grik ships they’d fought; but unlike the Grik, the enemy had at least one heavy gun that would bear forward. Even as Walker fired, smoke bloomed on the enemy fo’c’sle. Matt never knew where the roundshot from the big smoothbore went; it didn’t hit the ship, but Walker ’s two exploding rounds found their mark. The first detonated against the fo’c’sle with a thunderclap they eventually heard. Large splinters flew in every direction and the bowsprit dropped into the sea, pulling the foretop down with it. The second shot must have exploded inside the ship, because gouts of smoke gushed from the gunports. Bernie’s new shells weren’t as devastating as the old high-explosive rounds, Matt decided, but they could still make a mess of a wooden ship. He was about to call, “Cease firing,” when the next salvo streaked toward the target. One round struck a paddle box and spewed smoke and debris far across the water. The other went down the throat again, and again there was little apparent effect.