“Target ten degrees to port!” Lieutenant Talmant called. Hilemore tracked the search-light beam to the Blue rearing up in the white circle barely thirty yards off the port bow. The pivot-gun fired immediately, the Blue disappearing in a haze of red and white as the cannister-shot lashed the sea.
Hilemore returned to the bridgehouse. “Ahead two-thirds,” he barked into the speaking-tube before turning to Scrimshine. “Helm, hard a-port.”
From outside came the crackle of rifle fire, the marksmen no doubt finding another target illuminated by the search-light. The starboard cannon also opened up, Hilemore hoping they managed to do some damage. He glanced through the rear window of the bridgehouse, taking satisfaction from the sight of the mining party casting their devices from the stern. These were improved versions of the mines that had served them so well in Stockcombe harbour. Each had been fitted with varying amounts of ballast to ensure they lay beneath the surface at different depths. They had also been packed with twice the amount of explosive.
“Five degrees to port,” he told Scrimshine, repeating the order two minutes later to ensure the Superior seeded her mines in a wide arc along the southern flank of the fleet. Once every mine had been deployed he told the engine room to reverse revolutions and had Scrimshine bring the ship hard-about. Even in a gentle swell it was a tricky manoeuvre, taking several minutes and causing the deck to tilt at an acute angle.
The first mine exploded before they completed the turn, one of the deeper ones judging by the height of the waterspout. Hilemore saw some debris churning in the mass of bubbles boiling to the surface and hoped it was drake flesh.
“Ahead one-third,” he told the engine room as Scrimshine brought the tiller to midships and the Superior levelled out. “Port guns look lively!” Hilemore called through the window, the last word being drowned out by the near-simultaneous explosion of three mines. This time there was no ambiguity about the damage inflicted, Hilemore hearing a cheer from the crew at the sight of what may have been as many as five Blue corpses twisting amidst the falling spume and froth.
Hilemore went out onto the walkway to watch the still-twitching bodies pass by, expecting another explosion at any instant. Instead there was silence. The struggle between Blacks and Blues seemed to have ended and the Superior steamed through quiet waters. “Scared the bastards off, eh, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked.
The answer came before Hilemore could reply. A thunderous cacophony of cannon fire from the fleet had Hilemore rushing through the bridge to the starboard walkway. He had expected to find the sea around the circle of ships wreathed in smoke but instead saw a thick pall rising within the formation. He could hear a continuous rattle of small-arms fire as the gun-crews no doubt scrambled to reload their cannon, then saw ships silhouetted against multiple gouts of flame. It appeared as if the drakes had learned to concentrate their fire, Hilemore cursing in dismay at the sight of a freighter being entirely enveloped in flame. The fires soon found the powder stocks and the ship’s upper works disintegrated in a series of rapid explosions. Secondary blasts boomed within her hull a heart-beat later and she broke in two, each section forming a dark V against the flames as they sank below.
“Hard a-starboard!” Hilemore shouted to Scrimshine, returning to the bridge. “There,” Hilemore said, pointing through the window at the gap created by the freighter’s demise. He resisted the urge to order an increase in speed. They were so close to the formation that there wouldn’t be sufficient time to slow their approach. It made for several agonising minutes as the Superior closed with the fleet, Hilemore seeing another huge explosion rise above the masts.
“Reverse revolutions,” he called into the speaking-tube as the Superior’s prow edged into the gap. “Helm, full right rudder. Miss,” he said, nodding at Kriz and drawing his revolver. “If you would care to join me.”
She followed as he went outside, sliding down the ladder to the deck and calling for Steelfine. “Sir!” the Islander said, appearing at his side with the usual alacrity.
“Shift all guns and riflemen to port,” Hilemore instructed. “Have more mines brought up . . .”
He was interrupted by a hard shove that propelled him across the deck, his skin prickling at the suddenly heated air. Scrambling upright he was confronted by the sight of Steelfine beating out flames on his sleeve whilst a few feet beyond him Kriz stared up at the immobile form of a Blue that had reared up over the rail. Its head was frozen in place whilst the rest of its body coiled with a desperate energy, whipping the sea into a froth. It seemed as if every rifle, carbine and pistol on board fired at once, including Hilemore’s though he couldn’t remember aiming. He fired until the hammer clicked, the Blue’s head disappeared into a red cloud as the hail of bullets struck home, tearing most of the flesh away and laying bare the skull beneath. This too was soon blasted into powder and the Blue’s body immediately slackened, the beast hanging limp in Kriz’s grip. She released it, letting the corpse sink below the rail, and moved to help Hilemore to his feet.
“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“You are entirely forgiven, miss,” Hilemore assured her.
He rushed to the rail, looking out on the fleet, which now resembled something from an illustrated folio of the Travail. Three ships were fully alight with fires raging on most of the others. The sea within the confines of the circle roiled with drakes, Blues repeatedly rearing up to belch flame at the surrounding vessels, then slipping below the waves to evade the subsequent mass of rifle fire. The Superior’s starboard cannon commenced fire and Hilemore saw Steelfine urgently organising the relocation of the other guns. It won’t be enough, he knew, watching the cannister lash at the drakes. With most of the heavy ordnance in the fleet now silenced it was clear they didn’t possess sufficient fire-power to prevail. But there were other weapons to call on.
“Miss,” he said, turning to Kriz. “I should be grateful if you would fetch Mr. Torcreek, Lieutenant Sigoral and Miss Jillett.”
He busied himself with organising the mines on the fore-deck, having the crew remove the floats and the ballast before arming the fuses.
“Captain?” Clay asked, running to his side flanked by his fellow Blood-blessed.
“They need to be evenly spread,” Hilemore said, pointing at the mines then the flaming chaos beyond the starboard rail.
Clay understood immediately, drinking down a full flask of Black and nodding at the others to do the same. Hilemore had the fore-deck cleared of crew and retreated to the bridge walkway before shouting out the order for the Blood-blessed to proceed. Clay went first, lifting the closest mine and gently guiding it out and over the starboard side of the ship then propelling it at speed into the seething mass of Blues. By Hilemore’s reckoning the explosion killed at least two drakes, and distracted several more. He saw a cluster of snake-like forms speeding towards the Superior. Fortunately, Lieutenant Sigoral saw it too and dropped the next mine directly in their path.
The mines flew in a steady arcing torrent after that, the sea within the circle of ships becoming a cauldron of waterspouts, tumbling drake flesh and reflected flame. The amount of explosive released so quickly in such a confined space inevitably caused the surrounding cordon to widen, making Hilemore worry the multiple shock waves might buckle the Superior’s hull plating. It continued until every mine had been thrown, the water displaced by the final explosion falling in a brief rain-storm and heralding a prolonged silence.