“Aye, sir.”
The lieutenant strode off shouting orders as Hilemore went aft, ordering two riflemen to the bridge and the rest to position themselves on the upper works. “No firing until they’re at the rails,” he cautioned as they scrambled up the ladders.
Moving to the stern he trained his glass on the sea beyond the Superior’s frothing wake, seeing the two groups of Greens beginning to converge two miles off. “They’re within range, sir,” the aft battery’s lead gunner pointed out. “Could throw out a salvo of steel-heads, get a few at least.”
Hilemore shook his head. “Waste of powder. Save it for the cannister.”
It took over a quarter hour to man-handle the port and starboard guns to the stern. When it was done they had five muzzle-loading thirteen-pound cannon lined up side by side, each with a stack of twenty cannister shells.
“When the time comes forget about accuracy,” Hilemore told the gunners, all kneeling in readiness. “Rate of fire is more important just now. The Undaunted was my grandfather’s favourite ship, and he was given to boasting that she had the best gunners in Protectorate history. Four shots a minute in close action, he said. I always swore I’d beat that if I ever got the chance. Don’t make me a liar, lads.”
“Aye, sir!” Steelfine barked, the others joining in with the enthusiasm of men facing death and keen for any source of encouragement. The fact that Hilemore’s grandfather, the legendary Commodore Racksmith, had never said any such thing was immaterial at this point.
The Superior lurched as Scrimshine altered the angle of the rudder to centre the bows on the fast-approaching Cut. There was a noticeable drop in forward speed once the ship completed the turn, her wake broadening as the engine laboured against the tide. Hilemore reckoned their speed to have reduced by at least a third. As ever in the moments before combat time became distorted, the agony of anticipation stretching seconds into minutes. Hilemore heard one of the gunners let out a gasp of relief as the roiling waters beyond the wake began to dissipate.
“Bastards are giving up,” the man breathed, sagging a little then straightening as Steelfine barked out a rebuke.
“I’m afraid the bastards are being clever,” Hilemore said after scanning the water with his glass. The Greens had divided, splitting off into two narrow groups, keeping close to the edge of the channel where the current was weakest. They were near enough now for him to see that they were slip-streaming, one Green leading the way, making the going easier for those behind. After several minutes the lead Green would fall back to be immediately replaced by another. Clever bastards indeed, Hilemore thought.
They entered the Cut proper soon after, whereupon the Superior slowed to the equivalent of one-third auxiliary speed. The Greens once again proved their cunning by veering away from the banks and into the ship’s wake. With the frigate acting as a breakwater they were soon able to close on the stern, approaching in a dense pack that stretched away for at least three hundred yards.
“Range fifty yards, sir,” the lead gunner reported, Hilemore noting how the man’s hand shook on his gun’s firing lanyard.
“Wait for the order,” Hilemore instructed, moving without particular haste to stand at the aft rail, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the Greens draw closer still. He waited until he could see the sunlight glinting on their scales and shook his head, possessed by a curious sense of regret for what was about to unfold. Such foolish things the White makes you do, he thought, turning away and nodding at Steelfine. “Sequential order, Number One. Port to starboard. Fire when ready.”
The gun on the far right fired even before Steelfine had finished shouting the command. The other four followed suit in quick succession. Hilemore moved to the left to gauge the effect of the shot as the crews feverishly began to reload. He could see a patch of red amongst the froth of the Superior’s wake, but the Greens were still coming on apace. The next salvo raised five identical waterspouts amongst the heart of the pack, Hilemore taking satisfaction from the sight of tumbling and torn Green bodies raining down in the aftermath.
“Got a dozen at least with that one, lads!” he called to the gunners. “Keep it up!”
He wasn’t sure the gun-crews did in fact manage four shots a minute in the time it took them to expend two-thirds of their cannister, but if not it was certainly close. The Superior left a pinkish stain the length of the Cut. Dead and dying Greens rolled and twisted in the current, some calling out plaintive cries before slipping beneath the water. None came within twenty yards of the ship’s stern and the survivors seemed to have abandoned their pursuit, milling about in the centre of the Cut as the Superior drew away.
The guns fired once more before Hilemore called out a cease-fire order, the cannister launched at too great a range to have any effect but the crews let out a triumphant cheer anyway. “A good day’s work, sir,” Steelfine commented as they surveyed the carnage churning in their wake.
“Actually, no, Number One, it isn’t,” Hilemore replied. “We appear to have been expelled from the Upper Torquil, making our mission markedly more difficult. We’ll have to find another location to retrieve the expedition . . .”
“Sir!” He trailed off as one of the riflemen he had assigned to the bridge approached at a run, coming to a halt and offering a quick salute. “Mr. Talmant’s compliments, sir. He requests your presence on the bridge.” The man’s shoulders slumped a little, face grim as he added, “There are more of them ahead, sir. Hundreds of the buggers sealing the far end of the Cut.”
Chased us right into a trap, and I fell for it.
Hilemore’s hands bunched into fists at the small of his back as he sought to keep the combined anger and self-reproach from his features. He had ordered the Superior to one-half auxiliary power, which, thanks to the inrushing tidal surge, kept them in a stationary position a half mile from the southern mouth of the Cut. He stood at the Superior’s prow along with Steelfine and Zenida, surveying the mass of Greens that filled the exit from the channel. There were so many it seemed as if they formed a solid barrier of drake flesh, far too thick to blast their way through with the ammunition they had left.
“We could wait for the tide to shift,” Zenida suggested. “Fire up the blood-burner when it does and charge them.”
“They’ll swarm the ship,” Hilemore said.
“We can fortify the upper works, sir,” Steelfine said. “Seal all the hatches and shift the cannon to the walkways.” The Islander’s features were rigid, but Hilemore saw the truth in his eyes clearly; a desperate ploy, but better than nothing. One thing was clear: They couldn’t just sit here and wait to run out of fuel.
“Very well,” he said. “Form parties to gather anything we can use as a barricade . . .”
He fell silent as a roar sounded from the mouth of the Cut, turning in time to see a column of flame erupt from the centre of the Green barrier. The drakes let out an immediate, shrill chorus of alarm as a very large blue shape burst through their ranks. Jack continued to belch out fire as he rose amongst them, turning the sea to steam and boiling the Greens who thrashed around him. Then, as the flames died, he arched his massive body and brought his tail up and down in a blow that shook the ship as he whipped it into the mass of flailing drakes.