William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Hazin grinned, wondering how much time should pass before he allowed the Grand Master to know that he had not died on Hanaga’s flagship as intended and all but ordered to do.

“Have we been followed?” Hazin asked.

“We were, your holiness. From the Red Banner.”

Hazin smiled. What would they think? That Hanaga had indeed escaped? A puzzle for them to ponder. The Red Banner would sweep the seas come dawn, but they would be empty, except for wreckage and the few defiant ships of Hanaga that had somehow survived the night. “And now?”

The captain paused, looking aft where the fire glow of the battle shimmered on the horizon. “Not now. This ship is the fastest of its class.”

He detected the pride in the warrior’s voice. Pride and attachment in one of his station bore watching.

“We’ll be silhouetted by the fire in another minute,” the captain warned, looking at his master.

Hazin leaned over, training the glasses on the intruder’s outline, barely distinguishable against the starlight. They could turn aside, run ahead and across its bow and be gone. He wondered if they had spotted him as well…. No, for if they had, he knew he would sense it. Something would warn him, as it always had.

Though he did not believe in fate, a concept alien to his order, to the essence of what he was, he could not help but wonder why, at this moment, such a random thing had unfolded.

As always, the decision came without hesitation.

“Take it.”

“Master?”

“You heard me. Take it.”

“May I caution you on two things?”

Hazin turned.

“Gunfire might reveal us to pursuit.”

“I know that.”

“Whatever that ship is, it is an unknown. Unknowns are the gray path.”

Hazin smiled. “Precisely why we take it.”

The ship had been cleared for action throughout the night, and a single command from its captain rippled through the ship, bringing it to the highest state of readiness.

Hazin could feel the increased tempo of the engines. The deck canting beneath his feet as the helm was put over. There was no sense in making some sort of foolish display of bravado on a pitch-black night, and besides, the crew was of his order and such stupidity would cause doubts.

He stepped into the armored bridge, standing in the middle. Only a novice would make the mistake of touching- or leaning against-the plating when action was imminent.

A rush of steam from the bow signaled that the frigate’s forward guns were swinging into position.

“Captain. Signal from foretop lookout.”

Captain Gracchi lowered his glasses, which had been trained on the flickering glow and looked over at his signals officer.

“Ship sighted off the starboard bow.”

He started to turn, raising his glasses again, when the shocking glare of a salvo ignited. The flash blinded him the ocean flaring up as bright as day.

Cursing, he closed his eyes, turning away. Seconds later he felt the deck heave. Knocked off his feet, he slammed against a railing. Gasping, he staggered back, holding his side.

“Signals!”

Another flash, this time he was turned away, and in the glare he saw the signals officer sprawled half over the railing, decapitated. Forward, the main mast leaned drunkenly, stays snapping, sounding like rifle cracks.

Another salvo, this time he clearly saw the ship lying not a thousand yards off, bow wake standing out a brilliant white in the glare.

He felt the thunderclap snap of a gun belowdecks firing, the glare flashing out, lighting up the sea. Topside, several of the steam-powered gatlings were firing, their staccato roar joining the confusion. Tracers skipped out over the sea, winking out as they hit the water.

“Helm! Hard aport!”

He lopked back at the armored cupola. Illuminated by the flashes of light, the helmsman inside was staring at him, wfde-eyed in panic.

“Damn you! Hard over! Get us the hell out of here!”

Another flash lit up the sea again, followed seconds later by a geyser of water erupting astern, Gettysburg lifting with it, a shudder running through the ship.

All was madness. Flashes of light, the screaming roar of shells coming in, the forward mast finally letting go, tumbling overboard, sailors trapped in the rigging screaming as they fell to their doom.

Their tormentor was now directly abeam. It presented a strange silhouette: no masts, squat, low, moving with impossible speed, knifing through the water. Tracers snapped back and forth; gatling rounds, three-inch shells, the air heavy with the rotten-egg stench of black powder.

“Captain, aft magazine reports fire!

He started to turn, gaze locked on the midshipman who was standing before him, shaking with fear.”

There was a momentary flash, time seemed to stretch out, a fireball of light soaring up from an open hatch. Strange, so many thoughts tumbled together. The war of so long ago….

The terrified boy looked back, saw the explosion mushrooming, deck plates rupturing, peeling back like rotten wood punched by a giant. Claudius Gracchi barely had time to put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder before the explosion engulfed them.

“My God, was that ours?” Sean gasped.

Stunned, Richard did not know. The fireball spread out, color shifting from brilliant white, through yellow, to deep red. Expanding, it grew dark, disappearing except for flickering embers, which winked out as they hit the sea.

“It was ours,” Sean groaned. “I know it was ours.”

“Shut up, damn it,” Richard snapped. “You’re not sure.

“I saw her, it was the Gettysburg .”

“It could have been the other one.”

Sean, stifling a sob, began to pray.

Richard strained to catch a glimpse of the other ship, hoping that he’d see the familiar outline of the Gettysburg . Mist and smoke clung to the surface of the ocean. For a moment he debated the idea of pulling up, turning away, and then circling until dawn.

But then what? If Gettysburg was gone, they were doomed and would have wasted most of their precious fuel as well.

And if it was gone, then what? It was nearly a thousand miles back to the nearest outpost of the Republic. There was a scattering of islands dotting the seas, most of them uninhabited, or worse the hiding places of pirates, who would make short work of them.

His stomach knotted with fear.

“We’re finding out now,” Richard shouted. “I’ll come in low, keep a sharp watch. If it’s the Gettysburg , we’ll pull back up and circle until they signal for us to land.”

“Let’s leave this place now!”

“And go where?” Richard cried, looking back over his shoulder.

Sean fell silent.

Richard edged the throttle up, dropping low, leveling off as they plunged into a low-hanging bank of fog, coming out, racing between the overhanging darkness and the black ocean. Another cloud was ahead. He pulled up slightly, raced into it. The air suddenly turned heavy with the sulphurous smell of coal smoke and burnt powder.

They popped through and starlight appeared directly overhead.

“There it is!” Sean cried.

Richard didn’t need to be told. He caught the glimmer of the ship’s phosphorescent wake. Tracing the glowing blue-green glow back to the stem of the ship, he had a chilling realization.

It wasn’t the Gettysburg .

Now what? Keep on going? Turn back to the chaos of the island, or just head out to the open sea?

He felt a sense of utter futility and abandonment. The Gettysburg was gone. Captain Gracchi was dead, all his comrades dead. That explosion had been her magazines going up. Anyone still alive had most likely been blown into the shark-infested sea.

A blind rage seized him. Leaning forward, he grabbed the breech of his gatling, spun open the steam cock, and pressed the trigger.