Taylor Anderson - Firestorm

“Hard a’port, ay!” replied the helmsman. Slowly, slowly, Donaghey wallowed left, edging more and more aft of her sister. It still looked as if they might hit her in the stern, and everyone tensed, expecting an impact. Somehow, they managed to clear the other ship, but only by a few feet. Garrett shouted across to Chapelle. “What’s going on?”

“Beats me,” came the wind-muffled reply. “Revenge just stopped all of a sudden! I don’t know what’s up! We had to turn to keep from hitting her, just as you did!”

Clancy ran up the companionway. “Skipper,” he cried, “something hit Revenge! She’s taking water aft!”

“What? What hit her?” Greg demanded.

“I don’t know. I don’t think they do yet. That’s all I got so far.”

“Well… get back down there and find out!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Garrett could see Revenge now, as Donaghey eased past Tolson. The steamer looked odd, dead in the water, and low by the stern. Before long, the tow cable grew taut, and Donaghey began to turn to starboard, pulled around by her attachment to Tolson. To Greg’s amazement, he saw boats starting to slide down Revenge’ s quarter davits into the sea. “What…?”

Clancy ran back on deck. “Skipper!” he said, shock in his voice. “Cap’n Barry has broadcast a distress signal! He says something ate his ship’s screw! With it all new and shiny, he thinks something hit it like a Heddon Zig Wag lure! His words. They didn’t see what did it, but there’s blood in the water aft. Anyway, her shaft is warped all to hell, and the packing and all the support timbers were shattered before they managed to secure! He-he says whatever happened, it couldn’t have been much worse if they’d taken a Jap torpedo in the ass, and they can’t stop the flooding!”

With a tight chest, Garrett suddenly remembered the huge shark he’d seen. He’d often wondered what some giant denizen might think of a ship’s turning propeller-especially when it hadn’t yet turned dingy and green… “What can we do?” he asked.

“Well, Pruit-I mean Cap’n Barry-asks if we can stand by to take his crew aboard-us and Tolson.”

“My God. We’re going to lose Revenge? He’s sure?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

Greg thought fast, considering the wind and current. The tightness in his chest became a vise around his heart. “Tell Revenge we’ll stand by and any boats we have in one piece’ll be over as soon as we can send them.” He paused. “Tell him also that we’re going to need every musket and every last round of ammunition they have time to save. Make sure he understands that. Bring every single weapon he can grab! Make sure HQ knows what’s going on”

“Aye, sir,” replied Clancy, looking at him strangely.

Garrett pointed at the distant coast of Ceylon. “Don’t you get it?” He laughed, the slightest hint of hysteria in his voice. “If we can’t get enough sail on this wreck, this ship and Tolson both are going to wind up on the beach… over there! It looks like the invasion of Ceylon may start a little early.” He turned to Saaran. “Of course, our invasion’ll be like dropping a bug with no legs right in the middle of an ant mound!”

Not a soul was lost when Revenge finally went down. The semiwater-tight, compartmentalized design kept her afloat longer than anyone had a right to expect, and not only was the entire crew saved and distributed between the other two ships, but all the small arms, ammunition, and a large percentage of her other supplies were salvaged as well. Captain Barry came aboard Donaghey with a little less than half his crew- Tolson needed the extra hands more-and he was horrified by the loss of his brand-new, beautiful ship. All he could do was stand by the quarterdeck rail, knuckles clenched white, and watch while Revenge slid under the sea by the stern.

“God!” he gasped when the waves closed over the stars and stripes still fluttering at the masthead, and he burst into tears.

“I’m awful sorry, Pruit,” Garrett said, a little uncomfortably. He could imagine how the other man felt, but couldn’t stand to see him bawling like that. “Come on, pull yourself together. We’ve got to sort out this mess and get your guys working with mine to bend as much canvas as we can. The current’s running strong and the wind’s picking up out of the southwest. We’ll lose everything and everybody if we can’t claw away from that shore.” He pointed at the coast of Ceylon, growing noticeably closer. Barry wiped his face on his sleeve and nodded.

“You bet,” he said roughly. “I’ll do whatever I can. So will my guys.”

“Thanks, Pruit. Let’s see if we can get them helping out with the divisions they’re accustomed to.” He nodded toward Tolson, wallowing aft. “And not only do we have to save this ship, but we’ve got to save her too. She doesn’t even have anything left to jury-rig.”

Barry nodded, looking at the repairs already completed. So far, Donaghey had close to a full spread on her mizzen, a course on the main, and a pair of staysails rigged to the bowsprit. Alone, it wasn’t enough to keep Donaghey off the beach. “Okay,” he said. “My exec went to Tolson, but I’ve got my bosun and a lieutenant. How can we help?”

By nightfall, Donaghey had a new main-topmast, a topsail, and another staysail rigged. The repairs had been unbelievably perilous, with the ship pitching and wallowing in the mounting seas. There’d been injuries, but amazingly, no one was killed or lost over the side. Still, their last glimpse of Ceylon before it was swallowed by the gloom showed it disconcertingly close-less than ten miles away, according to Smitty’s best guess. Garrett’s long experience at estimating ranges as a gunnery officer put it at just over eight. The wind continued stiffening, and the sea grew more determined to break the battered ships. On Tolson, Chapelle was pushing his crew to the breaking point, rigging a pair of short masts out of spare topmasts, but the only canvas she had yet was a shortened course and a couple of staysails. It took a little strain off Donaghey, but the staysails on both ships, while necessary, were pushing them farther to leeward-ever closer to shore.

Together in the wardroom, beneath the light of a swaying lantern, Garrett and Saaran scrutinized the charts they’d worked so hard on, throughout their deployment. With sinking hearts, they realized that no matter how they calculated it, Donaghey couldn’t clear the southern coast of Ceylon with Tolson in tow. Realistically, it was almost certainly too late for Donaghey to make it alone.

“So that’s it,” Garrett said as quietly as he could over the wind, the tumult of labor on deck, and the increasing noises of the working ship. He took a deep breath and looked at Saaran almost helplessly. “What now?”

Saaran scratched the fur on his forehead. “The sea is rising, and so is the tide. If we have no choice but to run ashore, perhaps we can choose where we do it.”

“What difference will that make?”

“If we are not forced ashore among jagged rocks, but drive ashore at high tide, on a soft, sandy beach…”

“We let the wind and heavy sea carry us as far up on the beach as it can,” Garrett interrupted with dawning hope.

“Yes,” Saaran continued, “and the flashies will not be active in the nighttime shallows, particularly with the sea running high.”

Greg nodded. “If the ships don’t break, and we make it until low tide, we off-load the ship’s guns, supplies… If we fort up, maybe make it to some better ground… we might have a chance.”

“A slim chance,” Saaran agreed, “if we can hold until rescued.” He met Garrett’s eyes and blinked determination. “And if we can’t hold that long… at least we will die killing Grik.” Saaran coughed a laugh. “We may be a bug with no legs falling in an ant mound, but we do still have our teeth!”