Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [20]
He scanned the deck. Seemed to be a ship of about a hundred fifty feet, at least two decks above the waterline— not particularly large, even for this era. And there were three masts. Not a brig. Some kind of frigate, perhaps.
Which battle was this? A critical encounter? The battle of Long Island, perhaps?
He cursed himself for not knowing enough about naval battles of the Revolutionary War, and almost called a pause to the program so he could go off and study.
Then again, this wasn’t grade school, nor was it a lesson even meant for him.
Only the lowermost sails, the biggest ones, were flying, and at the front of the ship there were three triangular sails reaching out to the bowsprit. He thought there could be more, but wasn’t certain.
Soot-stained and glazed with sweat, crewmen scrambled like insects all over the ship, each tending to a particular job, mostly involving the row of cannons on the port side, facing that enemy ship. On the stepped-up aft deck—that would be the quarterdeck—at least two officers surveyed the battle and siphoned orders to the gun crews and the helm. Lined up on the quarterdeck and the main deck were a whole other set of men who weren’t working any part of the ship. These wore red jackets and worked with longmuzzled rifles. They were firing independently, taking aim in almost leisurely fashion, picking off men on the other ship, then going through the many steps of the reloading process.
“Marines,” Picard murmured. “Sharpshooters … how interesting. I’ve rarely seen that.”
Often he’d just had members of his own crew stand in as the “crew” of the holoship, for the fun of it. He’d had the holodeck provide the ship and the sea, and taken it from there.
This program, however, had its own crew, its own weapons, its own grit of reality. Whoever had designed the program had done an excellent job, and had clearly fleshed the journal entries out with historical sources and references. To the extent possible, this was what really happened on this date centuries ago.
Alexander peeked over the port rail at the other ship and gasped. “That ship’s shooting at us with noise!”
Picard looked, not understanding.
The other ship was smaller than the vessel they were on, but seemed to have more maneuverability, twisting in the bright gray-blue water as if turning on a corkscrew. It charged toward them, swinging about to put its fresh guns abeam, and it was very close now, hardly more than fifteen yards or so. Dangerously close.
POK BOOM— a puff of smoke appeared near the forward quarter.
“That isn’t just noise,” he said. “Those are cannons. They’re shooting—”
Puff. The rectangular sail over their heads imploded, wagged, then struggled to take the shape of the breeze again, but now there was a shivering two-foot rip in it.
“Cannonballs,” Picard finished. How to explain? “Heavy iron balls fired from … from heavy iron tubes.”
“What would those do?” Alexander screwed up his face. “Just hit the ship? Put a hole in those blankets up there?”
“A great deal, if I recall correctly.” Picard glanced around. “They can smash the wood, tear the lines, or crush the men. And those blankets are sails.”
He felt movement of the ship beneath him, and crouched closer to the pin rail as crewmen dashed back and forth across the forward deck. Some were shouting, others concentrating on the process that would reload the run-out cannons. Some had to climb overboard to do that. The stench of the last discharge rolled over Picard and the boy, setting them both hacking until their chests ached.
A gust of fresh breeze relieved their stinging lungs and eyes somewhat, and Picard opened his eyes in time to see what he thought was the swinging boom—a heavy wooden shaft to which one of the headsails was attached. Then, as if the giant shaft had stabbed his very chest, he realized he was really seeing the bowsprit of the attacking colonial ship swinging inboard over the Justina’s port