Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [34]
Leaning toward Alexander, Picard muttered, “Sounds like Mr. Data and Engineer LaForge having a technical debate in the engine room, doesn’t it?”
Alexander grinned conspiratorially and nodded.
Midshipman Nightingale paused, glanced at Picard to judge whether or not this lesson were too entirely idiotic to believe, but since he got no disapproval from his senior, the young man struggled on.
“We carry twenty-four guns and a squadron of marines. Uh … the fore and mains’ls are squares, and they’re suspended from yards, and the painted part on the ends are the yardarms. The sails are lowered and hoisted by halyards, swung about with brace lines, furled with clews and bunts, adjusted by sheets, um, which are all called running rigging, on account of they’re moving about—”
“All right, enough,” Picard interrupted, letting him off the hook. “Well done, Mr. Nightingale. Alexander, you will be quizzed later.”
Both boys stared at him as if he’d grown—well, hair.
Satisfied, he nodded and glanced up at the rigging, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was, in fact, stapling all those cursory details into his mind. Running rigging, standing rigging, clew bunt somethings, main, fore, so on. All right, so he’d missed a bit. Some of the tangle of lines and cables was beginning to make sense enough that he needn’t embarrass himself. There was a certain amount of cooperation any holoprogram required of its user. If he failed to do his part to understand and fit in, the computer program would twist itself into knots, and Alexander’s lesson would go wanting.
Or take weeks.
As the sun set, the heat went out of the day. Now the breeze was almost chilly. Picard decided they must be somewhere north of the mid-United States. No farther south than Chesapeake Bay—
“Chesapeake Bay!” he uttered. “The Chincoteague! Of course. I should’ve realized.”
“Pardon, sir?” Midshipman Nightingale asked.
Picard parted his lips to fumble out an explanation but was drowned out when a cannon was fired off their stern.
Nightingale spun around, scanned the water, and shouted, “Spider catchers! My God! Spider catchers!”
He lunged for the ship’s bell and rang it viciously.
“Spider catchers!” he shouted again.
Pulling Alexander away from the ship’s rail, Picard peeked over and scanned the water. Against the darkness he made out the forms of three small boats, about the size of whaleboats, perhaps twenty or twenty-five feet long, approaching the stern. Just as he looked, one of the boats flashed with a cannon shot directly on its bow. He saw the gun move independently of the body of the boat, and realized that at least one of these small attackers was armed with a swivel gun. Something that small could be reloaded much faster than the ship’s cannons.
“All hands!” he called out. “All hands on deck!”
What the hell—somebody had to.
By now much of the crew had heard the bell, and with his shout they began pouring out of the hatches and companionways. The captain appeared on the afterdeck, with Pennington and two other officers. The captain of the marines appeared, only half-dressed, and peered over the side, then rushed below again to muster his sharpshooters.
In the raiding boats, the colonists were faster. About ten to a boat, they maneuvered their craft along the sides of Justina and opened fire with hand pistols and rifles.
On the ship’s deck, several men stumbled and fell even as they scrambled to run out a gun or two. At least two cried out in pain.
The captain stooped to his left, and for a bad instant Picard thought he’d been struck, but, in fact, he was reaching to help Mr. Pennington, who had staggered to one knee. The first officer—hit!
The spider catcher flotilla skulled about in the ship’s own shadow, almost