Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [35]
Mr. Nightingale appeared beside him again. “They must be desperate, sir!”
“Desperate for what, Mr. Nightingale? What are they defending?”
“The Delaware Station Boatyard, wouldn’t it be, sir?”
“Oh … yes, quite likely.”
He was about to say, “Is that all?” but remembered that installations like boat-building operations, docks, supply stores, and anything else that mobilized the enemy was always a target in wartime. Military installations were few in colonial America, for there was little formal military, no navy to speak of. A few shabby fortifications here and there, and a loose militia of untrained colonists, but that was all.
The captain came to midships, where he could see what was happening, assessed the problem, and turned to one of the other officers. Then that officer turned to the foredeck and said, “Raise heads’ls, Mr. Picard.”
“Aye, sir,” Picard responded, and turned to the nearest bunch of crewmen. “Hands to the heads’ls, please.”
Five … seven … nine, ten crewmen came rushing to the bow of the ship, and he met them there. They busily unmade eight coils, and three men unfurled the headsails, though that meant climbing out onto the bowsprit and possibly becoming targets. They were single-minded despite the booming of pistol shots and the response from Marine Captain Newton’s sharpshooters, who had rushed out onto the deck. There were cries from wounded men every few moments as shots hit home on the spider catchers, and also from them to the deck of the British ship.
“Ready on the jib halyards, sir,” one of the foredeck crew gulped.
“Acknowledged,” Picard responded numbly. “Haul away.”
They did, and the triangular jibs ran up the stays, popped full of the offshore breeze and tightened to life, giving the ship some steerage way. The bow began swinging inward toward the land, turning the broadside of the ship toward the spider catchers who had been hiding in the ship’s aft quarter shadow. He felt the connection between the hull and the water, the sails and the wind, and even through his boots felt the rudder bite deep. By golly, there was some fun to this.
And he saw the logic to it. The spider catchers were on the port side, using their swivel gun to blow damage into the ship’s sides every few minutes, and trying to pick off the sailors with hand weapons. Now that the ship was turning on the breeze from offshore, she was putting her stern to the small attacking boats and slowly bringing her starboard side around—her starboard side, where men had been quickly loading the main deck midships guns.
“Fire, Mr. Simon.”
Foom! The first gun went off at the captain’s steady direction, and its response was a clap of water only inches from the stern of the nearest spider catcher.
“Next gun, please. Fire.”
The second gun went off.
Instantly, the spider catchers’ boat broke in half, spilling its men into the sea. Those still alive swam frantically toward another boat, whose oarsmen were quickly drawing away from Justina.
“Are they giving up?” Alexander asked.
Their oars dashing the water white, the spider catchers coordinated their efforts and stroked hard to put distance between themselves and the deadly bite of the marines’ rifles, not to mention the starboard cannons.
Still … something was odd about this. Why would they come all the way out here, only to quit so soon? That wasn’t the nature of rebels. If the British won this war, the colonists would remain colonists, and the price of their audacity would be high and brutal.
Just as the last few marines fired off considered shots into the dark night, Picard felt a sickening lurch come up through his feet and legs, and he was thrown sideways into Nightingale, and both drove into the ship’s rail.