The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [34]
“That isn't who we fight.”
Tomochichi met his gaze, something the Indians did only to express disbelief or emphasize a point. “Yes, it is,” he murmured. His certainty put ice in Oglethorpe's veins.
The water rippled, and the forest moved. Yamacraws, Yuchi, Maroons, and rangers, shadows one moment, men the next, now shadows again. Oglethorpe kept his eyes focused on the bobs, little bits of light wood floating on the surface of the river with cords going down to weights on the bottom.
An instant later, one went under, and then the next. And the next. A faint V appeared on the surface of the river.
“Catfish large enough to swallow men,” Tomochichi murmured. “Panthers with rattlesnake tails.”
Oglethorpe's heart was hammering. “Not yet,” he pleaded. “Not yet.”
The next bob went down, then the next two.
And there, where the deep channel came against a dry, clear bank, something poked its head from the water. It looked, at first, like the head of a giant turtle, a flat-topped cylinder a yard across, sticking two or three feet above the river. It was the color of black iron.
Though he could not see them, Oglethorpe knew there were windows in the thing, and intelligent eyes behind the windows. He prayed they would see nothing besides trees and birds.
He was still praying when the water rose up in a mound the shape of a lozenge, and then the water poured away, and there lay something that looked like a giant manatee, the cylinder that had first appeared standing up near its front.
“Steady, boys,” he said under his breath.
And they were. Oglethorpe's men had fought demons of steel, flying men-of-war, and spirits of mist and flame. This was just a boat. A boat that went underwater, a boat made of metal, a boat with an engine sent to Earth by Satan himself perhaps, but still a boat filled with men.
Oglethorpe examined the thing more closely. Now that it floated free, he saw that it was, in fact, shaped like two war galleys placed one upon the other, one flattened keel facing the sky and the other toward the bottom of the river. He wondered suddenly, not at its strangeness but at why no one had ever built such a thing before.
And the watchtower was also a hatch—a giant screw, for as he watched, it began to untwist. Near the hatch, one on each side, were mounted two swiveling guns of unknown design. He suspected they could be worked from inside the turret, as well as from outside.
After a long moment, the screw came off, fastened still by a cable from the inside, and a man stuck his head out. He wore a grenadier's red, floppy hat. After a moment, Ogle thorpe heard him shout.
“’Tis clear! Eto khorosho!”
Two men skittered out of the thing like ants from a hole and manned the swivel guns.
Another of the ships surfaced, as fifteen men trooped off the first, throwing down a gangplank so they could cross to shore. Then yet two more ships breached the river's skin. By the time the fourth had fully surfaced, there were upward of thirty men on shore, and that was too many.
Oglethorpe raised his hand and chopped it down, and the river sucked in blood and lead.
First to go were the gunners, though one managed to get a wild tear off into the forest, a lance of blue-white flame that charred what it touched but left no fire behind. A huge oak fell, cut in half. The gunner's right eye blew out the back of his head, along with some of his brains, as a ranger's bullet put an end to him.
Maroons shinnied into the overhanging trees and dropped grenades into the open hatches, and oily black smoke puffed up. The Russians and Tories on land returned fire as best they could, but mostly they died. Two of the ships sank again from sight, one with its hatch still open. Air boiled up furiously, and men with it. One ship had never opened its hatch, and it went down more smoothly.
After a volley or two, Oglethorpe gave the command to cease fire, and the sound of muskets trailed off raggedly and finally stopped. A few men were still clambering