The Little Ships (Alexis Carew Book 3) (31 page)

Away from the convoy and towards
Belial
.

A
lexis kept
Belial
on the port tack as the Hanoverese frigate approached. She could sail closer to the wind than the larger ship and took advantage of that. Though the frigate had started more to windward of
Belial
, the loss of speed in tacking and
Belial’s
ability to angle more sharply toward the wind had forced it to cross her path astern.

Allowing that was a risk, as the frigate was able to fall of the wind a bit as it crossed
Belial’s
path and fire at her vulnerable stern, but Alexis had noted the Hanoverese’s gunnery in the attacks on the transports. In those, the frigate had held its fire until it was quite close and even then many of the shots had missed. She was also confident that
Belial
was more nimble than the larger frigate and she’d have a chance to protect her vulnerable stern.

She looked up from the plot as the hatchway opened and Dobb entered. He made his way to her side.

“I’ve shuffled them around as best we can, I think,” he said quietly. “Some in the engineering spaces, the magazine, and up forward in the hold where it’s most protected.”

Alexis nodded. She was trying not to think too much about the unsuited civilians aboard
Belial
. She’d promised them safety and then taken them into battle, but she had to weigh those thirty lives against the hundreds aboard each of the transports.

“That Marie and the babe I sent to the magazine.”

“Thank you, Dobb.”

The magazine was the most protected part of the ship. Deep in the center of the hold, just forward of the fusion plant, and wrapped in a bulkhead just as thick as the plant’s. It was where the capacitors in the shot for the guns would be recharged and it was designed to be able to do so even if the rest of the ship were holed and opened to the electronic-suppressing radiations of
darkspace.

She turned back to the plot, forcing the thought of those women and children from her mind, and watched the image of the frigate, brought inboard by the ship’s optics, closely. She could just make out the suited figures of the frigate’s crew on the hull, ready to pull on the lines to keep the sails full of wind.

In a moment, there it was, the suited figures began moving, the frigate’s sails seemed to shiver as its course began to change.

“Now! Hard to starboard!” she ordered quickly.

The helmsman responded and
Belial
seemed to pivot in place. She fell off the wind, turning toward the frigate.

“Fire!” Alexis yelled just as
Belial’s
starboard side squarely faced the frigate.

Bolts of shot lashed out and a moment later the frigate’s port side lit up with its own fire.

“Hard to port! Put us back close-hauled!”

“Close-hauled, aye,” Boothroyd acknowledged from the helm.

The frigate’s shot arrived before
Belial
began to turn back toward the wind, most of it passing above or below and only two of the twenty bolts striking home. Alexis had no time to see where
Belial’s
fire had struck, though, because one of the frigate’s hits was directly on the quarterdeck’s starboard side.

A spot on the starboard bulkhead the size of a man’s fist seemed to soften and bulge as the laser spent its energy into the tough thermoplastic of
Belial’s
hull. It wasn’t enough to burn its way entirely through, but it was enough to soften and melt the spot for a moment. And to form at least one small hole, as the high-pitched whistle of escaping air filled the quarterdeck.

Before Alexis could even speak to give the order, Leyman was in motion. He grasped one of the patches kept around the quarterdeck and rushed to the bulkhead, slapping it in place to seal the breach, then returning to his station as though nothing at all had happened.

Boothroyd, at the helm, had barely twitched at the damage, staying steady and settling
Belial
back on her previous point of sail.

Alexis’ lips curved in a fond smile as she looked around the quarterdeck at her crew. They were such good lads, calm and steady at their stations, though she did note that more than one had edged his vacsuit helmet a bit closer to his station. Even young Artley, after an initial jump of startlement, was calmly scanning his signals console.

She thought of those on the far more vulnerable gundeck, going about the business of reloading the guns in the face of a much more dangerous foe. None of them had balked at her orders nor questioned the need to engage the frigate. She couldn’t help but feel pride in them, nor feel fear for what she was about to lead them into.

A
lexis was
able to dance with the frigate twice more in that way, turning
Belial
with it to take its broadside on her starboard side while returning one of her own. Between each exchange, she returned to sailing as close to the wind as she could, each time opening up just a bit more distance between the two ships. Slow and poor as the frigate’s gunnery was, she began to have some hope that
Belial
could delay it for some time.

With that third exchange, though, the frigate was either lucky or more clever than she. The frigate’s captain had switched to bar shot, a type that sacrificed strength in favor of spreading the laser’s force along a long, narrow line instead of focusing it into one spot as the roundshot did.

Again, most of the shot missed, but one found
Belial’s
mizzen mast close to the hull. It failed to slice through completely, but it weakened the mast enough that it began to bow, and Alexis was forced to reduce sail. That slowed
Belial
and, while she could still sail as close to the wind as the frigate, the enemy would be able to outpace her. If the frigate could gain enough room ahead of
Belial
, it could tack and pass in front to rake her bow, while the reduced sail and weakened mast would make it more dangerous for
Belial
to tack in response.

“Let us fall two points off the wind, Boothroyd.”

“Aye, sir.”

Alexis concentrated on the plot before her. She sought some clever maneuver that would avoid the inevitable, but found none. Now the frigate had the advantage both in speed and how close to the wind it could sail. It would rapidly narrow the gap and, with a shorter range, its gunners would surely improve.

As though in response to her thought, another shot struck the hull outside the quarterdeck and Leyman leaped to patch yet another pin-size breach.

“Mister Dobb, take charge of the men on the sails. If the quarterdeck is breeched we’ll lose the helm. I wish you to keep us even with that frigate, even if it means closing the range, but not so closely that they could board us.” A boarding would be disastrous, as the frigate likely had a crew of hundreds.

“Aye, sir.”

She scanned the plot. They were moving farther and farther away from the main action and still none of the other New London ships had acknowledged her signals, nor were any sailing away from the battle to render her aid.

“Mister Artley, I believe the time for signals is well past. Take charge of the gundeck, please. Fire as you bear, targeting their sails first and the gundeck second. I should admire it if our rate of fire were somewhat higher than that frigate’s.”

“Aye, sir.” Artley rose, pulled his vacsuit helmet over his head, and left the quarterdeck.

Dobb made his way back to her side and spoke softly. “With no one on the signals, sir, what if you should need to signal … what if we must strike our colors?”

Alexis turned her head and met his eyes. She shook her head slowly. “Every minute we delay that frigate may mean another of those transports well away.” She watched his face carefully to see that he understood. “This is where we stand.”

Dobb took a deep breath and nodded.

“Aye, sir.”

He grasped his helmet and left the quarterdeck.

Alexis ground her teeth together in frustration as she found herself with surprisingly little to do. Boothroyd kept his eye on both the winds and the Hanoverese frigate, adjusting his helm as she’d ordered to keep the enemy ship from closing the distance any faster than could be avoided. Still the range closed though. The guns were firing independently as quickly as they could be reloaded, so she had no need to order the firing by broadside.

With each exchange of fire, a runner came to the quarterdeck to report on damage. Most was not nearly so bad as she’d feared, but the Hanoverese gunners were becoming more accurate as the range closed.

Then, as though the frigate’s gunners had found their preferred range, the quarterdeck was struck again. Leyman managed to slap another patch on the bulkhead in short time, but Alexis ordered her quarterdeck crew to seal their helmets. It would make communication more difficult and they’d be uncomfortable from the heat and stuffiness, but they’d be safe from decompression.

Just as she sealed her own helmet, the quarterdeck was hit and breached again. The frigate must have fired in broadside, but Alexis couldn’t tell just how many shots had struck. The weakened bulkhead gave way and shot lanced across the compartment, splintering into smaller bolts reflected from any surface that couldn’t absorb its energy.

Droplets of molten hull material spattered through the compartment, damaging men and equipment without regard. Some consoles were destroyed by the shot itself, while others simply dimmed and went out from the influx of
darkspace
radiation.

Alexis’ helmet went silent as her radio died, leaving her with only the sound of her own breathing. The quarterdeck still had lighting — that was distributed throughout the ship by optics and would only go out if the fibers were cut — but all of the consoles and controls were dead. Men were down all around her, some moving feebly, others still, and those who were uninjured, or only slightly so, rushing to their aid.

Her right leg stung where something had struck her, either a beam splintered off the shot or a molten drop of hull material, she didn’t know, but a quick glance showed her that her suit had sealed. Her leg would hold her weight and there were both others more in need of aid and more important tasks.

In any case,
Belial
had no surgeon aboard to see to the wounded. The best that could be done was to take them down to the orlop above the hold and hope they weren’t struck again. Anyone who could move at all would be needed on the sails and the guns.

Alexis grabbed the nearest spacer who looked whole and pressed her helmet to his.

“The quarterdeck’s lost! Send the ablest to the sails and the rest to the guns!”

“Aye, sir!”

Belial
shuddered and Alexis knew that meant there was damage to the inertial compensators. The force of the shot vaporizing portions of the hull was enough to knock the ship about.

Alexis staggered and grasped the navigation plot to steady herself.

Please
, she thought to
Belial
, one hand caressing the edge of the darkened plot.
I’m sorry, but it’s needful.

She rushed to the hatchway and grasped the handle, pulling it open to face what had become of her gundeck.

A
lexis reached
the gundeck just as the Hanovese frigate fired again. Bolts of shot flashed through the open space of the deck. New holes appeared in what was left of the hull, most overlapping with damage that was already there.

The shot went straight through the hull facing the frigate, through the center wall that divided the deck, and out the far side. For a wonder, none of
Belial’s
guns were struck, nor any of the remaining crew, though she saw several men flinch back and slap at their arms or legs as droplets of melted thermoplastic from the hull struck them. Their suits would seal behind such damage, if the droplets made it through, but they’d bear the scars.

Even with so much damage, though, the crews were working diligently at their guns, quickly getting off yet another broadside, ragged though it was with no coherent command to fire — the guns were firing independently now, but
Belial’s
crews were so well-drilled that they were each loaded and firing again within a second of the others.

That was what had allowed them to last this long, Alexis knew. For whatever reason, whether a lack of training or experience, the frigate’s broadsides were coming slowly and poorly-aimed, while
Belial’s
crews had been drilled to beyond reason. First aboard
Shrewsbury,
with Captain Euell’s demands for ever faster broadsides, then aboard
Belial
herself, with Alexis’ use of drills to alleviate the boredom around Giron, and finally by day after day of feeding the guns as they bombarded the Hanoverese columns.

Belial
was sending two, three, and sometimes four broadsides into the frigate for every one in return.

Alexis scanned the gundeck for who was left standing. With so much damage their suit radios weren’t working here either, likely nowhere in the ship — what was left of the gallenium nets that once covered the gunports and kept out the
darkspace
radiation would have been useless even without the damage to the rest of the hull.

Spacers were still making their way to and from the aft companionway carrying shot, so the magazine was undamaged. They’d certainly fired all of
Belial’s
ready-shot and would be relying on the magazine to recharge the shot’s capacitors. That in itself was a good sign, as it meant the magazine and the surrounding engineering spaces had not been holed, nor the fusion plant.

Of course if the fusion plant is holed, we’ll, none of us, either know or worry again.

The survivors from the quarterdeck, those she’d not ordered out to the sails, streamed past her to join the guncrews. She spotted Artley, midshipman’s stripes spotted and blackened with burns from splashing hull material, and made her way over to press her helmet against his.

“Sir? You’ve left the quarterdeck?”

“The quarterdeck’s holed, Mister Artley, and we’ve but one particle projector working for the sails. The guns are all we have to work with now.”

Alexis could see Artley’s face blanch at the news of how much damage
Belial
had taken.

“Shouldn’t we strike, sir?”

“We stand, Mister Artley. So long as there’s a gun to fire, we stand.”

“But —”

Artley was looking around the gundeck, his eyes wide. Alexis knew what he was thinking and why. In the heat of things, when it was just the guncrews to encourage and assist, one paid little heed to the condition of the ship. Now he’d been pulled out of that and could see the holes in the hull and the still figures dragged to the far side of the deck.

Alexis clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed hard.

“Mister Artley!” She waited until his eyes returned to her, then held his gaze until it settled. “We stand, Sterlyn,” she said, quieter.

Artley’s eyes scanned the gundeck again, but steadier this time, not panicked.

Belial
shuddered as the frigate fired again. No shot flashed through the gundeck, but the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out, leaving the deck lit only with the dim glow of the emergency chemical lights. The fiber optics that brought light to the decks must have been cut, and around her she could feel the men pause in their work, but she kept her eyes on Artley’s. She needed another officer to help her steady the men on the guns.

“The men need you to steady them, Mister Artley. Every moment we fight may mean another transport well away and who knows how many lives.”

Artley swallowed and nodded, his face greenish in the emergency lights.

“A wall, sir.”

Alexis nodded.

“Aye, Mister Artley, New London’s wall, and we will stand.” She gripped his shoulder hard so he’d feel it through the vacsuit. “I need you on the guns, Mister Artley. The men need to see you steady.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll not disappoint you.”

Alexis watched him return to his guns. She felt
Belial
shudder as she was struck once more, then felt her stomach lurch. Around her on the deck, discarded shot casings rolled and some floated up from the deck as the artificial gravity failed. She grasped a canister of shot from a crewman shuffling his way through the dim light, and turned toward the nearest gun. The quarterdeck, lights, even the gravity generators might be gone,
Belial
might be all but dead, but so long as the magazine could charge shot and the guns could fire, she wasn’t done.

Alexis’ world narrowed to feeding the guns. There were fewer crewmen making their way up from the magazine, whether dead or fled to hide deep in the hold she didn’t know, but she took to meeting them at the companionway hatch to take the freshly charged shot and hand over spent cartridges. Then she’d shuffle along the deck, careful to keep her feet always on the surface so as not to float away, to one of the guns.

Belial
was reduced to three guns, and then to two as the frigate’s shot struck a barrel and splintered into dozens of beams that pierced the gundeck. Men fell and she couldn’t tell their names in the dim light. Still fresh shot came up from the magazine. She thought that it was Dobb bringing it up, which made her wonder at the state of the men on the sails, but couldn’t be sure, and the remaining guns needed to be fed.

Sweat stung in her eyes and rolled across her lips. Her whole world was silent, save for the rasping of her own breath echoing in her helmet.

She caught sight of the frigate through the gaping holes in
Belial’s
hull and marveled at the damage. The space between the frigates gunports had disappeared, leaving an open space that ran the length of the hull. The main and mizzen masts were gone, barely stumps left of them, and the foremast on the frigate’s far side had but a single sail visible.

For a moment, she thought they might be able to call an end to this nightmare, but frigates carried large crews. Crews that could repair the rigging and step a new mast in little time, then be off again to catch her convoy. Every moment she could delay them meant another of her little ships might reach safety.

More shot poured from the frigate, more men were struck down. Bodies, dead and injured both, floated amongst the discarded shot casings in the sickly green light.

She shoved her way through them with fresh shot, then realized that the small, still figure floating before her was too small for a gunner and its vacsuit arms had the distinctive markings of a midshipman

She screamed in rage, sound echoing in her helmet.

She forced her way past and found no one at the gun. She wondered if they were dead or fled, but threw open the breech herself and slotted the canister. Someone grasped her arm, but she shrugged it off and closed the breech. Peered out through the gunport to check its aim.

The Hanoverese frigate was a dark mass against the black background of
darkspace.
Only a few white lights shone here and there on its hull and the stubs of its masts. The sails on its remaining foremast were dark and uncharged. That meant something, she thought, but she couldn’t spare the time to remember. All that mattered was to keep the frigate occupied with
Belial
, to allow just a few more moments for one of her little ships — a pinnace, a ferry, perhaps a packet — to escape. They’d already sacrificed so much, too much, to allow the frigate to escape them now.

Alexis raised her hand to the button that fired the gun and someone grasped her arm. She shrugged away and reached again for the gun, but strong arms wrapped themselves around her and lifted her from the deck.

She struggled and sound echoed through her helmet. A new sound. Someone was saying something, but she couldn’t understand. Someone was talking and holding her, keeping her from her gun, and in a moment the frigate would sail off. They’d sail off and more of her little ships would fall, more men would die because she hadn’t been strong enough or quick enough or clever enough to save them.

“— struck, sir!”

“We’ll not strike, damn your eyes!” she yelled. “Get back to the guns and fire or I’ll cut you down myself!”

The arms held against her struggles, spun her around, away from the gun.

“Sir!” She recognized Dobb’s voice. “It’s the frigate what’s struck, sir! Not us,
the frigate!
”

Alexis shook her head.

“You’re mad,” she whispered. “They can’t have …”

Slowly she stopped struggling. The arms around her loosened, tentatively, as though Dobb was unsure of her and prepared to grab her again. She set her feet on the deck, feeling the
click
as the magnets in her boots met the deck. She turned and peered out.

The Hanoverese frigate lay a bare fifty meters away, gunports dark and silent. The stubs of its masts flashing white in surrender.

Alexis staggered back from the port and stared around her, starting to grin with elation at what
Belial
and her crew had accomplished. She stopped, blinked, and her grin fell away.

What little she could make out in the dim glow of the emergency chemical lights was a horror. All the guns but one were overturned, their tubes shattered and breeches twisted. Dobb stood beside her, Oakman and Chevis near the one remaining gun, but the deck everywhere was littered with bodies. Some moved feebly, but most were still.

“Dear lord, what have I done …”