Down to the Sea (45 page)

“Secrets? From me?”

“Perhaps it is I who should then wait for the transports to arrive, thus sparing you such worries.”

“Sire, we both know that is impossible. The emperors of the Kazan have always led their armies into battle.”

Yasim did not respond, for another swell had rocked the ship and, grabbing up a gold basin, he shuddered, swallowed hard, then put the basin down, looking up weakly.

“Let me speak practically to you, to reveal the duplicity if I must,” said Hazin.

“Go on.”

“If you die, how long would I last? As you have had dozens of rivals, so have I within the Order. Even as we are here, they are undoubtedly plotting back home with the families of your cousins who still survive, who are out here with you even now, but who will turn on one another if you are dead. I will be one of the first to fall when you are gone.”

“So stay with me. Then if you have some premonition, you can end it swiftly.”

“Sire, I can ensure the survival of your child, your own blood. That is my guarantee if something should happen, and that is the duplicity behind the practical suggestion.”

“So noble of you, Hazin.”

“Nobility has nothing to do with it. But there is another layer within the game, sire. Let the victory be yours tomorrow. If I am aboard, there will be more than one who will whisper that it was I, Hazin, who made the decisions and but handed them to you to carry out.”

Yasim bristled.

“It is what some will say, sire, and we both know that. By transferring me, it could be even seen as your breaking away from me, leaving me behind to ensure your own place and glory and that I have fallen somewhat from favor.”

“Why so concerned for me and my glory?”

Hazin smiled. “Practicality, survival, advancement. The warriors of the Shiv will win glory enough later.”

Yasim laid back and closed his eyes. “Take the
Zhiva
. I can spare one more cruiser.”

“A wise decision, sire. My staff and I will transfer at dawn.”

Hazin withdrew so quietly that Yasim wasn’t even sure if he had left until he opened his eyes to check.

There had to be a scheme within a scheme here, he realized. Though all the things Hazin had cited were true, there had to be another factor. But he was too weary to think about it now, and in spite of his sickness, he soon drifted off to sleep, not aware of the fact that the warm tea Hazin had handed him was laced with a mild drug to make him compliant.

Dawn came slowly, with low scudding clouds racing in from the sea, bringing moments of driving rain that passed quickly to show brief glimpses of clear pale blue sky overhead.

Standing by the number three dock of the naval yard, Cromwell waited anxiously with the knot of officers. Beyond the gate blocking access to the pier, he could see hundreds gathered; enlisted personnel, naval yard workers, and wives, hundreds of frightened wives, their murmuring voices carrying with the wind.

It was obvious the frigate had been in a fight. Its foremast was gone, the aft turret was nothing but scorched ruins, and the ship was listing heavily at the stern, black coiling smoke curled up from several breaks in the deck.

A harbor tug eased it into the dock, lines snaking out from the shore. Sailors on board, more than one of them striped to the waist, their bodies blackened from smoke, grabbed the lines, securing them. The gangplank was barely down when a dozen officers raced aboard, the rest of the crowd held back by a line of sailors with rifles.

In less than a minute, one of the officers was coming back down the gangplank. Ignoring shouted pleas for information, he mounted up and rode to the gate, a detail of sailors falling in around him so that he could get through the mob waiting outside the navy yard.

If he wouldn’t talk, the sailors lining the deck of the shattered frigate most certainly would. Within moments Cromwell heard the comments racing through the crowd on the dock…“fleet sunk…Bullfinch dead…everything gone…the Kazan are coming!”

The word seemed to leap like a lightning bolt to the mob beyond the gate. A wild hysterical cry erupted, a commingling of screams, prayers, curses, and weeping.

Hundreds tried to surge in as the gate slipped open to let the mounted officer pass, others turned and started running back to the city.

A flurry of shots startled Cromwell. The officer, pistol raised over his head, emptied his revolver, and the crowd quieted.

“All military personnel report to your stations,” he shouted in Greek. “All dockyard personnel report to work. The rest of you civilians go to your homes and prepare to evacuate the city.”

Cromwell shook his head at the last statement. The city would be in utter chaos within the hour.

He looked over at General Petracci who stood silent, leaning heavily on his cane. Jack had come in the evening before, transferring his headquarters to where most of his airfleet was now stationed.

Jack was ignoring the madness erupting around them, looking up at the sky.

“Lousy day for flying. Wind will be up. We better start getting ready.”

“Ship in sight!”

Adam, who had been handing a wrench up to his crew chief, heard the cry as it raced along the main deck. All work stopped, and he felt a momentary panic. If it was an enemy ship they were dead; every aerosteamer had been secured below during the storm, the first of the Falcons was just starting to go up the ramp to the flight deck.

He left his chief and went through the wooden door to the base of the bridge at a run, then scrambled up the ladder to the tower. It was a violation of etiquette to enter the admiral’s realm without being ordered, but if the fight was erupting he had to know.

The admiral ignored his presence, looking forward, glasses raised. Adam respectfully stood behind him, finally spotting the smudge of smoke and then the glint of reflected sunlight.

“One of ours,” Petronius announced, “and she looks like she’s been in a fight.”

The early morning light struck the cresting waves, and if they were not in such danger, Adam realized, it would have been a beautiful sight. With the passing of the storm front the air was freshening, shifting around to the west northwest, bringing with it a drop in humidity as the wind came sweeping down out of the mountains with a touch of coolness to it.

The storm-green sea, which had been driven inward by the southerly winds of the day before, was now a mad confusion of whitecaps and short, sharp waves, which hissed and rolled.

The minutes dragged out, Adam finally borrowing a pair of glasses from the first officer. Adjusting the focus, he finally caught sight of the ship. It was a cruiser, and Petronius was right, it had obviously been in a fight. Smoke from its stacks was swirling out, but there was smoke from several fires as well, white plumes of steam, and part of a mast leaning over drunkenly.

He caught a flicker of light winking on and off.

“She’s signaling,” Petronius announced.

The ship’s signals officer was out the door to the open bridge, glasses up, with Petronius following. Adam cautiously stepped into line behind the admiral.

The signals officer turned to the enlisted man working the shutter lamp.

“Send reply. ‘
Shiloh
.
Wilderness
and
Perryville
following astern.
Malvern Hill
, please report situation.”

Adam listened to the clatter of the lantern shutter, trying to follow the Morse code, the sailor signaling so fast it was hard to keep up.

The signaling done, Adam started to raise his glasses to watch the reply, but the first officer reclaimed his property. Stepping back, he listened as the signals officer started to read the response from the cruiser
Malvern Hill
.

“Believe all cruisers of fleet destroyed,” and a gasp swept through the bridge. “Action last night five miles south of Three Sisters, Minoan Shoals. Four enemy battleships and numerous other ships engaged. One battleship believed sunk. Three of our frigates following astern. End message.”

Petronius, face pale, turned and looked around at his staff, shaking his head.

“Ask him about Bullfinch.”

Again the clattering and a quick reply.

“Believe dead.
Antietam
sunk.”

“Position of enemy fleet,” Petronius asked, making no comment on the reported death of his old friend.

“Last sighted steaming west, five miles south of Minoan Shoals. Believe they will attack Constantine by late afternoon. Am ordering remains of fleet to withdraw up Mississippi. Your orders?”

Petronius walked back into the shelter of the enclosed bridge and sat down in his chair. A gesture to a midshipman resulted in a steaming mug of tea, which Petronius slipped in silence for several minutes.

He finally looked up at the officers gathered round.

“Fight or withdraw.”

There was silence, finally the first officer spoke up.

“
Malvern Hill
is shot to pieces, we can see that. Admiral Bullfinch is gone. If we put our backs against Constantine we’ll be pinned and shot to pieces as well, sir. Captain Ustasha over in
Malvern Hill
is right, let’s come about. The Mississippi is only two hours behind us. Pull back up the river.”

There were nods of agreement, finally Petronius’s gaze settled on Adam.

“The air corps has transferred nearly everything they have down to Constantine. They won’t pull out without a fight, sir. They will launch a strike,” Adam said. “We need to support it.”

“In this wind?” the first officer replied. “It must be gusting to thirty knots.”

“It will flatten by the end of the day.”

“If that battle was fought last evening they will be off the coast of Constantine by three this afternoon at the latest,” and as he spoke, he pointed forward, for the city was now less than five hours sailing time away at full speed.

Petronius looked from the first officer back to Adam and all fell silent.

“I’m with young Mr. Rosovich here,” Petronius replied softly. “I’ve never turned my back on a fight, and I’ll be damned if we do it now.”

Adam looked over at him, obviously surprised by the response.

“But, sir,” the first officer replied heatedly, “if Admiral Bullfinch and our entire fleet couldn’t stop them and got annihilated trying, then what the hell can we do. We don’t have a gun on this ship, just a bunch of crates that can barely fly.”

“We can die trying,” Petronius said, then paused, looking around at the group. “But we’ll do it with some intelligence, gentlemen, some intelligence.”

For a wonderful, blessed moment, the high scattered clouds cast a shadow over the butte. Abe crawled out from under his shelter half, Togo calling to him.

He tried to walk erect, but his head was swimming. Feet like lead, he shuffled slowly, kicking up dust, a broken arrow, spent cartridges. He squatted down by the sergeant’s side.

Togo was pointing toward the ravine to the north and offered his glasses. Several Bantag were out of the ravine, one of them holding a bucket, pouring water over the others. They paused, as if knowing they were being watched, and waved.

“Should I try a shot, Lieutenant? Arrogant bastards.”

Abe shook his head.

“Save what we got,” he croaked.

It had been a ghastly night, followed by an even worse dawn. Three times the Bantag had tried to scale the butte, the last fight hand-to-hand along the eastern rim. The dead from both sides lay where they fell; it was beyond asking the men to scratch holes in the hard ground, or to expend what energy they had left dragging the Bantag bodies off to push over the side. The one benefit of the charge was that nine of the Bantag dead had water sacks on them, enough so that a small cupful could be doled out to each man with enough left over for two cups for the surviving wounded.

Just before dawn the suicides started. Three men shot themselves in quick succession, while two simply stood up and charged over the rim. Abe had managed to stop two more, one by sitting and talking with the trooper until the boy broke down into sobs until he fell asleep, the second one with a fistfight that had sapped what little energy he had left.

Abe looked around at his perimeter. Maybe fifty men left who could fight, another forty or so wounded, dying, or beyond caring, lying comatose.

“Lieutenant,” Togo whispered. “Your speech was all mighty fine, but if we don’t get water and food, well, it’ll be over with by the end of the day.”

Abe wearily nodded.

“We wait till dark. You and the sergeant major,” and he nodded to the old man who was dozing in the shade of a blanket propped up with several Bantag spears, “break out down the west slope. Maybe some of you can get into those ravines and find a way out.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here with the wounded.”

“A lot of good that will do, Lieutenant. This isn’t the time to get sentimental or play some heroic game. You stay here, you die, and it won’t be pleasant. Those buggers take you alive and figure out who you are, it’ll be a slow death.” Abe shook his head.

“I don’t think so, and they won’t take me alive.”

“Then I stay, too.”

“No. If anyone can lead these men out, it’s you.”

Togo sighed and finally nodded in agreement.

“You know none of us will make it. They’ll expect this.”

“I know.”

Togo laughed.

“Rice wine. A gallon of it, that’s what I’ll have when I get to where I’m going.”

“Lieutenant!”

He got up and half crawled to where a trooper on the west side was calling, pointing.

Abe could see it, mounted Bantag in the ravine. “Sergeant major! Round up ten men, get them over here.”

A hundred riders swept up out of the ravine and came forward at the charge.

“Wait for it,” Abe said. “Sergeant major, pass out the reserve ammunition one round at a time!”

The riders crossed the first four hundred yards without a shot being fired.

The last two hundred yards they swept in as before, low in the saddles. The Bantag dug in at the fallen redoubt resumed their harassing fire of launching arrows nearly straight up, shafts clattering down, striking ground. A trooper cursed as one caught him in the calf.