Rising Tides

CHAPTER 29

New Scotland Dueling Ground

“ C ease independent fire!” Lieutenant Blair bellowed hoarsely at the top of his lungs. “Load and hold!”

All Dominion reserves had to be present now. The battle, since the despicable opening cannon fire against the Imperial bleachers, had raged for more than three hours, and attrition had taken a terrible toll on both sides. The troops were evenly matched in discipline and roughly so in equipment, but largely due to the Lemurian shields, now practically useless, the exchange had so far been in favor of the Imperials. Another mixed company of Marines had marched to join “Chack’s” line, delaying his plan but giving it twice the weight. No such reinforcements seemed available to the Dominion troops. Their infantry still had the advantage in numbers, but by only about two hundred men. That advantage was growing, however, because even as the Doms kept firing, the Imperial line had suddenly ceased. All became quiet there, except for the screams and the sounds of balls striking flesh.

“Battalion,” Chack yelled, his voice cracking, “prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by a bloodthirsty roar as nearly four hundred bayonet-tipped muskets were leveled at the enemy.

Seeing this, the fire from the Dominion line immediately slacked, and bloodied troops in now stained and dingy uniforms heard commands from their own officers. Some dumped powder charges on the ground.

“Battalion,” Chack roared again, “without cheering, without a sound- listen for The drums -charge bayonets!”

The block of Imperials and scattered Lemurians surged forward. Some did cheer, caught up in the moment, but not many. Sword in hand, Lieutenant Blair raced forward, pacing his men, slightly ahead. A flurry of Dominion musket shots staggered the front rank, and Blair himself spun to the ground, but somehow rose and continued on. The gap between the enemies narrowed quickly from an initial seventy yards to sixty, to fifty. Chack trotted behind the troops, surrounded by his own surviving Marines. Blas-Mar was there, bleeding from a neck wound, and Koratin was helping support her, his wild face stained with blood and gunpowder. O’Casey was beside him, a pistol in his hand and a gleam in his eye. When the loud Dom command of “Armen la bayoneta!” came, Chack didn’t even need it repeated. Just a little farther now.

“Drummers!” he shouted, when less than twenty yards separated the opposing forces, and a thunderous roll sounded around him. The block of infantry ground to a halt, spreading out quickly on the flanks. Ahead, he barely saw beyond the taller men that Blair had stopped, swaying, sword raised high.

“Take aim!” someone screamed. It might have been Blair.

“Fire!” Chack shrieked with everything he had. A single, tremendous, rippling volley slashed directly into the helpless Dominion troops, mowing them down like wave tops scattered by a Strakka wind. “Charge bayonets!” he bellowed again, and this time, the cheer was overwhelming. They slammed into the teetering Dominion troops like a spikebristling sledgehammer. Out of the corner of Chack’s eye, he saw one of his Marines advancing the Stars and Stripes, trilling like a defiant demon. The oddly similar Imperial flag went down, but was immediately snatched up by another man who seemed utterly oblivious to anything other than driving forward, flag held high. Ahead, through the slashing, stabbing bayonets, Chack saw the red banner of the enemy go down. It too rose again, but then went down to stay. A renewed roar swept through the Marines, and they drove forward even more fiercely than before.

They were among the enemy now, even Chack. He realized sickly that this fight had devolved into an “open field melee” such as General Alden had always warned him against-but the American Marine had also told him that any sane enemy would break in the face of a charge like the one they’d delivered. Even the Grik would have broken; he’d seen it before. The Doms were being slaughtered, and they’d recoiled, stunned by the surprise volley and the ferocity of the attack, but they didn’T break-and now the fighting filled the dueling ground with desperate individual combats, like hundreds of duels themselves. Alone on the field, Chack didn’t have a muzzle-loading musket. As always, he carried his trusty Model 1898 (dated 1901) Krag, but with the fighting so close, he was afraid to fire it. He’d foolishly drawn a load-out of precious smokeless, high-velocity, jacketed rounds, seeing himself as standing back and knocking off enemy officers. Silva had always told him that velocity didn’t necessarily equal penetration, but he just didn’t know if the jacketed bullets changed all that. Better safe than accidentally shooting through an enemy and hitting one of the “good” guys. The heavy musket balls were already doing enough of that, he feared. The ’03 bayonet on the end of his rifle worked just fine, however, and it was black with drying blood all the way to the guard and dripping with fresh. Melees like this were a last resort-a failure, Pete had inferred-but at least they’d practiced for them, and the Imperial Marines seemed to know their business too.

Corporal Koratin went down, taking Sergeant Blas-Mar with him. Chack fought his way to them, but O’Casey beat him there, firing pistols as fast as he could grasp them and pull the triggers. His last one misfired and he threw the whole tangled bundle of pistols into the face of a man while he went for his cutlass. Chack saw Blair dragging himself along the ground. He did shoot a man preparing to bayonet the Imperial in the back. Then the fighting carried him along and he saw Blair no more.

A towering man, evidently an officer, with dark skin and flowing black mustaches loomed before Chack. Even as he brought his bayonet up, the man slashed down with a heavy sword, cutting through the top handguard of the Krag and slicing into the steel of the barrel between the rear sight and the barrel band. The hard steel proved too much for the sword, however, and more than half the blade broke off and stuck into the ground. Chack almost dropped the rifle and his hands stung with the force of the blow, but he brought it back up and drove his bayonet into the man’s belly.

“Monos Demonaicos!” The man gasped, and Chack thrust again, higher, riding the weapon down as the man fell. “Mi Dios!” screeched the officer as Chack twisted his rifle and pulled the bayonet clear, “Estoy viniendo!” Blood fountained from the man’s mouth.

Something struck Chack’s left shoulder, driving him to his knees. It had to be another sword, he thought, belatedly rolling away from the blow. He knew he was cut, maybe badly, and only the tough rhino-pig armor had saved him from being hacked in two. He brought his rifle up and there was nothing on the other side but sky, so he shot the man in the face. A hand grabbed him and jerked him up from the bloody slurry the dueling grounds had become, and to his amazement, he recognized the Bosun.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gray demanded, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. “Rootin’ around on the ground like a private soljer, when you’re s’posed to be in charge o’ this mess!” Gray was physically dragging him out of the press.

“Wha-what are you doing here?”

“We finished our little chore. Can’t get to the ship-Frankie’s on his own-so we decided to help you finish this.”

“Where’s Cap-i-taan Reddy?”

“With Jenks.” He nodded toward the far side of the field. “The whole Imperial Guard, two hundred of ’em, is fixin’ to hit the Doms in the ass.” He paused. “You done good.” Without warning, he flung Chack to the ground. “Have a look at him, Selass. If ten percent o’ that blood he’s wearin’ belongs to him, he’s a goner.” Selass knelt beside him, covered with blood as well, blinking terrified concern.

“But… I’m fine,” Chack protested. He gestured at the fighting, still close by. “Blas-Mar, Koratin, all the others… they’re still in there!”

Gray looked at Stites, who’d replaced his BAR with a Springfield and bayonet. “Relax,” he said, “we’ll fish ’em out. God knows why, but the Skipper wants live ’Cat heroes out o’ this fight, not dead ones. You stay put!” His gaze swept across the other Lemurian wounded who’d crawled or been dragged from the fighting. “You fellas keep him here, got that?” With only a muttered “Gettin’ too old for this,” Gray opened his bolt and checked his magazine before he and Stites plunged back into the fighting.

The Imperial Guard finished it. There were barely two hundred living enemies, almost all exhausted and wounded, when the Guard fell on them from behind. Some fought to the very last, and others even slew themselves, but in the end, nearly forty were taken prisoner despite their beliefs. Those that could walk were quickly rounded up and herded to a livestock pen near the harbor where they could be confined under guard. Forty survivors out of nearly a thousand that began the fight. Of the four hundred who’d made the charge with Chack, a hundred were dead and another hundred were badly wounded.

“They fight just like Japs,” Matt muttered. He was limping slightly from a superficial bayonet wound he’d taken in the calf, inflicted by a man he’d thought was dead.

“Are your ‘Japs’ truly so fanatical?” Jenks asked. Through it all, he’d somehow managed to avoid any injuries beyond a few small cuts and splinter wounds.

“They don’t surrender very often,” Matt confirmed. “At least where we came from.” The memory of a Japanese sailor standing on an overturned boat, surrounded by voracious fish, preferring a terrible death to captivity, suddenly sprang to mind.

“Well, we’ve finished them here. All that remains is the result of the sea battle off the harbor mouth.” He grimaced, knowing Matt was keenly concerned about his ship. “Now that surprise is lost, the enemy can’t hope to enter the harbor, but they will still fight to damage as many of our ships as they can. They retain an advantage in numbers, if not quality, and that is their only chance to seize any semblance of victory. There will be war between the Empire and the Dominion; there already is. Thanks in large part to you and your people, it will now be a protracted war instead of a one-day affair. Come, let us hurry to Government House. The Governor-Emperor has had himself moved to the observatory so he can view the battle.”

“You think he’ll make it?” Matt asked quietly.

“God willing. He will almost certainly lose one leg. The other is in doubt. He’d already be dead if Andrew hadn’t thrown himself across him.”

“Let Selass have a look at him,” Matt suggested.

Jenks nodded. “I will recommend it.”

“How’s Andrew?”

“Failing quickly, I fear. I’ve sent for Sean to be taken to his brother’s side… if he himself survived.”

Matt limped quietly alongside Jenks, who deliberately kept his pace slower than he obviously would have preferred.

“At least your wife’s safe,” Matt ventured. He looked at Jenks’s face and saw the tears well up in his eyes.

“Aye. There’s that.”

There was chaos at Government House. A large number of Marines-that Matt thought might have been better employed elsewhere, earlier-stood guard, facing outward from the residence with bayonets fixed, but Jenks led Matt through them without being stopped. Messengers came and went, and officers, some bloodied by riots or even assassination attempts, milled about on the columned porches. Tired horses, tied to the columns themselves, leaned against one another with foamy sweat running from beneath their saddle blankets. Some of the officers wore naval uniforms, and Matt wondered how many were in the same “boat” he was. When the bulk of the Imperial Fleet at Scapa Flow steamed out to meet their attackers, most of the ships were commanded by junior officers. Even if he could sympathize a little, he felt a growing annoyance to see so much brass not doing anything.

Jenks paused in his flight up the stairs to the porch only long enough to greet an older man in a cocked hat and a soiled but richly decorated coat. “Lord High Admiral McClain,” he said, saluting. “I must see the Governor-Emperor.”

The man nodded. “He’s expecting you,” he said gravely, gesturing toward the observatory with his nose. “Aloft.” He looked at Matt. “Both of you.” He paused, but clearly wasn’t finished. “My compliments, Captain Reddy,” he continued. “We’ve not met officially, but His Majesty speaks highly of you. I was impressed by your swordsmanship-as well as your cunning. Particularly the latter. I find myself lending more credence to some of the wild tales I’ve heard-which forces me to reevaluate a few opinions I’d formed concerning your entire account of the situation in the west.” He waved a blood-spattered kerchief he’d been holding against a cut on his cheek. “Dreadful times lie ahead, I fear. The commodore has long been a proponent of aggressive exploration, at least in the seas of this hemisphere.” He sighed. “I have opposed that in the interests of security through isolation… but we aren’t really isolated here at all, are we? Not anymore. We… thought the Dominion was our only real threat, and that they might serve as a buffer for what might lie beyond, but even if they’re now our most pressing threat, they’re not alone, are they?”

“No, sir,” Matt said quietly. “And they aren’t even the closest. Reed proved that.”

“But apparently he is their creature. One must now contemplate how much of this Company subversion over the last decade might be laid at his feet, and how much sway over other Company officials he might still exert.”

“Reed was their ‘creature,’ ” Matt said stonily. “He was ready to hand your Empire to the Dominion on a silver plate… but I wouldn’t worry about him anymore, if I were you. I would strongly recommend you round up as many of his cronies as you can, though. Even if most didn’t know what he was really up to, a lot had to know it was treason of some sort or other.”

“Indeed. And we shall ‘round them up,’ as you put it. You and Jenks are to be commended for your perspicacity in uncovering this evil plot.” The admiral’s expression turned sour. “I only wish I’d been made privy to the particulars in advance.”

“There were no particulars, sir,” said Jenks. “Only suspicions, and we had little enough to base them on.” Jenks’s voice became harder, more formal. “Not nearly enough to convince even you, beforehand, sir.”

Admiral McClain nodded. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said sadly. “I hope you’ll accept my assurance that you speak to the converted now, Commodore.”

“I sincerely hope so, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course.”

“Who was that?” Matt asked as they entered Government House and made their way through the bustle to the stairs.

“Lord High Admiral James Silas McClain the Third,” Jenks replied neutrally. “He’s the titular governor of New Scotland and commands Home Fleet-a large percentage of which is now fighting the greatest sea battle of the age without him.”

“Huh.”

They ascended the staircase that ran back and forth through the Imperial living quarters, until they reached a relatively small, oval room atop the residence. It was hot in the confined space, and crowded with officers delivering reports and departing with instructions. Several grim-faced surgeons toiled over the Governor-Emperor’s legs, casting furtive glances at the newcomers and one another.

“Prop me up, damn ye all,” the Governor-Emperor roared. “I can’t bloody see! If I must lie here among you pack of carrion-eaters, at least let me view the battle!”

The man’s pale, almost painfully thin wife gently propped him up with a pillow so he could reach the eyepiece of his telescope again. Matt had seen the woman a few times before, but never like this. He remembered that Princess Rebecca often said that Sandra reminded her of her mother, but Matt hadn’t caught any real resemblance beyond hair color. Now he saw it: the way she glared at others in the room, the determined way she swept at errant strands of hair that strayed from her more abundant coif. Before, she’d seemed a broken woman, clinging desperately to the faint hope he’d brought her. Now, even as that hope had faded, she’d risen to protect the last thing in the world she appeared to care about: her injured husband. For an instant, a red-hot knife twisted in Matt’s guts as he finally allowed himself to contemplate the probability that Sandra was indeed lost to him. His crew had been practically coddling him in that respect for some time now, he knew, but he’d continued to insist to himself that hope remained. He couldn’t do that anymore, he realized. He had to let it go. At least for now, he had to put his own grief aside, as this woman had done, and focus on those things he could still save.

Somewhere out there, beyond the general fleet action that the Governor-Emperor watched even now, his ship might be fighting for her life. There was nothing he could do about that either, and his sense of helplessness was profound. There was something he could do, though, and if it might do little to help those he cared about here, it might make all the difference for those “back home.”

“Ah, listen up,” he said loudly. The tumult in the room and on the stairs behind him froze into a kind of shocked silence. Even Jenks was taken aback by the outburst in this setting. “I’m new here, but some things are the same wherever you go, and I know a chicken with its head cut off when I see it.”

“Now see here!” the Governor-Emperor roared. “I may be wounded, but I’m no chicken!”

“It’s a figure of speech, Your Majesty,” Matt said quickly. “I know you’re not, but this is the biggest wild turkey chase I’ve seen since the Japs bombed Cavite! The events of the day have come as a hell of a shock, even to those of us who suspected someThing was up, but right now the vast majority of your people are still in shock, and still running around like a bunch of headless chickens! There’re things that need to be happening, and you’ve got senior officers milling around on the porch who don’t have a clue what to do. I know you’re confused. Everyone is. You’ve never had an attack here, like this, before.” Matt took a breath. “My people, on the world we came from, experienced a similar sneak attack not too long ago, and they didn’t react much different. We’ve been surprised a few times in our war here too, against the Grik, but we’ve learned a few things!”

“What should we be doing now, that we aren’t already?” Jenks asked seriously.

Matt took off his helmet and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You really want to know?”

“Of course!” insisted the Governor-Emperor.

“Okay. You might even be doing some of this already, but if you are, I can’t tell.” He sighed. “First, you have to signal other ports-Glasgow, Edinburgh, whatever-and warn them to expect attacks as well. Maybe send out some scouts.”

“That we have done,” Jenks stated. “We have a network of semaphore towers across the island, and I directed that warnings be sent immediately, as soon as I first arrived here.”

“Good. Has everybody replied?” Matt waited in the following silence. “If not, you must assume there have been attacks there already, or the network’s been cut. You need to get warnings to the other Home Islands as well. Next, round up all the Company officials and Dominion representatives. I already suggested that to your Admiral McClain.”

“I ordered the arrest of Dominion representatives, but detaining Company administrators is… problematic,” said the Governor-Emperor.

“Why?”

“Many sit on the Courts of Governors and Proprietors. They are part of the government.”

“So? Look, Your Majesty, you’re at war. A lot of people have died. They’re still dying! Civilians, sir!” He pointed at the sea. “And out there! Damn it, my people on my ship, may be dying for your country! Too many of my Marines have already died! Don’t… lie there and tell me you won’t… inconvenience a few shady politicians! You can sort the good guys from the bad guys later, but right now you have to catch everybody who might have had a part in this before they get a chance to scram.” Matt looked around the room and shook his head. “Our plane, our… flying machine… must have gone down, otherwise it would have returned here to make a direct observation report. We don’t know what’s going on beyond your ’scope, so you need to get lookouts to all high elevations, here and anywhere you can communicate with, to watch for other landings.”

“Do you believe there will be more?”

“I don’t know. I would’ve made ’em everywhere I could at once, if it was me, but from what we’re learning about their plan, they may not have thought it necessary. Regardless, all those troops at the dueling ground and all those ships out there came from somewhere. It had to be someplace close enough for them to reach with that dispatch ship that left last week.”

“Good God, he’s right!” the Governor-Emperor said. “They must have been preparing nearby! Commodore, you must divine the location of the enemy base of preparation!”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Finally,” Matt continued, “you need to get all those officers off the porch. Put ’em to work or send them away, but your people don’t need to see a bunch of their leaders sitting around, goofing off after an attack like the one today, and with a naval battle still raging just offshore. Act like you’ve got everything under control and you know what you’re doing even if you don’t have any idea.”

Those remaining in the room were quiet for a moment. Thoughtful.

“Is there anything else, Captain Reddy?” asked the Governor-Emperor’s wife. Her tone said that he’d just voiced much of what had been on her own mind.

“Yes, ma’am. With all due respect, I’d get these learned witch doctors and their probes, saws, and nasty hands the hell out of here-and find Lieutenant Selass-Fris-Ar, if you want His Majesty to ever walk again.”

“A savage beast in here, tending His Majesty?” gasped one of the “witch doctors” in question.

“Not a savage beast, you fool!” Jenks stated harshly. “The only daughter of a respected figure in their Alliance-an alliance that has done no less than save our very Empire this day! What is presently more pertinent, she is also a practiced surgeon whom you’d do well to observe!” He looked at the woman kneeling beside his leader. “With your permission?”

Ruth McDonald hesitated only an instant before vigorously, tearfully, nodding her head.

“Please,” she said.

The Naval Battle of Scapa Flow lasted for the remainder of the afternoon and into the night as it degenerated into a seaborne version of the melee at the dueling ground. With the wind veering around and driving briskly out of the northeast, there was almost no sound other than a general rolling thunder that added to the impression that they were watching an intensely localized storm at sea. Lightning stabbed horizontally between vague, darkened shapes, and once there was a large, searing flash that signified the abrupt death of somebody’s ship and its entire crew. There was no way to tell whose it was. Several other ships burned like terrible beacons in the night until either they sank or their crews managed to extinguish the fires. It became impossible to discern how the battle fared. Matt never had been able to see Walker, and the bulk of the fighting appeared closer than she’d last been reported. Occasionally he saw ripples of gunfire much farther out to sea and hoped that meant she was still in the fight.

Matt and Harvey Jenks were both in a kind of hell, and paced back and forth between taking turns at the telescope to describe the action as best they could while an exhausted and harried Selass labored to save the Governor-Emperor’s legs. Gerald McDonald experienced almost miraculous relief when she applied the polta paste to his wounds, but his right leg in particular was badly damaged. She did what she could, but brusquely informed them that she might have to take it off in a few days, regardless. She couldn’t hide her resentment at being summoned from caring for the wounded at the dueling ground just to tend one man, no matter how important, and likely only his importance saved the House surgeons from injury several times when they made condescending remarks. Ultimately, exasperated by their unwillingness to credit any technique but their own, the Governor-Emperor himself sent the men away to ponder their futures.

Sean O’Casey (Bates) arrived near midnight and knelt beside the Governor-Emperor’s bed. Andrew Bates was gone. It was a tearful moment for many reasons, but the two old friends and playmates were reunited at last, and Matt got the distinct impression that Andrew’s position wouldn’t be vacant for long. He was glad, and hoped he was right. He’d finally figured out that Andrew was essentially Gerald McDonald’s “chief of staff” and the Governor-Emperor would need a good one in the times to come. Sean’s unique perspective would be invaluable.

Eventually Sean left, escorting Selass back to her other wounded. She’d done all she could, and now only time would tell. Despite his desire to see the battle end, Gerald drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning-an almost incontestable by-product of such a liberal dose of the curative paste-and Matt, Jenks, and an intermittently dozing Ruth McDonald were left alone to answer questions and pass instructions on behalf of the Governor-Emperor. Matt considered it almost surreal that he’d wound up in such a position, and Jenks probably felt the same way, yet it made sense too. The chaos of the previous afternoon was under control, and reports were returning from around the Home Islands. Not all the news was good, but things were being done.

By then, the sea battle had completely broken apart into widely separated duels between individual ships. Jenks was at a loss to explain the lack of any reports or dispatches from the fighting, but hoped it was a sign that the Imperial Fleet had managed to cut off any enemy retreat. It stood to reason, since the battle had lasted so long, so close to the island, with invasion now out of the question. If that was the case, the enemy would have been caught between the fleet and the crushing harbor defenses-but also in the path of any vessel bearing word.

Roughly two hours before dawn, Fitzhugh Gray was quietly escorted into the room by a Marine and a dark-skinned, matronly woman bearing a lamp. The woman gazed sternly at Matt and Jenks and checked on the sleeping Ruth. Clucking, she draped a light shawl across Ruth’s shoulders and eased into a chair behind her. Gray slumped exhaustedly into another chair, earning a disapproving glare of his own. He glared back, and then shrugged.

“Hell of a day,” he whispered gruffly.

“Yeah. Day and night,” Matt replied. “You okay?”

“Sure. A couple scratches. I should’a paid more attention to that jumped-up leatherneck Alden when he was passin’ out bayonet lessons.”

“Sorry I haven’t been down to see the fellas,” Matt said.

Gray waved it away. “You been busy, Skipper. Ever’body knows where you are, and what you been doin’.” He looked at Jenks. “A full-blown, man-sized war is a hell of a thing, ain’t it?”

It was a jab that went back a long way, but Jenks wasn’t offended. He’d now seen this kind of war himself before. “Yes, Mr. Gray. Yes, it is. Murdering noncombatants has never been our way, but like yours, it seems my people have now had a dose of a kind of war in which there are no noncombatants.”

There just weren’t any words after that, and they sat in silence for a while, staring out to sea through the opening for the telescope. The firing tapered off until it had all but stopped, but something suddenly flickered in the far distance, in the southwest, and Matt stood. “That looked like a flare!” he said.

“Yes,” said Jenks. “Or a rocket. A distress rocket, I fear.” He paused. “We both use them, you know.”

Another distant flash lit the night. A green one.

“That was a rocket!” Matt said excitedly. “One of ours! It’s a ‘here I am’!”

Two more green rockets soared into the night, even more distant, followed by gun flashes.

“What the…?”

“Skipper! It’s our guys! Achilles and Simms!” Gray insisted. “Has to be! I bet they were in communication with Walker and saw something. She sent up her ‘here I am’ and said ‘if it ain’t me you see, hammer it’!”

The Governor-Emperor’s eyes fluttered. “What is it?” he asked, drymouthed, smacking his lips. “What did I miss?”