Distant Thunders (59 page)

“Don’t worry. I plan to stay well clear.” He eased the stick forward and began a slow, spiraling descent. “Let’s see,” he said, mentally kicking himself for forgetting a pair of binoculars. He’d have to remember that in the future. Surely Kari could hold the plane level while he took a look—or he could do the same for her. She was the observer, after all. Maybe with her better eyes . . . “Hey, Kari, if you get a good look at the flag, describe what you see!” he yelled.

Still closer they flew, swooping down to within three hundred feet of the water. The ships looked just like Jenks’s, for the most part. One had more gunports, the others fewer, but all followed essentially the same lines and rig. Sooty black plumes rose thick from all four ships now.

“I see flag! Imper’al flag!” Kari confirmed. “Is same as Jenks . . . I think.” Something about it, she didn’t know what, didn’t look exactly right.

A single puff of smoke belched from a gun on the nearest ship.

“They shoot at us!” Kari shouted. “With cannon! We out of range their muskets, but not cannon!”

“Relax,” said Reynolds, a little shaky himself, as he banked abruptly away. “We probably just spooked them. That had to be a warning shot telling us to keep our distance. If they were shooting
at
us, I doubt if they’d have used just one. Think about it: they’ve never seen an airplane before in their lives. They don’t know if we’re dangerous or not. I can understand them not wanting us too close.” He rubbed his wind-blown face. “From what I could see, they looked like Imperial flags to me too. Send it. Tell Captain Reddy we’re coming home and ask him to fly a signal saying what he wants us to do.” Fred would be glad when they could make headsets for the observers. His Nancy had one of the simple receivers, and the little speakers Riggs had come up with worked fine, but they couldn’t compete with a droning motor. For now, they had to rely on visual instructions from the ship.

“Wilco!” Kari shouted through the speaking tube.

“He says—En-sin Reynolds says—they Imperials, all right. Chase plane off with warning shot,” one of Ed Palmer’s comm strikers reported. “He ask we hoist signal flags, tell more instructions.”

Matt was thoughtful. “A warning shot, huh? Very well.” He turned and spoke to the Bosun. “Have him orbit us while we meet the strangers, fuel permitting. He should have plenty and it won’t be long. The main reasons I let him fly in the first place were to test his procedures—we had to do that sooner or later—and to get the plane off the ship when we meet these guys . . . just in case.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Gray said, and he strode the short distance to where the signalmen and signal strikers stood, just aft of the charthouse.

“That’s most odd,” Courtney observed.

“What, the warning shot?” Matt asked.

“Well, that too, but I suspect even our Harvey Jenks would have done that when we first met, had we flown an airplane at him. Imperials do seem to have a rather well-defined societal arrogance. Mr. Jenks has mellowed rather satisfactorily, I think. Actually, though, what suddenly strikes me is that presumably they can see us as well as we can see them by now.”

“Sure . . .” Matt glanced at the approaching ships and saw the black smoke above them. They
were
much closer, maybe only six miles away. Under steam and sail, they were probably making ten or twelve knots.
Walker
had slowed to five when the plane took off, but she’d accelerated to fifteen as the Nancy swooped back over the ship, reading the flags they’d hoisted. Matt peered past the port bridge wing and looked north-northwest, where
Achilles
had been keeping pace. He saw that Jenks’s ship had closed the distance to about seven miles, and smoke was streaming from her stack now too. “What the hell’s going on here? Those ships are clearly heading toward
us
, not Jenks. And why did everybody light their boilers all of a sudden?”

Palmer himself appeared on the bridge. His voice had an edge when he spoke. “Message from
Achilles
, Skipper.”

“Okay. What’s it say?”

“Commodore Jenks suggests that we not, repeat
not
close with the approaching squadron alone.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t say.”

“Well, find out, damn it, because they’re sure as hell closing with
us
, and they’ll get here before he does!”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Palmer said, and left the bridge.

“Slow to one-third,” Matt ordered. “Maybe we can reduce our closure rate, at least. I’m not sure showing our heels will make the best impression.”

“We ought to go to flank and steam circles around the buggers,” Gray muttered to Bradford as he returned.

“While perhaps highly satisfying,” Bradford whispered back, arching his eyebrows, “it may also be deemed provocative.” He raised his voice. “I think I know why they are concentrating on us, Captain,” he proclaimed. “When Jenks dispatched his message, he surely must have reported that Her Highness desired
us
to take her home on
this
ship. No doubt Jenks would have described
Walker
as she had been described to him: a dedicated steamer with an iron hull. No sails. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s why they are converging on this ship; they believe the princess is aboard!”

“Maybe you’re right,” Matt replied. “And if it hadn’t been for Billingsly’s stunt, that would make me feel a lot better. Even so . . . Even if they’re all as big a pack of jerks as Billingsly, I can’t imagine they’d fire at us and risk hurting the girl. Billingsly took her—and the rest of our people—’cause he wanted her. He could have just bumped her off at any time.”

“Not and lived,” Gray growled.

“Good point,” Matt agreed. He rubbed his face again. “If they’ve got twenty four-pounders, like
Achilles
, they can punch holes in us out to what, five hundred yards? Six?”

“I’d think about that, Skipper,” Gray agreed. “Probably dent the hell out of us to a thousand. But round shot loses a lot of energy quick. It’s buckin’ a lot of wind for the weight.” He shrugged. “If they’ve got anything even a little bigger, though, the weight goes up exponentially for just a little more wind resistance. A thirty-two’s not buckin’ much more wind than an eighteen pounder, like
Donaghey
carries, but it’ll punch a hole in us at a thousand!”

Matt made up his mind. “Okay, at two thousand yards, we heave to, broadside. We’ll fly a white parley flag, but all batteries will remain loaded, trained, and aimed for surface action starboard. The gun director will concentrate on that big boy that must be their flagship. If they close to fifteen hundred yards, we’ll fire a warning shot of our own with the Jap gun aft. Have Chief Gunner’s Mate Stites lay it himself, in local control. Tell him to use HE for a really big splash and put it close enough to rain on ’em without hurting anybody, clear?”

Chief Bashear understood that the tactical conversation was over and that orders had been issued. He quickly passed the word. “Skipper?” he asked when he received confirmation. “I oughta be aft.” Chief Gray might be the “Super Bosun” of the fleet, but Carl Bashear was
Walker
’s official chief bosun’s mate now. Since Gray’s self-appointed battle station was the forward part of the ship, near the captain, Bashear’s post was aft, near Steele, on the auxiliary conn. Chack was a bosun’s mate too, but since he also commanded the Marine contingent, he oversaw things amidships, where he could remain close to his Marines.

“Of course, Boats . . . Bashear,” Matt said with only a slight hesitation. Gray would always be “Boats” to him, but “Boats Bashear” had seemed to make Carl happy. “By all means, round up a relief and take your post.”

Staas-Fin, or “Finny,” quickly arrived to take his place and Carl Bashear was gone. Time passed while all the ships gradually converged.
Achilles
was really cracking on, but even with
Walker
’s speed reduced to slow, Jenks clearly couldn’t arrive until shortly after the Imperial squadron reached the two-thousand-yard mark and things began to happen. The squeal of the halyard behind the charthouse announced that the parley flag was on its way up. Reynolds’s Nancy flew by ahead, just a few hundred feet off the wave tops. Matt had to admit the thing looked a lot better in the air than it did strapped to his ship.

“I see a white flag going up on the biggest Imperial ship,” cried Monk from his lookout post on the starboard bridge wing. About that time, the same report came from the crow’s nest.

“Sir,” said Palmer, gaining the bridge again, “Jenks says firing the boilers is Imperial SOP when they clear for action! He asks if we are
certain
the ships fly the same flag he does,
exactly
the same? The Imperial Naval jack is basically the same as the national flag—thirteen red and white stripes with red on top and bottom, and the union blue in the field! The Company flag has white on top and bottom with no blue, just a red cross of Saint George! He says the Company revived an older flag to show a distinction!”

“Goddamn, what a crock!” Gray said.

“Not a crock,” Matt retorted. “There’s definitely historical precedence, and it makes sense. Can anybody tell if there’s any blue on those flags? If Jenks thinks it’s that important, we’d better find out!”

“Can’t tell!” shouted Monk. “All their flags are streaming aft and they’re headed right for us! I can see stripes now and then, but that’s it!”

“What’s on top, red or white?” Matt barked.

“Two thousand yards!” cried Finny.

“Very well, left standard rudder. When we’re in position, we’ll heave to and maintain position. Flags?” he prompted again.

“I can’t
tell
what’s on top!” Monk yelled.

“Crow’s nest?” Matt demanded.

“White!” said Finny. “No, red! Jeez, Skipper, crow’s nest no tell either! Campeti say coming to fifteen hundreds!”

“Gun number four will prepare to commence firing. One shot only,” Matt said.

“Fifteen hundreds!” Finny almost squealed.

“Fire number four!”

From aft, they heard the bark of the Japanese 4.7-inch dual-purpose gun. Even over the sound of the blower, the
hssssshk
sound of the projectile in flight was distinctive. A large geyser of spume erupted one hundred yards off the port bow of the largest approaching ship, and spray did indeed collapse upon the fo’c’sle.

“Pass the word to Stites,” Matt said. “Well-placed.”

For a long moment, there was no response from the ships. Matt was about to order a second shot when Monk reported that the target (odd how it had suddenly become “the target”) had begun reefing sails. Still, though, the ships continued toward them.

“I don’t like it,” Gray said.

“Me either,” agreed Matt. “They’re reducing sail like they’re respecting the warning shot, but they’re still steaming right at us. I don’t like it at all.” He looked to port. “Where’s Jenks?”

“Coming up hand over fist, but he’s still a couple thousand yards off the port quarter. Sir, he’s hoisted a really big flag!” Matt looked. Sure enough, a much larger than usual Imperial national flag had been run up to the peak of
Achilles
’ maintop. It was clearly a battle flag, and Matt had seen something similar done a long time ago.
Walker
even had her own battle flag now. Meticulously repaired after the Battle of Baalkpan, and with the name of that battle added to the others embroidered upon it, it lay folded in a place of honor in the center of the signal flag locker.

“Run up our battle flag,” Matt said resignedly. “Obviously they understand what it means. That ought to impress them more than another warning shot!”

“Skipper! They’re turning!”

Matt looked back to the front. At about eight hundred yards, the four ships executed a very tight turn to port that only paddle wheels would have allowed. They still had the wind, and for a moment, the flags all streamed forward from aft. They were red-and-white flags, without the slightest touch of blue, and just as that realization dawned, the starboard side of all but one of the ships erupted in a solid bank of white smoke.

“All ahead flank!” Matt shouted. “Main battery, commence firing! Somebody yank that white rag down and get our own flag up there!”

 

 

Fireman Tab-At, or “Tabby,” felt the ship squat down and lurch forward as the throttlemen poured on the steam. She almost fell against the aft bulkhead of the fireroom. Access plates on the deck popped up out of their grooves and slid toward her like big, rectangular blades, and she hopped as they went by to keep from losing her toes. They clanged against the bulkhead behind her. “Feed ’em!” she shouted. “Open ’em up!” They had to increase the flow of air, water, and fuel to keep up with the sudden enormous dump of steam. An instant later, she felt like somebody had put a bucket on her head and started beating it with a stick. As quickly as it began, the heavy drumming ceased, but
Walker
kept picking up speed. The air lock cycled and Spanky emerged from the forward engine room. He was covered with dark fuel oil from head to foot, but his eyes were white as they darted around the compartment.