“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.
“Everything okay in here?” he shouted.
