Only Donaghey ’s mizzen remained standing, its top crowded with lookouts. A series of signals from there informed Garrett of a number of disconcerting things at once; three more Grik ships were in the offing, a major concentration of Grik was massing just beyond his view to the east, and the barges they’d be told to watch had begun streaming across the river mouth.
“Well. It looks like they’ve finally got all their shit in the sock at once, this time,” he said grimly, using one of General Alden’s favorite terms. It was early afternoon, and he’d just returned to Bekiaa’s position in the center. “Runner!” he shouted. “Get over here! Listen,” he continued when he had the young Lemurian’s attention. “Go to Captain Chapelle. Tell him it’s about to get messy. He’s to send what he can to support the guns on the north coast, but only as much as he thinks he has to, got it? The gunners’ll have to chew those barges up. I think that’s mostly a distraction from a really heavy hit on our front! We got ships coming in again too. They’re hitting us everywhere at once. Got all that?”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Gaar-rett! Ships, barges, an’ swarms o’ Griks! Support North baa-tery, but only as needed.”
“You got it. Now scram!”
The Grik artillery had been desultory since morning, just a few rounds an hour to harass them. Suddenly, it opened up with a renewed frenzy and frequency that outpaced anything they’d experienced yet. More guns must have arrived, and some were big ones. The distant jungle fairly erupted with smoke, and incoming roundshot competed against the surf with its similar, more insistent sound.
“Take cover!” Garrett yelled, and dropped to the bottom of the trench, pulling his helmet tight. The damp sand convulsed and shuddered, and the air was full of descending clouds of grit. “All guns but those positioned directly to the front, commence counter battery fire!” he yelled, hearing the command passed along. “Those to the front, load case shot and hold!”
Even in the trench, he felt the crack of one of Tolson ’s long guns, and heard the squeal of the truck as the gun recoiled back on the wooden deck they’d built in the sand. Moments after the shoosh of the shot was lost in the distance amid the increasing tempo of thunder, he thought he heard the distant clap of the exploding shell raining fragments on the enemy gunners. He crawled to the top of the trench, squeezing past a pair of sailors with muskets, and peered over the breastworks. White puffs nearly a thousand yards away sprayed blackened shards, some large enough to see from here, through the trembling treetops overhanging the unseen enemy guns. The six cannon on this line were joined by Donaghey ’s, even as she prepared to defend against the approaching Grik ships on her opposite beam. At some point, they’d lose her support. She didn’t have enough crew to serve both sides at once. A staccato booming came from the far left, as the guns guarding the river approach opened on the barges full of Grik.
“I wish we’d gotten more guns out of Tolson,” he murmured. They were lucky to have the nine they had. The frigate had held out as long as she could, but finally rolled onto her beam ends, submerging more than half her armament. Several ’Cats were killed when that happened. All that remained was to begin the task of breaking her up and floating timbers ashore. Once begun, the sea accelerated their task, and a constant stream of debris, more than enough for their needs, washed onto the beach. Of the noble Tolson, all that remained in view was a shattered skeleton in the surf.
“They’re coming, Skipper,” said Saaran-Gaani, squeezing in beside him, his dark amber eyes wide with excitement. Greg’s exec from Donaghey had found him. Smitty was directing the guns on the stranded ship and Saaran no longer had a purpose aboard. He’d asked permission to join the fight ashore. Greg looked east and saw a malignantmass of Grik forming in the distance across the dazzling white sand and the sea of dark corpses.
“Do you have a weapon, Saaran?” The brown and white ’Cat blinked affirmative, and patted his sword. Garrett sighed. “No!” He looked around. “Lieutenant Bekiaa!”
“Sir?”
“Any muskets lying around, from the wounded and dead?”
“No, sir. Sailors buy it, Marines take ’em back.”
“The ‘Sailing Master’ needs a spear, then. Like you, I’d rather he didn’t get within arm’s length of those bastards!”
“Can you use a musket, sir?” Bekiaa asked Saaran Gaani. He nodded. Like everyone, he’d familiarized himself with the new weapons and fired a few shots. They didn’t use longbows on the Great South Island, and he’d be useless with one. “Will you kill Grik?”
“Until they kill me,” he replied matter-of-factly. Bekiaa blinked approval.
“Take mine,” she said, and tossed it to him, followed by her cartridge box.
“But… what will you use?”
“Cap-i-taan Garrett has instructed me to stay back from the fighting. If I need another, one will be available.” She grinned, her tail swaying almost flirtatiously. “I hope that one will not return to me until after the fight!”
“Dern it, Bekiaa,” Greg said, flustered, “I told you to quit risking yourself worse than a private soldier, and now you’re making a pass at a recruit!”
“He’s an officer! There is nothing improper.”
“Nothing improper…!” Greg closed his eyes in the face of the onrushing horde. He should probably get back to the right and rejoin Pruit; it was just a hundred yards or so, but Captain Barry would do fine. He was closest to the covering fire of the ship, and the Grik had been veering north of there as they neared the line. He might as well ride it out here. “You just concentrate on killing Grik,” he told Saaran, taking his own advice and sliding back from the breastworks. “Don’t get all aflutter.”
Saaran glanced back. “A most… fascinating female,” he remarked.
“Sure.” Greg moved to join Bekiaa. The enemy artillery began to lift, even while Tolson ’s old guns redoubled their fire. Explosive case shot would soon become canister again. “It’s very improper to leave poor defenseless male-sailors!-thinking about weird, predatory Marine broads right in the middle of a battle,” he said formally.
“All I said…”
“It’s never what gals say that gets a guy killed. It’s what they think she said… or did.” He looked appealingly at Lieutenant Graana-Fas. “Is she like this all the time?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’re from different ships.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps she… offsets… or compensates? Replaces one risky behavior with another? Don’t ask me; I was a carpenter at Baalkpan. Before this war, there were no ‘Marines’ here. How is it where you are from?”
“Well… since there aren’t any female line officers of any kind, battlefield romance is sort of rare.”
The banter was a tonic, helping them keep their minds off what was coming. Judging by what little Greg could see from his prspective, it was going to be bad; by far the strongest push yet. As the hissing roar and weapon-on-shield rumble of the charging wave of Grik built to overwhelm the guns, Garrett took a sip from his “grogged” canteen and passed it to Graana-Fas and Bekiaa. He fiddled nervously with the pattern of 1917 cutlass hanging from his belt, expecting for the first time that he might have to actually use the damn thing. He’d practiced some, with the Marines. Everyone had to. But he’d never pulled it in combat before except to wave it around. Unlike a few of the weapons (most notably Silva’s and the Bosun’s) that had reached this world in an unopened crate aboard Walker, Garrett’s cutlass looked brand-new. The oiled wooden grip had a few little dings from carrying it around, but the black oxide finish on the guard and blade was practically unmarred. His fingers almost seemed to heat, touching the thing, and after he retrieved his canteen, he opened the flap of his holster and drew the 1911 Colt.
He looked south, at Donaghey ’s standing mizzen, trying to read the signal flags. Only the lookouts there would have a real idea of what they faced. His blood ran chill when he saw the message that essentially said, “Enemy too many to count.” So. This is it, he thought. The mast trembled and a gout of smoke billowed from Donaghey ’s seaward side while a few guns tried to keep firing at the mass descending like an avalanche on the breastworks. No one spoke now; the banter was over. Nervous ’Cats tugged at their armor and a few veterans windmilled their arms to ensure their range of motion. Muskets were already loaded and held at the ready, and Marine archer/spearmen cast nervous glances at their NCOs waiting for their own order to prepare. More spearmen arrived from the right to bolster the line, and Greg realized Barry must have seen that the center was going to take a pounding.
He hefted the Colt. Unlike the cutlass, the pistol fit his hand like a glove. Its black-blue oxide finish had evolved into a general bright gray appearance but there was no rust. The checkered walnut grips were warm with
