Arabella of Mars (19 page)

At the magazine a new man worked nervously with the wooden scoop and bucket, filling the charges much less rapidly than his predecessor. Arabella, wondering what had become of the previous man and hoping the new one would learn his job quickly, grabbed a charge from the loose floating pile and leapt away.

Returning to the upper deck from the magazine, she was shocked to find sunlight streaming in through a ragged hole in the hull. Smoke and slivers of wood made the sunbeams seem as sharp and hard-edged as the rough fragments that tumbled in the air within them, seeming to glow and flicker as they passed from shadow into light. A knot of frightened, confused men were trying to tend to the several wounded, their pandemonium of shouts and screams making the scene still more infernal.

Then Higgs, the boatswain, appeared, sticking his head down from the main-deck above. “Get those wounded clear!” he shouted. “Where there's one ball, a second won't be far behind!”

At once the men changed tactics, dragging the screaming wounded aft to the sickbay, and Arabella dashed down the ladder to the lower deck, hoping to find a clear path to the gun deck. A moment later, true to Higgs's word, a second ball came crashing in behind her.

Most of the crew on the lower deck were laboring at the pedals, grunting and straining more feverishly than she'd ever seen before. Binion exhorted them to still greater effort, hammering the drum brutally, but she paid him no mind as she shot the length of the deck and made her way to the gun deck.

“There you are, d—n you!” cried the officer as she tossed the charge to Gowse. “Where are the others?”

Arabella looked around. All three guns were now unshipped and awaiting their charges, but she was the only powder monkey in sight. “I don't know, sir!” she cried, even as Gowse and the rest of his crew rushed to load the number three gun.

“D—n!” the officer swore again. “Well, hop to your duty, lad!”

Arabella hopped, speeding off to the magazine again. Behind her she heard the officer shouting to someone to find him two more powder monkeys.

*   *   *

Back and forth Arabella dashed, gun deck to magazine and back again and again. Forward, the gun deck was a sunlit Hades of smoke and noise and furious shouting, three hard rectangular shafts of light from the gun-ports sweeping the scene as
Diana
swerved and tumbled in her attempt to avoid the corsair's shots. Abaft, the magazine was a dark Hades of quiet, desperate activity, two ill-trained crewmen gingerly scooping the dangerous powder into measured charges as quickly as they dared. Between, the upper and lower decks were a raucous Hades of flying fragments, tumbling casks, and airmen slick with sweat or blood scrambling hither and yon. A dozen holes or more pierced the hull, each a deadly forest of smashed timbers which had to be navigated past.

On each traverse Arabella was forced to find a new route, as new damage or crowds of men or debris blocked her path. At one point she was nearly crushed by two crates that floated free, knocked from their lashings by cannonballs when the ship suddenly changed course and sent them crashing toward the starboard hull. Only her sharp eye and the fortunate presence of a heavy floating barrel, which she could use to change her course with a strong kick, had saved her then. Another time she collided with an airman who'd fallen unconscious at the pedals—struck in the head by flying wreckage or simply passed out from exhaustion—and drifted from his station unexpectedly.

When she arrived at the gun deck, she joined with her crew to get the number three gun loaded and aimed. It was hot, furious work, full of shouting and swearing and peering through the ports in hopes of spotting the other ship. And when the corsair did appear, pulsers whirling as she moved rapidly against the clouds beyond, a great wordless growl burst from the gun crews as they strove to haul the heavy guns into position before she could get away again.

To Arabella's eye the French ship did not seem damaged at all.

“Fire!” cried the officer, and Arabella leapt away to fetch another charge of powder. Behind her the immense triple crash of
Diana
's guns was followed by a groan of disappointment—another miss.

Exiting the gun deck she found her way blocked by a tangled knot of splintered wood, with a deadly cloud of nails spewing from a shattered cask like an angry swarm of
chakti
. A harsh, sharp smell of sawdust and iron assaulted her nose. Quickly she sprang off the coaming of the gun deck hatch, sailing with tucked arms and legs up the companionway to the upper deck just as the nails clattered against the bulkhead behind her.

*   *   *

Arabella shot out of the companionway into a bright, airy, screaming maelstrom. Blinking against the unaccustomed light, she caught herself on a stay and took a moment to orient herself.

The deck was a tangled mess of spars, sails, and rigging that smelled of gunpowder and blood. One of the main yards lay diagonally across
Diana
's waist, a shambles of rope and Venusian silk that blocked her passage and her view. Above, the mainmast still seemed whole, though several topmen floated limp and bleeding against a background of roiling smoke.

And then, rising above the larboard rail like some malevolent moon, the corsair hove into view. Near enough that Arabella could easily make out the rapacious grins on the faces of her crew, she turned as she climbed, yawing about to bring her guns to bear on
Diana
's midsection. The French ship was not undamaged—one mast was little more than a mass of splinters held together by shreds of silk—but plainly she was still very much able to maneuver. Abaft, her pulsers whirled like a windmill in a gale.

The corsair's four gun-ports gaped, black and malevolent, seeming to grow larger as the ship swiveled herself to point directly toward Arabella.

With a shriek, Arabella flung herself away from those four hideous maws, flying aft, hiding herself in the tangled silk of the fallen yard. A moment later the corsair's quadruple report sounded, the flash of her guns just visible through the waving silk, almost immediately followed by a shattering crash as the balls struck
Diana
. The ship jerked at the impact like a wounded living thing.

Arabella disentangled herself from the imprisoning fabric, finding herself on the far side of the wreckage. She was near the quarterdeck now. Abaft, officers on the quarterdeck orbited the sun of their captain, who stood, still strapped in place, pointing and calling out commands.

Arabella looked over her shoulder. From here the French ship could not be seen at all.

The quarterdeck was officers' country, inviolate—no mere airman could enter that sacred space uninvited. Nevertheless, Arabella sprang from her position immediately, sailing through the stinking, littered air directly toward the captain. “The corsair!” she called as she flew, pointing behind herself. “She's right over there!”

Kerrigan whirled to face her, anger showing on his blood-spattered face, but the captain called back, “Where?”

Catching herself on a stay, Arabella pointed through the obscuring silk. As though to confirm her observation, the unseen corsair's cannon sounded again, directly in line with her pointing finger.

For a moment Captain Singh's brow furrowed in furious concentration. Then he said, “Ashby, report to the magazine. Tell them to provide you with an explosive charge. Carry it to your gun and instruct your captain to target the enemy's magazine. I will endeavor to provide him with a clear shot.”

Before she could even reply “Aye, aye, sir!” the captain had already turned away, barking commands to his officers.

*   *   *

Arabella hauled herself down the rail to the after hatch, squeezing past two men armed with cutlasses against an anticipated boarding attempt, belowdecks to the magazine. There she relayed the captain's order to the wan and trembling men in charge.

“This is the only one left,” said one of them, handing her a ball equipped with a ropy fuse. “Best make good use of it.”

“Aye, aye,” Arabella said, and took the precious, deadly thing, along with a charge of powder.

Recalling the nails and other wreckage in her path, Arabella realized she'd have to return via the upper deck. Tucking the ball under one arm and the charge under the other, she propelled herself with legs alone back up the after companionway and out into the light.

The scene here was little different than before—scrambling airmen below, smoke and wreckage above, the corsair still hidden from sight by the fallen yard—but even as she made her way forward she heard a repeated call of “Hold fast! Hold fast for maneuvers!”

She was just then passing the mainstays, thick diagonal ropes that held the mainmast in position, but with the ball and charge under her arms she had no hands free. At the last moment she reached out one foot, snagging the last stay and bringing herself to a sudden halt. Juggling her deadly cargo under one arm, she twined her legs and the other arm around the tense and heavy cable and held tight.

“Strike all starboard and larboard sails!” came the captain's next command. “Strike mains'l! Sheet home main royals and t'gallants! Pulsers full ahead!”

All around topmen scrambled to obey. First the main-sail vanished, then with fierce and rapid action the sails far above snapped into position, bellying backward against
Diana
's forward motion through the air. A deep thrum sounded through the stay to which Arabella clung, making her whole body vibrate, and the mainmast creaked alarmingly from the great pressure placed upon its upper reaches.

And then, with a mighty groan, the whole ship pivoted around the remaining sails of the upper mainmast.

The clouds above wheeled dizzyingly past. Arabella felt herself slide down the stay until her feet pressed against the deck with a force nearly as great as Earth's accustomed gravity. The French ship rotated into view above Arabella, the crew staring back, astonished at
Diana
's unprecedented maneuver.

In just a moment they would be in
Diana
's line of fire. And Arabella held the explosive charge.

*   *   *

Arabella released her hold on the stay and began making her way forward. Pressed against the deck as she was by the ship's rotation, it was almost like walking on a ship at sea—a pitching, yawing ship, under attack, on a heaving sea. Yet she knew she must reach the gun quickly or the whole perilous maneuver would be for naught.

Rushing from mast to rail to hatch, dodging flying spars that clattered against the deck in a flutter of silk, Arabella reached the forward companionway with the corsair not quite yet in the line of fire. She flung herself down the companionway and into the gun deck. “Explosive shot!” she shouted to Gowse, handing him the ball and charge. “Target the enemy's magazine!”

Grimly he nodded, then began shouting to his crew to load and aim the gun—no easy task with the ship's rotation still pressing them against the deck. Arabella hauled and sweated along with them, getting the charge well seated and the gun aligned to face the corsair, even now rotating into view.

Gowse peered out the gun-port, eyeballing the distance to the target. “Fifteen hundred feet?” he shouted, to which his second assented with a nod.

Carefully Gowse trimmed off six inches from the shell's fuse, then lit the end with a slow-match. Even as it began to sputter sparks and smoke, he rammed the ball down the gun barrel, followed by a wad. “Run up, boys!” he called, and Arabella and the rest of the crew hauled on the ropes that snugged the gun tight against its port.

Now Gowse sighted carefully along the gun's barrel, calling out instructions to haul it right or left, up or down. Exhausted though they were, Arabella and the crew obeyed.

Through the gun-port, they looked down upon the corsair's deck, the leering upturned faces of her crew peering back with rude malevolence.

“Fire!” cried Gowse. His second brought the slow-match to the touch-hole.

With an almighty bang and a gout of smoke, the gun jerked back against its stays.

This time Arabella remained with the gun. Ears ringing, the tang of burnt powder on her tongue, she peered out the gun-port and through the smoke, hoping against hope.…

Just for a moment the smoke cleared, showing the still-sputtering ball as it crashed through the corsair's deck, well aft.…

And then a great ball of flame came rushing out of the hole, followed almost immediately by a roaring crash so loud that even Arabella's already deafened ears rang.

A gust of black smoke rushed through the gun-port, making Arabella choke and completely obscuring her view. Shouts, screams, and confusion followed, men coughing and colliding in the sudden dark. Heedless of exposure, Arabella pulled up her shirt and breathed through the fabric.

Gradually order returned. The force which had pressed them against the deck eased, then vanished. The smoke began to clear, and Arabella quickly tucked her shirt under her belt again. All the men gathered around the gun-ports, peering through the filthy, cluttered air.…

And then someone called, “Huzzah!”

Soon all the rest joined him, including Arabella. The corsair had been blown completely in two, smoky flames guttering in the wreckage. The Frenchmen, stunned or dead, floated everywhere. The only sound that penetrated the ringing in Arabella's ears was the crack of small arms fire,
Diana
's marksmen and the few surviving privateers trying to finish each other off.

The men on the gun deck cheered and clapped each other upon the back. From somewhere a flask of whisky appeared and was passed around. Even Arabella took a swig of the harsh, burning stuff.

And then Watson, one of the young midshipmen, appeared in the hatch. “Damage report!” he called in his small piping voice. “How many casualties?”

Gowse and the two other gun captains tallied the men and materiel lost or damaged during the battle. The gun deck had caught only one ball from the corsair, which had wounded three men but not killed any. “The captain'll be pleased to hear that, I'm sure,” said Gowse.