The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1) Read online

  “If I may, sir,” Scott said, “May I answer for us?”

  “By all means.”

  Scott looked at a Marine standing beside the bow gun crew. Walking over, Scott took the Marine’s rifle, rested it on the muzzle of the bow cannon, cocked the hammer, and then took deliberate aim. He felt a slight breeze on his cheek. Adjusting for distance and wind, Scott slowly pulled back on the trigger. A loud bang heralded the bullet as it sped down the long barrel of the rifled musket and then out towards its target. Looking over the rifle’s sights, Scott was pleased to see the ironclad’s officer pitch forward and then fall down the sloped side of the vessel, before dropping into the water.

  A loud lusty cheer erupted from the men aboard the Phoenix.

  “I guess our five minutes are up,” said Moore dryly.

  A second later, the ironclad opened fire. Cannon balls shrieked through the air. Three landed on the port side of the ship, sending plumes of water high into the air, showering men on the open main deck. However, the fourth one hit home with deadly effect. With a loud snap and crunch of wood being torn apart, the heavy iron ball ploughed its way straight into the lower deck, decapitating a hapless sailor before smashing into the side of a twenty-pound gun, sending it tumbling through the confined space below deck. Men were torn to pieces, pulverized as the cannon tumbled over and over before smashing into the far wall. The butcher’s bill for the first round to hit the Phoenix was more than a dozen men killed or wounded.

  “Fire,” yelled Moore at the top of his lungs.

  Both bow guns fired simultaneously. The noise was deafening. Less than a second later, both shells struck the sloped iron hull of the enemy vessel and with a loud clang of metal hitting metal. The cannon balls bounced harmlessly up into the air and then landed somewhere behind the undamaged ironclad, sending plumes of water skyward.

  “This won’t do,” said Moore. Looking over his shoulder, he yelled to the young naval rating manning the ship’s wheel, “Give her all you’ve got…ram her!”

  Scott felt the Phoenix edge ahead in the water as her steam-driven propellers clawed at the water, trying with all their might to push her forward.

  Both ships crews hurried to reload their guns.

  Scott could see the Phoenix bearing down on the ironclad.

  However, the ironclad’s captain had already anticipated the move and ordered his ship to sail forward and then turn to port, She would maneuver out of the way and then steam past the Phoenix, at less than a hundred yards distance.

  Below deck, the gun crew aimed their guns; an almost unbearable tension began building up as the men waited for the order to fire. They did not have to wait long. As soon as both vessels were parallel to one another, Captain Moore gave the order to fire. The ship seemed to shudder in the water as the heavy cannons fired as one. A volley of steel flew against the side of the ironclad. As before, the shells had no effect. With a loud clap, like thunder, the ironclad’s four guns returned fire. The result was devastating. All four rounds struck the Phoenix’s lower deck, easily penetrating her steel-plated wooden hull. One round sailed right through the ship and came out the other side. Another ploughed into the boiler room, sending wooden splinters like deadly projectiles into the sweating, bare-chested sailors feeding the insatiable boiler with coal. Men were instantly killed or horribly maimed as the room turned into a charnel house. A third of the boiler room crew fell from the shot. The two other projectiles smashed into the gun deck, destroying one of the Phoenix’s guns. Shrapnel flew all about, killing its entire crew while the other cannonball smashed into the heavy wooden timbers supporting the upper deck, tearing them apart as if they were paper.

  Smoke, like a thick fog, filled the sea between the two ships. Captain Moore did not need to be told that his ship had been dealt a heavy blow. He knew if he were the enemy vessel’s captain that he would swing around behind the Phoenix and blast her unprotected stern to pieces with impunity. With Scott in tow, Moore strode up to the naval rating working the ship’s wheel and ordered the scared looking young man to steer the Phoenix, so her undamaged side would face the ironclad. The ship responded, a little sluggishly, but she slowly turned to keep her damaged hull away from the enemy.

  Scott felt helpless; he was used to being in charge when the fighting started. Here, he felt as if he was nothing more than a mere spectator at a prizefight. Unfortunately, their ship would soon lose the uneven fight if they did not find a way to blast through the ironclad’s seemingly impenetrable hull.

  The smoke between the ships began to clear; Scott looked over and saw that it was going to be close. The Phoenix was going to be able to turn her undamaged hull to face the ironclad, but not before the enemy vessel was going to be able to fire off a few rounds into her vulnerable stern. A feeling of dread engulfed him. Kate was down there. Running as fast as he could, Scott ran for the stairs to the lower decks. Taking two at a time, Scott landed on the wooden floor and took off sprinting back down the narrow corridor, hoping to get to Kate before the ironclad finished its turn and opened fire. The smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air.

  The deck was slick with blood, making it slippery under foot.

  Scott almost smashed into a large, broad-shouldered black crewman helping an injured man down the passageway, his head covered in blood. Turning to let them pass, Scott was about to carry on when he saw Kate in the smoke-filled corridor bent over a horribly wounded sailor. His leg had been torn off below the knee. Her hands were coated in blood as she worked to apply a makeshift tourniquet on the man’s shattered leg. Relieved at seeing her unharmed, Scott walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Kate looked up.

  “I just wanted to see that you were safe,” said Scott.

  Kate quickly finished tying off the tourniquet. “I doubt there is anywhere safe on board this ship today. I felt the ship rock and then heard the screams of the wounded. I couldn’t just sit in my cabin knowing men were fighting and dying. I had to do something.”

  “Ok, but stay safe,” said Scott, wishing at this moment that Kate wasn’t on board.

  A loud explosion made them both duck.

  The ironclad had finished her turn before the Phoenix had and opened fire with her forward two cannons into the vulnerable stern. Both shells flew straight through the back of the ship, tearing the captain’s cabin to shreds before coming to a stop deep inside the bowels of the ship. Luckily, this time, only a couple of men were injured by flying debris and splinters.

  Scott looked up at the deck above them. He had to get into the fight. With a quick reassuring smile at Kate, he turned about and hurried back the way he came, leaving her to tend to the growing number of wounded men below deck. Arriving on deck just as the Phoenix finished her turn, Scott walked over beside Captain Moore and saw the look of anger in his eyes. His ship and crew were being destroyed all around him and there was nothing he could do.

  Scott looked over at the ironclad, its guns poking through the metal hull, and a thought formed in his mind.

  “Captain, we won’t last another ten minutes going toe to toe with that ironclad. It’s just too well armored. How good are your gun crews?” asked Scott.

  “Good enough…why?”

  “Order your men to fire at the open gun ports. It’s a long shot, but one might go in. I’ll get Cole’s Marines to do the same.”

  “It’s a damned long shot, but I’ll take it.” Turning to the rating at the ship’s wheel, Moore told the lad to go below and pass on to the gun crews to fire into the open gun ports.

  Scott found Cole at his duty station. He quickly ordered the officer to station his entire complement of Marines on the far side of the ship and to snipe at the enemy gun crews through the open gun ports.

  A deafening silence descended on the crew of the Phoenix as they sailed closer to their foe. Within seconds, the ships began to pass. As before, the Phoenix fired first. This time, however, it was not all in vain. Two shells smashed into the side of the ironclad an
d then flew up and over the ship, landing behind it and disappearing in the deep water. Another shell hit the outside rim of a gun port. Shrapnel flew inside the open aperture, killing or wounding the men all around the gun. However, the last shot flew straight inside and exploded against the inner wall of the ironclad. Shrapnel from the shell tore the closest dozen or so men to pieces. Thick black smoke billowed out from the open gun port. With a loud crash, like the surf hitting the rocks, Cole’s Marines opened fire. The bullets struck the sloped side of the ironclad and noisily bounced off, but not all. Some found their mark and men inside the enemy vessel were killed or fell wounded from the deadly fusillade.

  A cheer rang out from below decks, only to be silenced by the petty officers yelling at their men to get their guns re-loaded as quickly as they could.

  The return volley from the injured ironclad was half of what they had received before. Only two of the ironclad’s four guns on that side of the vessel were able to return fire. This time, the shots were aimed at the open main deck. Tearing through the wood, the shells effortlessly tore large chunks of the deck apart. Wooden debris and mangled bodies flew into the air before crashing back down onto the bloodied deck. The worst hit were Cole’s Marines, exposed along the side of the Phoenix. Men were blasted backwards, their bodies flew through the air like rag dolls before smashing down on the deck. At least ten men were dead or dying in a bloody heap.

  Scott’s temper was growing like a red-hot furnace inside him. He had seen men killed in battle before, but then he had been able to do something about it. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a sailor pulling back a wounded Marine who looked like he was still in his teens. Scott’s blood finally boiled over with anger; he had to do something.

  A voice called out, “They’re turning.”

  Running to the front of the Phoenix, Scott saw the ironclad through the clouds of dark smoke make a turn. Shots rang out. One hit the Phoenix at the water line, tearing a gaping hole in the wounded vessel. Immediately water started to flood inside. The other shots hit the water beside the ship, sending water spraying up into the air and up onto the open main deck.

  Just before the order to fire back was given, Scott reached out and grabbed a young officer by the elbow. “Fire at the smokestack,” ordered Scott. “Tear it down or tear it open, either way, just hit it.”

  With a nod, the frightened officer gave the order.

  A grizzled sailor bent down, looked over the gun sight; a moment later, a smile crept across his weathered face. He raised his hand…he was ready.

  “Fire,” yelled the young Lieutenant.

  With a loud crash, the veteran sailor’s gun fired, followed almost immediately by the other bow gun. Fire and smoke belched from the end of their cannons. The ironclad vanished from view as thick gray clouds hung between the two ships thicker than any fog.

  Scott pushed past the gun crews and stood on the bow of the ship, peering anxiously into the gray smoky haze hovering between the two vessels. Slowly, the smoke cleared. A smile crept on Scott’s face. Somehow, one of the cannon balls must have struck home. The ironclad’s smokestack was damaged; a large section of the once tall pipe now lay hanging over, like the wrecked limb of some metal tree.

  Men cheered behind Scott.

  Scott now knew what he had to do. Running back down the debris-strewn deck, Scott first stopped at Lieutenant Cole’s side, asked for three men to meet him on the main deck, and then carried onto to Captain Moore’s side.

  Scott looked into the stoic eyes of the ship’s captain. “Sir, I have an idea,” said Scott. “It’s a crap shot, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being slowly pounded into submission.”

  “I’ll bet on anything right about now,” replied Moore. “What do you have in mind?”

  Scott quickly outlined his plan.

  Moore shook his head at the harebrained scheme but had to agree that it was their only chance.

  Scott shook the captain’s hand, then walked over to the nearest gun crew and grabbed a couple of bags of gunpowder. Looking around, he saw a small leather satchel lying beside the gun. Picking it up, Scott placed the bags of powder inside.

  “Mister Scott,” said a voice from behind him.

  Looking over his shoulder, Scott saw three young Marines standing there, their rifles clenched tightly in their hands. A look of resolve burnt in their eyes. These men wanted revenge.

  “Ok, grab a couple of pistols each and then join me on the other side of the ship,” Scott said before walking over to the side of their stricken ship. Looking into the deep-blue water below him, Scott saw wooden debris and a badly mangled body from one of Phoenix’s wrecked gun crews floating on the surface.

  He felt their ship begin to turn.

  Soon the Phoenix was heading straight towards the ironclad, but this time Captain Moore was going to sail past, so close that their hulls would scrape up against one another. It was a one in one thousand chance, but Scott had convinced him to take it.

  “Sir, where do you want us?” said a young Marine lance corporal to Scott.

  “Right beside me,” replied Scott. “Once we are lined up with the ironclad, we’re going to jump onto her.”

  “Yes, sir,” hesitantly replied the lance corporal, instantly regretting volunteering.

  Behind the Phoenix, a longboat approached, like a thief in the night, unobserved in the din and confusion of battle. Having skirted around the chain of islands, the mysterious schooner had dispatched a dozen men, all heavily armed, who were now making their way unseen to the damaged stern of the Phoenix. Duval sat at the back of the boat, his cold eyes fixed on the damaged ship. The only thought in his mind was getting his hands on Kate, and then if he could as an added bonus, he would gut Scott in front of her.

  The sound of muskets firing caught Scott’s attention. Looking over, he saw that Lieutenant Cole had brought what remained of his detachment over and was sniping at the open gun ports of the ironclad as it bore down on them. Scott was pleased to see that the young officer knew his job. He felt his stomach knot and the adrenaline pump through his veins as the ironclad grew larger and larger with every passing second. A moment later, he felt the ships nudge against each other. The sound of the Phoenix’s thin iron-plated lower hull screeching in protest as the ships pushed past one another. A moment later, the guns from both ships roared out at point-blank range. The damage was frightful to both crews. No quarter was given nor was any expected.

  Seeing the ironclad sailing past, Scott stepped back a few feet and then ran as fast as he could to the side of the Phoenix, before leaping over onto the empty flat iron upper deck of the ironclad’s superstructure. Landing hard, Scott rolled over a couple of times before stopping against the wrecked smokestack. Quickly standing up, Scott shook off the pain in his right ankle from his less than perfect landing. Looking over he saw only two of the three Marines with him.

  “What happened?” asked Scott to the lance corporal.

  “Harrison fell short. He slid down the side of the ironclad and was crushed between the two ships,” said the young blonde-haired lance corporal.

  “Ok, two will have to do,” said Scott firmly. “I need you to keep an eye out and shoot anyone who tries to stop with me.”

  The two marines nodded their heads and turned back to back, looking for any openings or trapdoors from below.

  Pulling the satchel off his shoulder, Scott grabbed a piece of cord that he had taken from another gun crew. Lashing the powder bags together with the cord, Scott quickly inserted the end of the cord into one of the bags. Making sure everything was secure, Scott dashed over towards the damaged funnel. He was almost there when a metal door in the deck of the ironclad suddenly flung open behind him, and the head of a sailor popped up. Seeing Scott’s back, the sailor went to raise his pistol only to be shot through the throat by the Marine lance corporal. With blood gushing out of his neck, the man tumbled below, out of sight. Dropping his empty musket, the Marine drew his pistols and covered the opening.
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  Kate heard the horrible sound of the two ships scraping past one another. The next second, her world seemed to be filled with deafening noise and choking smoke as both ships let loose their guns so close that they could have reached out and touched the hull of the other ship with their hands. The Phoenix shuddered as all four shells from the ironclad blasted their way deep inside the hull of the ailing ship. Men and guns were blasted to pieces by the force of their opponent’s crippling volley. Then as soon as it began, it was over, only the sound of the ship’s wooden hull shrieking and moaning in protest at the devastation wrought upon her now echoed throughout the lower decks. Kate fought back the fear. Everywhere she looked, it was a charnel house. She staggered down the gloomy, acrid-smelling hallway. Her eyes stung from the thick, choking smoke. Reaching the devastated gun line, she stopped and gasped in horror. All but one gun had been demolished. Kate bit her lip and fought back the tears as she surveyed a scene straight out of the bowels of hell. The sound of moaning voices buried under debris all seemed to be calling out to Kate. Stepping over the severed arm of some poor hapless sailor, Kate made her way towards the sound of the injured and dying men. Bending down, she started to claw away at the wreckage. Unable to fight it anymore, tears filled her eyes, but her heart would not let her stop. She had to help as many men as she could before they bled out.

  Scott pivoted on his heels, saw the lance corporal draw his pistols from his belt, and then aimed them at the open trapdoor. Waving a quick wave of thanks to the Marine, Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out his matches. Striking one, Scott brought the flame over to the open cord leading down into his improvised bomb. He heard the satisfying sound of the cord catching light. Jamming the explosives back into the leather satchel, Scott turned about and then threw the satchel down inside the wrecked smokestack. He figured they had about ten seconds before the charge went off, with any luck tearing apart the insides of the ironclad.