Sky Above, Sea Below
A Capital Ship sequel
© 2025 by Walter Reimer


Fourteen.


The Temeraire came about, presenting its damaged starboard side to the atoll’s shore as the port guns were readied. “Bosun Ntsay,” Espinoza called out, disdaining his microphone to make sure that the rest of the crew within earshot could hear him.

“Yes, Soor?” Francois straightened up, standing at attention.

“Rig a fore anchor only,” the feline ordered, “and then get below and issue cutlasses and rifles.” He eyed the shore, only a hundred meters away. “Just in case, you understand.”

“Aye, Soor,” and the red-ruffed lemur started to execute the Captain’s orders. Mounting the anchor like that would enable the ship to pivot back and forth, allowing the guns to bear and hopefully spoiling an enemy’s aim. Before ships were fitted with engines so they could move independently of the winds, extra lines would be bound to the anchor cables. These ‘springs’ could be hauled in or let out to veer the ship.

Cutlasses and rifles – well, they were within sight of shore, and if they ran aground in the upcoming melee there were still Mughal troops on the island.

A few of the petty officers had gathered a dozen ratings that could be spared from other duties. “Right,” Francois said, “you heard the Captain. We’re going below and get ready for boarders.” He raised a finger. “Keep the cutlasses sheathed and the rifles unloaded until we need them, understood?”

One seaman mumbled, “I need to piss.” The civet’s ears flattened as a few laughed.

“Don’t blame you,” the red-ruffed lemur said. “Use one of the fire buckets.” To set an example, he walked over to one of the pails of water, unbuttoned his trousers, and added the contents of his bladder to the pail’s contents. “Let’s get below,” he said as he buttoned himself back up and led the detail below.

The marine guarding the armory had been notified, and he unlocked the compartment as Francois walked up to him. The lemur and the marine began giving out weapons and ammunition to the detail, with Francois arming himself with cutlass, rifle and pistol before leading the group of crewmembers back to the main deck.

“Detail ready, Soor,” Francois reported to Captain Espinoza after the armed team had fallen in.

“Very good, Bosun,” the feline said. He noted the lemur’s eyes moving and asked, “Question, Bosun?”

“Lieutenant Timuríde, Soor.”

“Ah. He was injured in the last action. I sent him below.”

“Riflemen coming over the dunes,” the mainmast lookout reported.

Espinoza nodded. “Any artillery?”

“No, Soor. Rifles only.”

“Good. Gunner?”

“Soor?”

“Ready starboard guns, aim at the crest of the dunes and await my order.”

“Yes, Soor.”

“Signal from Pétrel, Sir,” the ship’s first officer said. “Enemy force within ten kilometers.”

Espinoza touched the controls on his forearm and studied the display in his goggles. “Yes, I see them.”

“Soor,” the lookout said, “the enemy to starboard are reaching the closest dune.”

Espinoza nodded. “Gunner, fire.” There was the loud hornet-buzz of the electrocarronades, the whip-crack as the shells left the guns, and very gratifying explosions as the dune erupted into a wall of thrown sand and dust.

“They’re retreating.”

That news made the captain smile. “What’s the bag?”

Francois could almost hear the lookout chuckle. “Looks like . . . maybe five dead and three injured, Soor. The rest’ve thrown their rifles away and they’re legging it.”

“Very good. Keep half an eye out in case they pluck up their courage and come back,” the captain said. “Report on the enemy approaching.”

“Nine kilometers,” the lookout said, “bearing off the aft port quarter. They’re moving into line abreast.”

“Helm,” Espinoza said, “start the starboard rotors and swing us about. Bring the port battery to bear on the enemy. Bosun?”

“Soor?”

“You and the anti-boarding detail lay aft to assist the mitrailleuse in case our friends begin feeling brave.”

“Aye, Soor.” Francois shouted orders to the furs under his command, and they lay prone on the fantail as the lookouts called out the range and the guns were made ready. Ears flattened as the electrocarronades began to fire. In the distance, the Audace and the Furieux began shooting at the advancing line of Mughal ships, with the enemy swinging to port to return fire.

“Bosun? Aft lookout.”

The lemur glanced up and to his left at the voice in his earphones. “Yes?” he asked in his throat microphone.

“They’re coming on again.”

Francois caught the mitrailleuse’s gun captain looking at him; the lemur nodded and the civet barked orders to his crew, who took cover behind the gun shield and made the weapon ready.

“How far?”

“Coming up on the last dune.”

“Right.” To his detail Francois said, “They’re coming on again. This time, we wait till the dune’s behind them, and we’ll catch them like dodos in a pen. Everyone got that?” The others, straining to hear him over the sound of the warship’s guns, nodded. “Good. Wait for my order.”

He blew out a breath and dropped onto his haunches, one leg tucked under him and the other with the knee up to help support the rifle in his paws as the display in his visor began to show uniformed figures spilling over the dune, clambering around shell holes and picking their way around the bodies of their fellows. “Steady,” he said, waiting until the Mughal troops had arranged themselves in a firing line. They were above the high tide line on the beach.

“In range,” the aft lookout said.

“Fire!” Francois said, his ears flattening as the mitrailleuse set up a chattering racket that eclipsed the volley of rifle fire. The machine gun’s fire paused only long enough for one marine to pull the empty box magazine from the weapon and slam another home, its battery feeding power to the firing mechanism. It started firing again as another marine pulled the trigger.

The enemy line staggered, wavered, and fled through a curtain of mitrailleuse fire to take up a new line on the reverse slope of the dune. Return fire was seen, sporadic at first but growing stronger.

The red-ruffed lemur settled his cheek against the stock of the Lebel rifle, sighted following the information the lookout was giving him, took a breath and exhaled, and pulled the trigger. It was a clean miss, and he worked the bolt to reload the weapon.

Enemy fire spattered against the stern of the Temeraire and the aft rail, scattering splinters and causing one sailor to yelp and moan as he was hit. Francois was shifting from his seated position to a prone when blood spurted from his lower leg. He leaned over to look at it.

And he knew nothing more.



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