By POW
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There came a day when the routine changed. By Sam’s count they were at nineteen strokes per minute when the first hint came wafting through the oarlocks: the smell of gunsmoke. This was different but not different enough to merit Sam’s attention and so he remained focused on his rowing, pushing and pulling the long wooden handle back and forth. But then there came voices: loud, shouting voices bellowing words Sam could not make out. Louder they grew, and then other voices joined in, fainter and more distant. Fuck! The Royal Navy had caught up with them, despite all their efforts to keep ahead! Sam leaned into the oar even harder but after only a dozen strokes a great blow struck the side of the ship and suddenly there was no weight in Sam’s arms.
He stared dumbfounded at the stump of oar for long seconds before realizing what had happened: something, probably a cannonball, had blasted off the other end, leaving just the splintered wreckage in his hand. Sam turned to his oarmate – whose name he still did not know after all this time – to see if he had any idea what to do, but the man was slumped over in his seat, leaning against the outer wall which, Sam suddenly noticed, had also taken some of the impact. Cracks and fissures appeared where there had been none before.
Cracks and fissures in an ocean-going vessel’s hull were not good. Not good at all.
Continue reading Captain Jack and the Race to Redula – Chapter 11: Kappa Redulans
