From Fletch the fires were faint points of light, almost stars, piercing a wall of blowing snow. Badrine lowered his spyglass, “do you have it, Mr. Nock?”
“Aye sir, I see fires,” the gun captain reported, staring down the rangefinder.
“Lay your gun and stand by.”
The ranging device clattered and its findings were cranked into the gun’s elevation and traverse.
“Thank heaven it’s a stationary battery,” Nock observed as his men opened the breech and fed the rifle a shell. Thirty others sat ready in their open crates, an arms reach from the weapon.
Badrine studied his watch. The hour came.
From the snowy cliffs beyond the battery Farley’s whistle shrieked. Boyle’s answered and Bethany took up hers, her hands trembling. She blew. Boots and bare feet began to beat against barracks floors - the sound was drowned by the bark of Fletch’s gun. The shell took an age to arrive, howling across the sea and cracking as it passed beside Bethany’s party. It slammed into the battery, wrecking two guns, two more quick blasts wiped out the emplacement altogether, the last touching off the pile of shells. A Bexarian in nightclothes, bearing a long rifle, ran into the little yard between the barracks and mess. He reached the pull of an alarm bell but never rang it: from the cliffs Farley put a 2.75 line bullet in his spine.
Boyle cried “advance!”, bolting from his cover behind the shed. His men followed, meeting a gaggle of Bexarians, some unarmed, in the yard. Boyle fired his carbine without shouldering it, the muzzle but a few lines from some bleary Bexarian’s chest. A sailor near Bethany peered over the cover and took aim. “Don’t,” Bethany interceded, “you’re liable to hit our own.”
A door flew open on a long barracks at the far end of the encampment, by the lamplight spilling out Bethany could see the outlines of rifles and uniform caps - these men had taken the time to ready themselves. They advanced a few arshins then one of them shouted an order and they formed a firing rank, one row of men standing, the others crouched just in front of them. They fired simultaneously, half of their bullets missed, whizzing over Boyle’s party, over Bethany, and out to sea. The rest struck the fray in the yard. A few Bexarians fell, as did a third of the bosun’s men.
“Fall back to cover!” Boyle ordered.
“Dammit! Shoot back! Keep their heads down so our lads can get clear!” a sailor several men down the breakwater bellowed. He led by example, opening fire with his carbine without being ordered. In defiance of Bethany or simple confusion the rest followed. Most of their rounds landed low, kicking up dirty towers of snow before the Bexarian ranks but after another disjointed volley they began to connect. The Bexarians broke, the standing men forming two lines of movement down the yard while those in front of them rose and fired over their heads. The breakwater shuddered with impact after impact, beside Bethany two men were cut down. One of the Bexarian lines, at a run, moved around a barracks, intent on flanking them. The first of them appeared, firing down the backside of the breakwater. He missed, barely, but has he cranked his rifle’s bolt, Boyle’s party turned, reformed, and began to counter the advance. Bullets winged over Bethany’s head in both directions. Another of Boyle’s men fell and his party ceased firing, taking cover. The second Bexarian line advanced quickly toward the breakwater as the flanking force, thinned but angry, closed on them. They were nearly trapped, Bethany looked behind her - there was nowhere to go, swimming was impossible in water so cold and rowing the boat away would leave them desperately exposed.
Farley’s rifle cracked, killing the head of the Bexarians approaching the breakwater, they faltered but did not stop. Bethany closed her eyes and stood suddenly. When she was not immediately shot she opened them, cast off her cloak and drew her carbine from the scabbard on her back. She shot a Bexarian who was steps from the breakwater and another that rushed forward, striking his chest just as he mantled it. Her surviving men sprang up and she led them forward “come on! We cannot stay here!”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Smoke, sparkling in the freezing air, rose from the breech and barrel of her carbine and followed the spent casings as they fell to the snow. The Bexarians that had come down the center of the yard were all dead or mortally wounded, their blood running down the beach into the sea. However, the flankers had charged and were now behind them, near the pier. Boyle’s force took a few aimed shots at them, but had to contend with the steady trickle of new men leaving the barracks and armory deeper in the camp. Bethany pivoted just as the flankers fell on the backside of her party. Whatever distance there had been between them vanished, there was almost no room to maneuver a rifle, a few were dropped, others slung. Knives, dismounted bayonets, clubs, axes, and revolvers were drawn. Bethany’s carbine was short enough to be of use and killed two men before its magazine was empty. She returned it to its scabbard - she had more cartridges for it, but no time to load them. A Bexarian with a long knife ran at her just as she brought out her 4.5 line pistol, she pulled the trigger. It did not fire, she froze until she recalled the thumb safety, switching it off and jerking the trigger in time to hit the man in the stomach. He staggered but kept moving, she fired again and he fell forward, onto her, his knife falling a line from her ear. A sailor pulled the corpse off of her and stretched his hand out to help her up. Before he could he was struck in the arm by a Bexarian revolver bullet. He crumpled but did not fall, gathered himself, and ran at the assailant with the bayonet of his carbine.
Bethany hauled herself up in time to see him fall, shot a second time. The Bexarian aimed at Bethany and thumbed back the hammer of his old revolver, and pulled the trigger, dropping the hammer on an empty chamber. Bethany’s pistol still lay in the snow, she drew her sword. The Bexarian shouted something, dropping his revolver and taking a hasty step back. Bethany’s eyes and rapier burned with moldavite, she advanced on him and buried the sword in his neck. He hung on the point until she put her boot in his middle to pry him off, releasing a red geyser from his jugular.
The rest of the Bexarians scattered and Bethany felt a pang of accomplishment until a volley of what sounded like rifle fire burst over her and her men.
One of Boyle’s party called out “they have an organ gun!” as another volley pressed them all into the snow. At a crouch, Bethany’s detachment moved to the shelter of a small building a few arshins beyond the breakwater. She peered around one corner: a cart of sorts had been wheeled from the armory, ten rifle barrels lay across it, capped with a large magazine box. Its motion was almost that of a power loom as a man worked a lever, reloading and simultaneously firing all ten of the odd, stockless rifles. This volley battered against the opposite side of the building, cutting through the planking. Whatever was inside stopped most of the shots but not all, a few thumped against the planks on Bethany’s side and two passed through, just missing the sheltering men.
“Almighty!” a sailor swore, rubbing a fresh graze in the sleeve of his coat.
The heavy clatter of the organ gun’s crank signaled the loading of another volley, “keep down” Bethany urged. Ten rounds struck the building again, but lower, coming desperately close to the crouching sailors. A single bullet struck the stomach of the man working the weapon’s crank. Nobody saw the source of the shot but the sailors cheered Farley nevertheless.
“That is a window!” Boyle boomed, “come on!”
Boyle was right, the organ gun was halted while a few Bexarians worked to drag their dead compatriot from where he had fallen, right over the action. The bosun led his party forward in a ragged dash. Bethany moved from behind the building, waving her men to follow. Both lines of advance froze when the telltale clack of the gun’s lever started again. It was traversed awkwardly toward Boyle’s detachment who had fallen into cover against a now empty barracks - the lamps and stove still burning inside. Its shots fell on the short side of the barracks, near the door, and cut through, tossing straw from mattresses into the air and shattering windows. Boyle and a sailor peeked from their side and took a few shots at the gun crew. Bethany drew out her carbine and a packet of cartridges, ripped the packet open, and began to feed them through the action and into the magazine. Her freezing hands dropped one and as she stooped to pick it up the organ gun let loose once more. Her men fell to the ground beside her, one more dead, the rest clinging to the snow, desperate to keep clear of the fire.
A lamp, knocked over by the shooting, touched off a mattress in the barracks. The blaze spread quickly until Boyle’s men could no longer stay beside it. The old planking, cured by storm winds, was perfect kindling and soon the fire towered over the encampment. It licked at the armory, embers settling on its roof. Just beside it, at the organ gun, the Bexarians shouted and lifted its carriage, beginning to haul it clear of the structure.
Boyle’s men were busy finding a new position, they fell back in a disordered clump. Bethany raised her head from the bloody snow, gazing at the Bexarian gun crew, their movement silhouetted by the fire. She rose to a crouch, closed her carbine’s action, and took aim. One of the two men at the head of the gun carriage fell. The others turned, shouldering their rifles. The first of them fired just as Bethany finished running her weapon’s lever and she took a quick shot before dropping back to the ground. Her second hit a Bexarian in the shin and he faltered, bracing himself against the gun carriage.
“Come now! Volley fire!” Bethany ordered to the bloodied line of sailors beside her. Most were laying on their rifles, having practically fallen on them when they sought to clear the line of fire. They awkwardly readied them, some having to roll onto their backs. In the interval, Boyle’s detachment took some hasty shots as they settled behind a passel of rotting crates. Their fire broke over the Bexarians, scattering a few and sending the rest hiding as best they could behind the wheels of the gun carriage. The clacking of sling rings and bolts coming from Bethany’s men ceased - they were at last ready to fire. “Give it to them, now!” she insisted, firing herself. Their bullets impacted the gun carriage and the spokes of its wheels, some passing through, killing nearly half of the crew.
Bethany sprang up, “advance! Everyone!”