Standing behind the carnage just outside the bridge, Vasko responded in kind. He reloaded the RPG launcher and fired a grenade into the ship. The armor-piercing round penetrated the orlop deck before deton
ating low in the ship, rupturing its hull planking and flooding the bilge. The tug’s three uninjured crewmen retrieved the AK-47s and began spraying the Constellation with fire.
“Keep low and reload,” Pitt shouted. The volunteers pulled the Parrott gun back and swabbed its barrel with water.
The wooden warship had pulled ahead of the tug, exposing the men on the aft deck to the opposing fire. Bullets chewed up the side rail and deck as the gun crew hurried to reload the cannon.
“This one’s a canister round,” Giordino said as the next shell was rammed down.
As the cannon was shoved forward, one of the gun crew fell to the deck, exclaiming, “I’m hit.” Pitt angled the weapon toward the tug’s aft deck and fired again. The canister shell was packed with lead balls that dispersed at firing like a giant shotgun. The Constellation was too close to the tug for the blast to cover a wide area, but the concentrated fire struck one of the gunmen, killing him instantly.
Aboard the tug, Vasko reloaded and fired another RPG, this one better aimed. The projectile whizzed just over Pitt’s head and struck the mizzenmast a dozen yards away. The entire vessel shook, and splinters and shrapnel peppered the gun crew. The blast ignited the mizzen, sending flames skyward as canvas and rigging began to burn.
Pitt tried to rally the gun crew for another shot as cries from the wounded mingled with the yells of men trying to put out the fires.
“Last of the ammo,” Giordino said. He held up a twelve-pound solid shot that was made for a smaller, smoothbore gun.
Pitt glared at the tug. “Let ’em have it.”
The cannon was pushed out and aimed astern, as the Constellation had moved well past the tug. Pitt aimed for a man firing an assault weapon on the tug’s aft deck. As he pulled the lanyard, the ship jarred to a halt with a grinding sound from below. The gun fired astray and the men around it were knocked off their feet.
“We’ve run aground!” a crewman shouted. “Watch out for the mizzenmast!”
The jolt from the sudden stop sent a crack through the damaged mast. The massive timber splintered a few feet above the deck and careened over to port. Rigging snapped and the burning sail collapsed as the mast sank to the side until kissing the port rail. Canvas and rope dangled into the water as the yardarms poked beneath the surface. Flames coursed in a new, upward direction.
Amid the chaos, Pitt heard a cry that the captain was down. At the base of the mizzenmast he found an injured Valero sprawled on the deck, a pair of volunteers tending to him. He had taken a near hit from the RPG, and Pitt could see it didn’t look good.
The ship’s leader gazed up at Pitt through glassy eyes. “How did the Connie do?”
“She was splendid.”
“Stop them,” he said, then his eyes fluttered closed.
“I will,” Pitt said. “And I’ll never forget what you’ve done.”
He turned to the rail and was surprised to see the tug approaching. The first shot from the Parrott gun had wrecked the tug’s steering gear and hydraulics. The uncontrolled rudder had shifted back to center, and the vessel eased to its former heading.
Pitt caught a glimpse of Vasko in the shattered pilothouse, spinning the broken ship’s wheel to no avail. Advancing parallel to the Constellation, the tug sailed beneath the fallen mizzenmast—and directly into the lower yardarm. The yardarm snapped at the waterline, but as the tug drove forward, the remaining timber burrowed into its deck and wedged against the wheelhouse. The tug shoved against the yardarm but fought the full weight of the grounded ship. With the barge dragging from behind, the tug churned to a halt.
Pitt saw a pair of ropes dangling from the upper yardarm by the rail—and recognized an opportunity. He sprinted back to the gun crew. “Quick, load and fire a double shot of powder.”
He scooped up the two cutlasses he had brought from below and handed one to Giordino.
“What’s the plan?” Giordino asked.
“Follow me,” Pitt said. “We’re going to board her.”
84
Vasko looked out the shattered bridge window and cursed.
The tug had turned away from the shallows and was headed upriver toward Wagner’s Point—just where he wanted to go. He’d get one of his crewmen to manually manipulate the rudder controls below until they reached the target site, then release the barge and escape. The only problem was, the ancient ship that was sailing ahead of them.
The Constellation’s cannon had at least fallen silent, quieted by his last grenade or the multiple fires that burned aboard the wooden vessel. To make sure, Vasko stepped to the back of the wheelhouse and reloaded the RPG launcher. Rising to take aim, he was shocked to see the Constellation had run aground and was right off the tug’s bow. He lunged at the Lauren Belle’s wheel to avoid the fallen mizzenmast, but it spun freely in his hands. The tug barreled into the yardarm and ground to a halt as sheets of burning sail draped from above.
Vasko stepped out the rear of the bridge only to be met by the point-blank roar of the Parrott gun. No damage ensued this time, but a cloud of thick white smoke enveloped the tug. Then Vasko saw two apparitions emerge from the haze, a pair of men swinging onto the tug with swords clamped in their teeth.
Pitt landed first, his rope carrying him near the Lauren Belle’s stern. He dropped, took a step, and ran headlong into Vasko’s two remaining crewmen. One was kneeling to reload his rifle while the other stood, aiming at the Parrott gun crew. The standing gunman turned and swung his rifle stock, but Pitt was quicker. He ducked the blow, spun, and rammed the blade of the cutlass through the man’s torso.