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"Fifty-eight-caliber Springfield muskets, which most rebels carried late in the war. Shoots a mime' ball five hundred yards."
"How fast can they fire?"
"Most of my boys can get off three rounds a minute, a few can do four. But I'm putting the best shots on the barricade while the others load."
"And the cannon? Do they actually fire?"
"You bet. They can bit a tree with a can of cement at half a mile."
"Can of cement?"
"Cheaper to make than real cannon shot."
Pitt considered that and grinned. "Good luck, Major. Tell your men to keep their heads down. Muzzle loaders take more time to aim than machine guns."
"I reckon they know how to duck," said Laroche. "When do you want us to open fire?"
"I leave that to you."
"Excuse me, Major," Giordino cut in. "did any of your men happen to carry a spare weapon?"
Laroche unsnapped the leather holster on his belt and passed Giordino a large pistol. "ALe Mat revolver," he said "Shoots nine forty-two-caliber shells through a rifled barrel. But if you'll notice, there's a big smoothbore barrel underneath that holds a charge of buckshot. Take good care of it. My great-granddaddy carried it from Bull Run to Appomattox."
Giordino was genuinely impressed. "I don't want to leave you unarmed."
Laroche pulled his saber from its scabbard. "This will do me just fine. Well, I best get back to my men."
After the big jovial major left the pilothouse, Pitt bent down and opened the violin case, lifted out the Thompson and inserted a full drum. He held his side with one hand and cautiously straightened, his lips pressed tight from the pain that speared his chest.
"You be all right up here?" he asked Belcheron.
"Don't pay no mind to me," the captain answered. He nodded at a cast-iron potbellied stove. "I'll have my own armor when the fireworks start."
"Thank God for that," exclaimed Metcalf.
"what is it?" Sandecker asked.
Metcalf held up a paper. "A reply from the British Admiralty in London. The only Pathfinder on duty with the Royal Navy is a missile destroyer. They have no research ship by that name, nor is there any in the gulf area." He gave Sandecker a thankful look.
"You called a good play, Jim."
"We had a bit of luck after all."
"The poor bastards on that steamboat are the ones who need it now."
"Any more we can do? Anything we've overlooked?"
Metcalf shook his head. "Not from this end. The Coast Guard cutter is only fifteen minutes away and the nuclear sub is not far behind."
"Neither will arrive in time."
"Perhaps the people on the steamboat can somehow stall the tugboat until . . ." Metcalf didn't finish.
"You don't really believe in miracles, do you, Clayton?"
"No, I guess I don't."
A MAELSTROM OF AUTOMATIC WEAPONS FIRE lashed into the Stonewall Jackson as Lee Tong's crew opened up at three hundred yards. Bullets hummed and whistled, splintering the gleaming white wood and gingerbread carvings on the rails and deck cabins, clanging and ricocheting off the ship's bronze bell. The huge unglazed window in the pilothouse disintegrated into silvery fragments. Inside, Captain Belcheron was stunned by a shell that grazed the top of his head and turned his white hair red. His vision blurred and went double, but he hung on to the spokes of the great wheel with savage determination while hawking tobacco juice out the broken window.
