* * *
“Not quite, you bastard,” Sir Dahrand Rohsail muttered.
He stood about thirty feet above deck level in Defiant’s mizzen ratlines, shading his eyes against the fierce light of the newly risen sun as he peered almost directly into it. He’d expected to find the heretics farther west of him, or trying to get farther west of him, at any rate. In their place, he’d have fought hard for the wind gauge, holding position up to windward where his pursuers would have found it all but impossible to close with him. The last thing he’d have done would have been to deliberately accept the lee gauge, where the enemy would be free to sail down upon him, especially when he was pinned against a coast as dotted with shoals and mudbanks as the southern side of the Kaudzhu Narrows.
They were also a good bit farther north than he’d anticipated, though. He’d deliberately reduced sail overnight on the assumption that the galleon he’d been pursuing had made rendezvous with the rest of the Charisian squadron. It was always possible the other ship’s signal flags had been a bluff, an attempt to convince Rohsail it had friendly support close enough to read its messages. They’d gone on for a very long time, however, and he’d been forced to assume there really were additional Charisians in the vicinity. If there were, their only sane course of action, given the numbers, was to avoid action if at all possible, which would mean running for home. They might have chosen to run in front of him, away from the narrows, but that was ultimately a losing game as long as he stayed put and blocked the only exit from Hahskyn Bay against them.
At the same time, if he’d pursued too eagerly and blundered into them unexpectedly, the confusion of a night action could only have aided the heretics. All they were likely to want was to escape, and it was far easier to simply hold a chosen heading in the darkness than it was to pick enemy from friend and be sure one wasn’t firing into one’s own consorts instead of the foe.
All those considerations had strongly suggested the enemy would turn back towards South Shwei Bay as soon as possible after darkness fell. They probably wouldn’t want to fight, but they’d be more willing to accept a night battle than to fight in daylight. By preference, though, they’d avoid engaging at all if they could, which meant they’d work their way as close as possible to the Narrows’ northern shore in order to take the weather gauge if they could. That was why he’d slowed his own rate of advance and edged up towards the west overnight to stay outside and up-wind of them.
“Clever bastard, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Figured out how I’d think and took advantage of it, hey? But you’re not far enough north yet, friend.”
He gazed at the nearest enemy ship, no more than ten miles clear now. From his current perch, all he could see of the line of additional galleons five miles beyond her were scraps of sail on the horizon. His masthead lookouts had a hard count on them, though, although the numbers seemed to have come up a little short. And there was no doubt about the identity of that single ship between Defiant and the other Charisians. It was clearly one of the ironclads, and he rather doubted she was so far to windward of her consorts because of bad navigation. No, she was there specifically to offer battle.
It seemed unlikely, to say the least, that even she could defeat fifty conventional galleons. She could hammer the shit out of anyone who tried to get past her, though, and from that perspective, her captain had positioned her almost perfectly. Rohsail was far enough north to intercept the entire Charisian force, but at least two-thirds of his squadron was southwest of the ironclad, where it would have to get past her to reach her consorts. What had been the rearmost third of his own formation had already turned to intercept the head of the heretics’ line, and he’d deliberately concentrated his coppered ships to the north, placing his fastest galleons in the best position to pursue the enemy if they’d somehow managed to get past him during the night. Now they should be able to pass ahead of the ironclad to attack the ships it obviously intended to protect. Of course, it was almost certain that the second ironclad was somewhere in the midst of those other galleons, preparing to exact a painful price when they were intercepted. On the other hand.…
Is it possible they’ve lost the other one? They’re down four galleons for some reason, which means they’ve taken losses somewhere … unless I want to assume they just got scattered for some reason. That’s certainly possible, but the weather’s been too moderate for them to’ve been driven apart and what I can see of their formation’s too tight to make it anything I’d call likely. Still, I’ve been assuming those were heretic signal rockets last night, a beacon to guide the ship we’ve been chasing to the rest of their squadron. What if they weren’t, though? What if Hahlynd got here even sooner than I expected he could? Could that “glow” the lookout reported have been a burning ship below the horizon? Is that where the other ironclad went?
The desire to believe that was greater than any temptation he’d ever felt before, and he forced himself to step on it firmly. A pessimist was disappointed far less often than an optimist, he reminded himself. And either way, he still had to deal with the ironclad he knew about. But if it was true.…
He climbed down the ratlines to rejoin Captain Hamptyn on deck.
“It’s going to be ugly,” he said, “but the bastards aren’t getting away from us this time.”
“Good!” Hamptyn’s eyes glittered. “Ugly or not, the men’re eager to be about it, Sir.”
“I know they are.” Rohsail gazed into the sunrise for a few more moments, then looked back at his flag captain. “Signal the schooners to search to the southwest. I’ve got a feeling we might just find a few friends in the neighborhood.”
* * *
Sailing ships were neither slash lizards nor race horses at the best of times. Even though the wind continued to slowly and steadily increase in power, the best speed Dahrand Rohsail’s ships could make good on their current heading was no more than five and a half knots with all sail set. Once they reduced to fighting sail, they’d be lucky if they could make half that, and because the Charisians continued sailing resolutely northeast, the Dohlarans were forced to sail the hypotenuse of a very long right triangle if they wanted to engage. Even the rearmost Dohlaran galleons had to cover over eighteen miles to reach Captain Ahbaht’s line; for Rohsail’s van it was closer to twenty-five.
And, of course, his rearmost ships were the ones which would be forced to deal with Dreadnought, first.
There were few cowards in the Imperial Charisian Navy, yet the gnawing wait as the Dohlarans inched closer with agonizing slowness ate at the courage of even the stoutest heart. Rohsail’s squadron wasn’t a fleet; it was a forest of titan oaks, a dense and impenetrable thicket of masts, spars, and canvas rumbling down upon them. The ICN knew its worth, knew no other navy in the world was its equal, yet there were odds no qualitative skill could even, and the men in those Charisian galleons recognized the avalanche rolling across the water towards them.
And between the two lines sailed HMS Dreadnought.
Kahrltyn Haigyl stood on his quarterdeck, hat low on his forehead to shade his eyes, hands clasped behind him, and watched his enemies come. Unlike the unarmored galleons in Ahbaht’s line, Dreadnought had set no studding sails or staysails. There was no haste aboard her, and he raised his voice.
“We’ll have that signal now, if you please, Master Trymohr!”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
The midshipman saluted and turned to his signal party. An instant later, the flags went soaring to her mizzen yard and broke to the breeze. A moment longer the silence held, and then it tore apart under the weight of five hundred fierce, baying voices.
“Remember King Haarahld,” Dreadnought’s signal said, canvas vanishing from her yards as she furled her courses, reducing to topsails and topgallants alone while her speedier wooden sisters forged steadily by on her starboard side. And as they passed, every one of them in turn dipped her banner in salute.
* * *
“Well, that’s a hell of a surprise,” Pawal
Hahlynd said dryly as he read the smudgy pencil message the signal midshipman of the watch had just handed him.
“Beg your pardon, Sir?” Captain Mahgyrs said from the other side of the table, setting down his stein of beer.
Hahlynd looked up from the note, then smiled crookedly and patted his lips with a napkin. He and his flag captain had decided to make it an early lunch, given how active their afternoon was likely to prove, and they’d been joined by Lieutenant Traivyr and Lieutenant Haystyngs.
“It seems the Charisians are even more popular than we thought they were,” the admiral said. “We’ve just received a signal from Scourge, one of Admiral Rohsail’s schooners.”
His three dinner guests stiffened in their chairs, and he passed the note across to Mahgyrs. He picked up his wine glass and sipped while the flag captain read it. Then Mahgyrs looked up and their eyes met.
“Puts a bit of a different perspective on it, doesn’t it, Sir?”
“It does, indeed, Ahlfryd.” Hahlynd set down the wine glass and stood. “I believe I feel the need for a bit of fresh air.”
The others followed him up on deck, and he held out one hand to the officer of the watch. The lieutenant put his spyglass in it, and the admiral raised the glass, peering at the Charisians they’d been pursuing since dawn.
They’d had farther to go than he’d initially thought, and even with a speed advantage, a stern chase was always a long chase. With no desire to exhaust his cranksmen before he even reached the enemy, he’d settled for pursuing them under sail alone, since his smaller vessels were capable of half again their speed under the current conditions of wind and sea. At that rate, he’d expected to come into long cannon shot of them within the next hour or so, but it seemed he’d been looking in the wrong direction.
He swung the glass away from the Charisians, and there were Scourge’s sails.
“Remind me to have a word with our lookouts,” he heard Mahgyrs murmur to Lieutenant Haystyngs, and his lips twitched in amusement.
He wouldn’t care to be the unfortunate lookouts in question, the admiral thought, although Mahgyrs had a reputation as a humane CO. And he understood how it had happened. Like every other man aboard Sword, the lookouts had known exactly where the enemy was—they could damned well see them—and the thought of engaging that many galleons—especially Charisian galleons—was enough to dry any mouth. Little wonder they’d been so focused on the enemy that they’d failed to note a friend’s approach. Still, however understandable, it was also inexcusable for them to allow any ship to get this close without being spotted, and he had no doubt Mahgyrs would make that point abundantly clear to his entire ship’s company.
“Sir, the masthead reports additional sails beyond Scourge,” a midshipman told the flag captain very carefully, and Hahlynd was careful to keep the spyglass to his eye, peering out to sea where no one could see his smile. “It, ah, appears to be an entire fleet.”
“Why, it’s very obliging of them to share that information with us, now that it’s come to their attention, Master Walkyr,” Mahgyrs replied. “Be so good as to give them my personal thanks for the news.”
“Uh, of course, Sir.”
Young Walkyr faded away and Hahlynd lowered the glass and turned to raise one eyebrow at the flag captain.
“‘An entire fleet,’” Mahgyrs murmured.
“Well, Admiral Rohsail’s dispatches did say he was bringing the whole Western Squadron with him,” Hahlynd pointed out. “And if he did, that means we have the Charisians trapped between us and fifty galleons.”
“Not quite between us, Sir,” Mahgyrs corrected respectfully.
“Point taken,” Hahlynd conceded. “On the other hand, we do have them at what I think we could legitimately call a significant tactical disadvantage.”
“Oh, yes, Sir. I imagine we could call it that.”
Hahlynd smiled, but then he looked back towards the west, into the eye of the wind, and his smile faded. The clouds weren’t coming on all that rapidly, but they were turning steadily darker and piling steadily higher. It wasn’t just an overcast; it was an oncoming storm, and he could almost hear the thunder already. With a little luck, it would hold off until evening, but if it didn’t, his screw-galleys could be in serious trouble.
At the moment, they were just passing Fort Tyshau at the southern end of the Cape Yula Shoal. The name was something of a misnomer; the Harchongese fortifications which had once guarded the Kaudzhu Narrows had decayed into ruins long ago, following the minor unpleasantness during which the Empire had wrested the remainder of Hahskyn Bay and the area about it away from the hapless Kingdom of Sodar. The Harchongians had no longer seen any need to control the Narrows, now that they’d deprived Sodar of the only thing approaching a seaport it had ever had, and the fortresses hadn’t been manned in almost a century and a half. Most of the stone and brick of which they’d been built had been appropriated for other uses in the meantime, turning them into little more than heaps of rubble. Three of their names remained, however, appended now to small fishing ports. It was possible he might be able to get the shallow draft screw-galleys into the tiny harbor that served Fort Tyshau, but it was also possible he wouldn’t. And even if he could, it afforded poor protection against a powerful westerly.
Fort Nahgah, at the tip of Cape Yula, the southern headland at the head of the Kaudzhu Narrows, would offer a much better anchorage, but it was also the better part of fifty miles from Fort Tyshau … with a minor obstacle called the Imperial Charisian Navy between them and it. It was only about ten o’clock and nightfall was still over nine hours away, yet he had to admit he’d feel a lot more comfortable with better protection against foul weather closer to hand.
But the weather wasn’t what mattered now.
“I believe it’s time we called the cranksmen,” he said. “If we can get close enough to nip at the Charisians’ heels, perhaps we can encourage them to slow down to maneuver against us. I imagine Admiral Rohsail would appreciate any small effort in that direction on our part.”
* * *
“The screw-galleys are coming up from astern, Sir,” Lieutenant Pahrkyns said quietly. Kahrltyn Haigyl turned his head to meet his second lieutenant’s eye.
“How far astern?” he asked.
“About five miles, Sir. And it looks like they’re making at least ten or twelve knots.”
“Impressive,” Haigyl observed, then nodded. Pahrkyns touched his chest in salute and moved back towards Dreadnought’s wheel while his captain contemplated the news.
Twelve knots was just over twice his own ship’s present speed, and quite a bit faster than he’d expected them to be. He supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised by that. His information on them had been fragmentary, to say the best, and there’d been no way for Ahbaht to pass him any sort of report on his own experiences against them. If Pahrkyns’ estimates of distance and speed were accurate, however, the screw-galleys would overtake Dreadnought in a little less than an hour.
That could prove unfortunate. Unhappily, it wasn’t the only thing that might be said of, and he turned to Paityr Gahnzahlyz, Dreadnought’s gunner.
“It’s time to try the range, Master Gahnzahlyz.”
* * *
“About another hour till Admiral Hahlynd overtakes them,” Defiant’s third lieutenant said.
Lieutenant Parkyr appeared to be speaking to himself, probably without even realizing it, but Admiral Rohsail nodded. By his own estimate, the first of his galleons, HMS Scepter, would come within her extreme range of the ironclad in no more than another twenty minutes. Another four or five of the Western Squadron’s galleons would be close enough to engage it shortly thereafter, but he cherished no illusion that taking down that ominous, black-hulled monster would be an easy task. He wouldn’t object at all if some of Hahlynd’s screw-galleys were available to add their weight to the effort.
“I think—” someone else began, but a sudden clap of thunder cut whoever it was short.
* * *
/> Captain Zherohm Spryngyr chewed the stem of his unlit pipe as he watched the gap between his ship and the heretic ironclad narrow.
The day had turned into a fittingly spectacular setting for what was about to happen. It was just past midday, the sun at the very start of its western descent, yet the wind out of the west had grown steadily cooler. It had picked up a little more strength, as well. Scepter had reduced to topsails and jib in anticipation of what was to come, but that wind was strong enough to heel her to starboard, despite the reduction in sail area. Some of the waves had developed foamy white crests, and the green water around the galleon shaded into a sapphire blue so intense it almost hurt the eye as one looked out towards the horizon. The cliffs along the southern shore of the Kaudzhu Narrows were a steep wall of dark gray and brown stone topped with long, blowing grass, and the sky to the west was an even steeper wall of still darker gray, black-bottomed below and blindingly white above. The sunlight was even more brilliant against that slow-moving mountain range of cloud, and he had an unpleasant suspicion about what the night was going to be like.
Of course, first we have to survive until nightfall, don’t we? I know it’s an honor to be the first to engage, but just this minute I wouldn’t mind having someone else in closer support.
He snorted, drawing on the cold pipe. The others would be along soon enough. Archangel and Holy Saint Tyldyn, the next two ships astern of Scepter, hadn’t begun reducing sail yet. The additional speed that bestowed upon them would bring them to his support within another ten or fifteen minutes, well before he was likely to need them.
About three thousand yards, he estimated. Need to close to about two thousand to have much chance of reaching the bastard with a twenty-five pounder, so call it another fifteen or twenty minutes. Of course, we won’t do much good against his frigging armor until we get a lot closer than that.
He’d already made up his mind to hold his fire until Scepter was within five hundred yards of her target, and he’d loaded with round shot rather than shell. There was no point thinking he could punch shells through the heretics’ armor—not from beyond yardarm-to-yardarm range, anyway. From what he could see, it wouldn’t even help all that much if he could somehow cross the bastards’ stern. The ironclad had a sternwalk, but he’d studied it carefully through his spyglass. There was a single central doorway; aside from that the only other openings in the rounded stern that he could see were gunports or relatively small circular scuttles. The scuttles were probably sufficient to admit light and air, but he doubted very many cannonballs were going to find a way through them.