The heretics fired again before the slower muzzleloaders were ready, and another of the 8-inch weapons disintegrated as a 6-inch shell screamed directly into its embrasure and reduced it—and its entire crew—to broken wreckage. Despite the wind, the dense gunsmoke—from St. Charlz, as well as the ironclad—welled up in an impenetrable veil. But the ship’s funnel and mast were visible above the rolling banks of smoke, and that was enough.
The guns were reloaded, with a speed that owed nothing at all to the threatened flogging awaiting the most tardy crew, and then St. Charlz belched smoke and fire again.
* * *
A three-hundred-pound shot smashed directly into the rotating shield of number three larboard 6-inch gun. The shield held, but the impact deformed it badly. It jammed in place, the gun no longer able to train, and its gun captain cursed in savage frustration as he realized what had happened.
More shot hammered home, carrying away ventilator mushrooms, cutting stanchions and chain railings, punching more holes in the smoke-spewing funnel. The exposed rangefinder atop Eraystor’s bridge vanished in a swirling cloud of wreckage, and the bridge signal locker disintegrated, sending signal flags flying like terrified wyverns. A four-foot section of the starboard leg of the ironclad’s tripod mast simply vanished, but that was another shot that went higher than intended.
The Harchongians were deliberately shooting low, trying to get their iron shot into the ship’s side … or to land just short of the side. Earl Thirsk’s people had carefully analyzed the placement of HMS Dreadnought’s armor. That was what had suggested the “wracking” tactic to Lieutenant Shwaigair, who’d paid special attention to how the armor plates were secured. But the lieutenant had also noted that while the ship’s armor extended below the waterline, it was by only about three feet at her normal load waterline, and Lord of Foot Bauzhyng had taken that analysis to heart. His primary purpose was, indeed, to “wrack” the heretic’s armor as Zwaigair had recommended, but if his gunners missed her armor, he wanted their fire to come in low, not high—at an angle which might just hole the ironclad’s thin hull plating below the protection of her armored belt.
It wasn’t likely they’d land many hits there, but it was certainly possible. And even the best armored ship had to sink if someone stopped trying to make holes above the water to let air out and managed to punch enough holes below the waterline to let water in.
* * *
Kylpaitryc’s eyes streamed tears as he coughed explosively on harsh, sinus-raping smoke. St. Charlz’s rate of fire had slowed—after twenty-five minutes of furious action, the gunners were beginning to tire badly, but even more to the point, they’d had to reduce fire as the guns heated dangerously. Two of the 8-inchers had already burst, although—Praise Langhorne!—close to their muzzles and nowhere near as catastrophically as they could have, and he was frankly amazed they’d held up as well as they had. St. Charlz had been equipped with older, iron Fultyn Rifles (not that any of them were all that old), which had a much worse reputation for bursting than the newer, steel guns did.
But the Harchongians had never faltered for a moment, despite the risk of failing guns, and he felt a swell of vast, ungrudging pride in them. Perhaps it owed something to that phlegmatic, stoic endurance—that stolid ability to survive anything their masters did to them—for which Harchongese serfs were famed. But perhaps it didn’t, as well.
Kylpaitryc knew he’d never imagined such a tempest of fire and iron, of smoke and battering waves of overpressure. The torrent of heretic fire was a solid wall of hate, scourging the battery’s earthworks like the hammer of Kau-yung, and six more guns had been destroyed by direct hits or silenced by avalanches of earth and masonry, plunging down to block their firing embrasures. It must be as evident to Bauzhyng’s gunners as it was to the lord of foot’s liaison officer that if the rest of the heretic ironclads joined the battle, St. Charlz had to be wrecked from one end to the other by the time they were done.
It took more than resignation, more than fatalism, to face that sort of holocaust, and he recognized raw, unbending courage when he saw it.
The ironclad forged onward—taking fire from both sides now, as Battery St. Agtha joined the battle at a range of 7,500 yards. St. Agtha was sited farther above water level, with a better angle downward at the heretics’ decks, where both logic and the Dohlaran analysis of HMS Dreadnought said the armor had to be thinner. But the longer range, the smoke, and the 6-inch shells shrieking back into its gunners’ faces negated any advantage its gunners might have enjoyed. On the other hand, the ironclad was now under fire from over a hundred heavy guns. A lot of them were missing, judging by the continuous, tortured geysers of white water all about the ship. But a lot of them weren’t missing, too.
It was impossible to make out details through the walls of smoke, the ear-battering thunder of the guns, the explosions of the heretics’ shells, but it seemed to Kylpaitryc that their fire had decreased. They weren’t firing any more slowly, but they seemed to have fewer guns in action, and he bared his teeth at that thought. If they could inflict enough damage, cripple the lead ship, the heretics might break off the attack … and realistically, that was the best Rhaigair Bay’s defenders could hope for.
* * *
“Three inches of water in the bilge, Sir!” Lieutenant Tahlyvyr reported to Alyk Cahnyrs over the conning tower voice pipe. “Pumps’re handling it no problem … so far.”
“Understood,” Cahnyrs replied. “Stay on it, Anthynee.”
“Aye, Sir,” Eraystor’s engineering officer replied, and Cahnyrs let the voice pipe flap close and looked at Zhaztro, standing at his shoulder.
“Bastards are getting more of them in under the belt,” the flag captain said grimly.
“Not enough to make a difference … yet,” Zhaztro said, and Cahnyrs nodded.
“Yet,” he agreed.
It was almost impossible for them to hear one another as the bedlam roared and bellowed around the ship. The Harchongians were firing at least some explosive shells now, and the pounding of shell splinters—and pieces of decking, breakwaters, bridge faces, and Langhorne only knew what else—battered the conning tower’s armor like Shan-wei’s hail. The range was coming down on nine hundred yards, and the savagery of the engagement seemed to redouble with every yard Eraystor steamed. Four of her guns were out of action, now. Damage to her ventilators and funnel had reduced the draft to her boilers, reducing steam pressure accordingly. Everything above decks—everything not protected by armor—had been swept away as if by some fiery hurricane, yet she drove on through the heart of holocaust, firing back, her shells scourging the batteries.
It was impossible to make out details through the smoke, flame, spray, and dust—the conning tower’s vision slits were almost useless, and even the three angle-glasses protruding through the tower’s roof were three-quarters blind—but it seemed to Zhaztro that St. Charlz, in particular, was losing guns. There was nothing wrong with the courage and determination of the men behind those guns, but even though Eraystor was now in the field of fire of every gun on the battery’s western face, it seemed to him that they were actually being hit less frequently … from larboard, at least. Battery St. Agtha was larger, with more guns, and despite the longer range, it was scoring a lot of hits on Eraystor’s starboard side. But there were definitely fewer coming in from St. Charlz, so either the Harchonians were having more trouble finding their target through the blinding walls of smoke—which, he admitted, was a distinct possibility—or else Lieutenant Bahnyface’s gunners were dismounting and crippling their guns.
I hope to hell we are, anyway. Unless something totally unexpected happens, Eraystor’s going to clear the batteries’ fire in the next twenty minutes or so, but God only knows what kind of shape she’ll be in after she does. And then there’s the rest of the squadron. Not to mention the little problem of how we get the galleons and the other support ships into the bay if we can’t silence these frigging batteries! Even a Rottweiler would have trouble
living through this kind of fire—there’s no way anything without armor could—and any galleon in the world would’ve been dismasted in the first ten minutes. So nothing besides the Cities is getting through if we can’t take these bastards out.
He gave himself a mental shake. Of course they’d silence the batteries eventually—one way or another. He wasn’t about to let these bastards stop him from doing that! But this sure as hell wasn’t Geyra over again. If the Desnairians had shown this kind of discipline, this kind of accuracy.…
* * *
“Shit!” Kylpaitryc said bitterly.
Whatever might have happened to the lead ironclad’s weight of fire had just become unfortunately irrelevant. The second ironclad in line, steaming relentlessly forward and almost invisible beyond the rolling banks of smoke, had just opened fire on Battery St. Charlz.
“Another of the bastards coming up astern of the second one!” Lord of Foot Bauzhyng’s signalman announced. He had to shout to be heard, and he never raised his head from the tripod-mounted spyglass focused on the signal mast above Battery St. Rahnyld, on the eastern end of Sharyn Island, whose garrison’s view of the oncoming heretics was unobscured by the torrents of smoke.
As an enemy report, it was more than a little … informal, specially from a Harchongese noncom to a lord of foot. But Kwaichee Bauzhyng only nodded. And then—
“Thank you, Seargeant!” he shouted back.
Under other circumstances, Kylpaitryc might have blinked in surprise. Under these, he only felt his mouth try to twitch in harsh, ironic amusement. But any amusement vanished as fresh strings of shells exploded, scourging St. Charlz’s already gouged and torn flanks. More than a quarter of the battery’s guns had been put out of action, although most of them could have been restored to service quickly if only the heretical sons-of-bitches stopped shooting at them.
But the ironclads coming on behind the lead heretic promised that that wasn’t going to happen. Not unless the defenders’ last ditch ploy worked, anyway.
* * *
“Buoy dead ahead!” the lookout on the larboard angle-glass shouted suddenly, and Alyk Cahnyrs grabbed the handles of the forward angle-glass, training it onto the indicated bearing.
“Multiple buoys!” the lookout amplified, and Cahnyrs’ shoulders tightened.
“At least a dozen of the things, Sir,” he grated, turning from the angle-glass to Zhaztro. “Probably more I can’t see through the smoke. They’re damned well marking something right in the middle of the frigging channel, though.”
“Maybe the seijins were wrong about the Dohlaran sea-bombs after all.” Commander Pharsaygyn’s expression was taut, his tone grim.
“If they were, we’ll sail right into the middle of the goddamn things unless we change course in the next four minutes, Admiral,” Cahnyrs said flatly.
* * *
Wonder if the bastards will even see the buoys? Kylpaitryc wondered.
There was no way of telling, or even of knowing if the heretics would be looking for buoys in the first place. For that matter, they didn’t know the heretics had discovered sea-bombs’ existence in the first place, but it struck him as unlikely they hadn’t. If there was one thing they’d demonstrated, over and over again, it was that their spies were fiendishly capable and every damned where. So, yes, they almost certainly knew at least something about the new weapon.
That was why he’d suggested laying the buoys to Bauzhyng. Somewhat to his surprise, the lord of foot had grabbed the idea and run with it. He’d planted a veritable forest of the things, and unless Kylpaitryc was much mistaken, the ironclad would be entering that forest sometime in the next few minutes.
The question, of course, was what they’d do when they did—assuming they realized they’d done it. It could be very … interesting, because those buoys had been placed with malice aforethought. The logical course to evade them would be to turn away from Battery St. Charlz, not towards it, and that course would just happen to lead the ironclad onto a spur of the shoal upon which St. Charlz had been built. At the same time the false sea-mine buoys had been laid, the navigation buoys marking that spur had been removed, in hopes of repeating what had happened to the heretics on Shingle Shoal the preceding year. If the ploy succeeded and the defenders had just a little luck, the ironclad would hit hard enough to rip out its bottom. Even if it avoided that, a ship aground—no matter how well armored it might be—would inevitably be pounded apart by all of the guns St. Charlz and St. Agtha could bring to bear upon it.
And if it doesn’t turn—if it just keeps going and those other ironclads follow it through—we’re fucked.
* * *
Hainz Zhaztro looked at his flag captain, his jaw tight, his face like iron.
True or false? he thought harshly. Real sea-bombs, or just a bluff? And which way does Alyk veer if he avoids them? There’s a goddamned shoal out there somewhere, and in all this smoke and other shit, how the hell do we avoid it if we start taking evasive action in the middle of a frigging duel with a couple of hundred heavy rifles?!
The thoughts flickered through his brain like chainlightning, hammering the weight of command down on his shoulders as nothing had since Darcos Sound. He saw Cahnyrs’ expression, knew the captain wanted to swing wide of the danger zone. The admiral didn’t blame him at all, and how he fought his ship was his decision, wasn’t it?
Yes, it was. But whatever he decided would have huge implications for the rest of the squadron. And even if it was Cahnyrs’ decision, that made it someone else’s responsibility.
Hainz Zhaztro drew a deep breath and looked his flag captain squarely in the eye.
“Damn the sea-bombs, Alyk,” he said flatly. “Hold your course and go ahead.”
.IV.
HMS Fleet Wing, 18,
HMS Hurricane, 30,
Bennett Channel,
and
HMS Destiny, 54,
Off Shipworm Shoal,
Saram Gulf.
“Must be nice to be able to read minds, Sir,” Zosh Hahlbyrstaht remarked as he stood beside Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk gazing northwest into the wind at the low-lying cloud of weather-stained canvas plowing steadily down Basset Channel. “Is that something just any admiral can do, or do you have to be a baron?” He shook his head. “Either way, I do admire a man who can predict what the other fellow’s going to do so far in advance! How is he at picking baseball teams?”
“Well,” Hektor said dryly, gazing through the double-glass braced on Stywyrt Mahlyk’s shoulder; he had trouble supporting even a double-glass, much less a regular spyglass, for very long with only one hand, “I don’t know whether or not he can read just anybody’s mind, and he’s never picked a winning team that I know of. But I will say that as a midshipman in Destiny I had ample evidence he could read the mind of anyone under his command!” He straightened, lowering the double-glass with a nod of thanks to Mahlyk. “Never saw a single seaman sneak something past him—and they tried, believe me; it was almost like a game they played with him! Didn’t matter what I had on my conscience, either. He always knew about it. Usually before I did!”
“Works that way for cox’ins, too, if you don’t mind m’ saying so, Sir,” Mahlyk observed, and gave his youthful commander a rather sharp glance. “Seems to be the sort of gift a Pasqualate’d call ‘contagious,’ now I think on it.”
“Well, since no one ever accused me of mind-reading, I’m sure I don’t have the least idea what you’re talking about,” Hektor returned, but his expression was absent as he resettled the double-glass strap around his neck without ever taking his eyes from the loom of those oncoming sails, etched against the late-afternoon sunlight. Neither of his companions understood just how well he could actually see them, of course.
He stood that way for the better part of another minute, then shook himself and looked back at Hahlbyrstaht.
“Send Lawrync up to the crosstrees for another count. We’re damned well not seeing all of them from here, but I want the numbers we can see
confirmed as definitely as we possibly can. Then I think we’d best send Sir Dunkyn another note while there’s still light for Sojourner to relay our signals.”
* * *
“Lad’s got a talent for this, doesn’t he, My Lord?” Captain Lathyk observed, looking down at the written signal. “To the point, tells you what he knows, and tells you what he knows he doesn’t know, too.” He looked up, shaking his head. “I know captains three times his age who don’t bother with that last bit!”
“Well, I suppose he got a fairly competent grounding in his profession’s responsibilities in his previous ship,” Admiral Sarmouth acknowledged with a wry smile. He stood gazing down at the chart on the desktop between them while the lamps swung gently on their overhead chains. “Always nice when the other fellow seems to be doing what you want, too.”
“I guess you could call it that,” Lathyk said a bit sourly, then waved the signal. “Doesn’t seem to be showing a lot of imagination, though. Just sail straight down the channel to us?” He shook his head. “Best way I can think of to get a lot of his own fellows killed.”
“Fair’s fair, Rhobair,” Sarmouth chided, tapping the chart with a pair of brass dividers. “It’s not like he’s got a huge number of options. Unless you’d like to be the galleon skipper who finds himself dancing with Sir Hainz?”
Lathyk’s expression made his opinion of any such goings-on abundantly clear, and the baron snorted.
“That’s what I thought. And don’t forget that all he’s seen so far are schooners keeping an eye on him.” Sarmouth shrugged. “He’s got to assume the rest of us are out here somewhere, but he doesn’t have any proof of that, he can’t know exactly what our numbers are, and he doesn’t know where ‘out here’ we might be. For all he knows, he could smack into us in the next quarter hour … or we could be running a bluff and those schooners are just pretending to be talking to a squadron of galleons which are really somewhere else doing something entirely different. Wouldn’t be so different from what you and I did to the Desnairians before the Markovian Sea, now would it? I’ll guarantee there were some red faces when that got out! You don’t suppose Thirsk and Raisahndo haven’t bothered to study their opposite numbers’ records, do you?”