.III.
King’s Harbor Citadel, Helen Island, Howell Bay, Kingdom of Old Charis
Admiral Sir Domynyk Staynair, Baron Rock Point, stood gazing out a familiar window at an incredibly crowded anchorage. His own flagship lay well out on the seventeen mile stretch of King’s Harbor Bay, but dozens of other galleons were moored literally side-by-side all along the waterfront. Others lay to anchors and buoys while flotillas of small craft wended their way through the press.
From this high in the Citadel they looked like toy boats, growing smaller as the eye moved farther and farther away from the wharves and piers, and he’d never in his wildest imagination dreamed he might see that many warships anchored here.
They’d arrived over the last several weeks in fits and starts as the men who had originally crewed them were taken ashore or moved to one of the old ships which had been converted into prison hulks to accommodate them. Under other circumstances, in another war, those men probably would have been paroled and repatriated to the Temple Lands and the Harchong Empire. In these circumstances, in this war, that was out of the question, and so the Kingdom of Old Charis had been forced to find places to put them.
Finding places to safely confine and guard upward of sixty thousand men, more than a few of whom were religious zealots perfectly prepared to die for what they believed God wanted of them, was a serious challenge. Safeholdian wars never produced POWs on a scale like that, and no realm had ever been prepared to accommodate them. The sheer expense of feeding that many prisoners, far less maintaining security and hopefully seeing to it that their living conditions were at least bearable, was one reason the practice of paroling honorably surrendered enemies was so universal. Perhaps Charis should have foreseen something like this, but it hadn’t occurred to any of the native Safeholdians to even think about it. Nor, for that matter, had it occurred to Merlin Athrawes.
Rock Point had been inclined, when he first recognized the magnitude of the problem, to think Merlin should have seen it coming. After all, unlike Rock Point, Nimue Alban had been born and raised in the Terran Federation. She’d grown up learning about the long and bloody history of a planet called Old Terra, where prisoner hauls like this one had once been almost routine. But that was the point, he’d realized. It had been history to her … and there’d been no surrenders, no POWs, in the only war Nimue had actually fought, which explained why Merlin hadn’t anticipated the problem either.
Oh, quit bitching, Rock Point told himself now. The problem you’ve got is one hell of a lot better than the alternative would’ve been!
Which was undoubtedly true, however inconvenient things might seem at the moment.
Most of the ships closer to shore still flew the imperial Charisian flag above the green, scepter-badged banner of the Church of God Awaiting. A handful still showed red and green banners with the crossed scepter and saber of the Harchong Empire, instead, but most of those were moored farther out, or in one of the other anchorages. King’s Harbor was more concerned with the ships which had been fully armed, and surveyors and petty officers swarmed over those vessels like locusts. Their reports would tell Rock Point how quickly the prize vessels could be put into Charisian service … assuming he could find crews for them, of course.
And with Bryahn Lock Island’s death, that decision would be his, at least until Cayleb could get home.
An embarrassment of riches, that’s what it is, he thought. Thank God the Church doesn’t have them anymore, but what the hell am I going to do with all of them?
He shook his head and turned back from the window to the two officers he’d actually come here to see.
Commodore Sir Ahlfryd Hyndryk, Baron Seamount, stood before one of the slate sheets which covered his office’s walls. As always, the cuffs of his sky-blue uniform tunic were dusted with chalk and the fingers of his good hand were stained with ink. The short, plump Seamount was about as far removed from the popular imagination’s image of a sea officer as it would be possible to get, yet his fertile brain and driving energy were one of the primary reasons all those prize ships were anchored in King’s Harbor this sunny summer afternoon.
The rail-thin, black-haired commander standing respectfully to one side was at least ten or twelve years younger than Seamount. He radiated all the intensity and energy people tended not to notice just at first in his superior officer, and his left hand was heavily bandaged.
“It’s good to see you, Ahlfryd,” Rock Point said. “I apologize for not getting out here sooner, but—”
He shrugged, and Seamount nodded.
“I understand, Sir. You’ve had a lot to do.”
The commodore’s eyes dropped to the enormous rottweiler lying quietly beside his desk. Rock Point had inherited the acting rank of high admiral from Bryahn Lock Island, but Seamount had inherited Keelhaul. Frankly, the commodore was more than a little surprised the big, boisterous dog had survived his master’s death. For the first couple of five-days, he’d been afraid Keelhaul was going to grieve himself to death, and he still hadn’t fully regained the exuberance which had always been so much a part of him.
“Yes, I have.” Rock Point inhaled deeply, then crossed to one of the office’s armchairs. His peg leg thumped on the stone floor, the sound quite different from the sound his remaining shoe made, and he seated himself with a sigh of relief.
“Yes, I have,” he repeated, “but I’ve finally managed to steal a couple of days away from all the reams of paperwork. So why don’t the two of you dazzle me with what you’ve been up to while I’ve been away?”
“I don’t know if ‘dazzle’ is exactly the right word, Sir,” Seamount replied with a smile. “I do think you’re going to be impressed, though. Pleased, too, I hope.”
“I’m always impressed by your little surprises, Ahlfryd,” Rock Point said dryly. “Of course, sometimes I’m not so sure I’m going to survive them.”
“We’ll try to get you back to Destroyer undamaged, Sir.”
“I’m vastly reassured. Now, about those surprises?”
“Well, there are several of them, actually, Sir.”
Seamount crossed to the slate wall and reached for a piece of chalk. Rock Point watched him a bit warily. The commodore was a compulsive sketcher who had a tendency to illustrate his points enthusiastically.
“First, Sir, as you … suggested last time you were both here,” Seamount continued, “I’ve had Commander Mahndrayn and the Experimental Board finishing up the work on the rifled artillery pieces. Master Howsmyn’s provided us with the first three wire wound pieces, and they’ve performed admirably. They’re only twelve-pounders—although the shot weight’s actually closer to twenty-four pounds, given how much longer it is in proportion to its diameter—but as proof of the concept, they’ve been completely satisfactory. Master Howsmyn is confident he could go to production on much heavier weapons if and when you and Their Majesties should determine the time is right.”
“That’s excellent news, Ahlfryd!” Rock Point’s smile of pleasure was completely genuine, even though he’d already known what Seamount was going to report. Ehdwyrd Howsmyn had kept him fully informed. Unfortunately, Seamount wasn’t part of the inner circle, which meant explaining how Rock Point could have come by his knowledge would have been a trifle difficult.
“I’m not sure how our sudden acquisition of so many galleons is going to affect that decision,” he continued. “On the one hand, we’ve already revealed the existence of the shell-firing smoothbores, and I’m sure that bastard Clyntahn is going to provide dispensations right and left while the Church works on duplicating them. I still don’t see the additional theoretical range being all that valuable in a sea fight, what with the ships’ relative motion, but I’m beginning to think that if Ehdwyrd has the capacity available it might not be a bad idea to begin manufacturing and stockpiling the rifled pieces. That way they’d be available quickly if and when, as you say, we decide to shift over to them.”
“I’ll look into that, Sir,” Seam
ount said, chalk clacking as he turned to make a note to himself on the waiting slate. “It’ll probably mean he needs to further increase his wire-drawing capacity, as well, so the additional leadtime would almost certainly be a good thing.”
Rock Point nodded, and Seamount nodded back.
“Second,” he continued, “at that same meeting you suggested Commander Mahndrayn give some thought to the best way to protect a ship from shellfire. He’s done that, and discussed it with Sir Dustyn Olyvyr, as well. We don’t have anything like a finished plan yet, but a few things have become evident to us.”
“Such as?” Rock Point prompted, and Seamount gestured for Mahndrayn to take over.
“Well,” the commander said in the soft, surprisingly melodious tenor which always sounded just a bit odd to Rock Point coming out of someone who seemed so intense, “the first thing we realized was that wooden armor simply won’t work, Sir. We can make the ships’ scantlings thicker, but even if they’re too thick for a shell to actually smash through them, we can’t make them thick enough to guarantee it won’t penetrate into them before it detonates. If that happens, it would be almost as bad as no ‘armor’ at all. It could even be worse, given the fire hazard and how much worse the splinters would be. Another objection to wood is its weight. It’s a lot more massive for the same strength than iron, and the more we looked at it, the more obvious it became that iron armor that prevented shells from penetrating at all or actually broke them up on impact was the only practical answer.”
“Practical?” Rock Point asked with a faint smile, and Mahndrayn chuckled sourly.
“Within limits, Sir. Within limits.” The commander shrugged. “Actually, Master Howsmyn seems to feel that with his new smelting processes and the heavier hammer and rolling mills those ‘accumulators’ of his make possible he probably can provide iron plate to us in useful thicknesses and dimensions within the next six months to a year. He’s not sure about quantities yet, but my observation’s been that every one of his estimates for increased productivity has erred on the side of conservatism. And one thing’s certain—we haven’t seen any evidence that anyone on the other side would be in a position to match his production for years to come.”
“That’s true enough,” Rock Point conceded. In fact, it was even truer than Mahndrayn realized, although that didn’t mean enough small foundries couldn’t produce at least some useful quantities of armor, even using old-fashioned muscle power to hammer out the plates.
“Assuming Master Howsmyn can manufacture the plate, and that we can come up with a satisfactory way of securing it to the hull, there are still going to be weight considerations,” Mahndrayn continued. “Iron gives better protection than wood, but building in enough protection out of anything to stop shellfire is going to drive up displacements. That’s one of the problems I’ve been discussing with Sir Dustyn.
“I understand Doctor Mahklyn at the College is also working with Sir Dustyn on mathematical ways to predict displacements and sail power and stability. I’m afraid I’m not too well informed on that, and neither is Sir Dustyn, for that matter. He’s a practical designer of the old school, but he’s at least willing to give Doctor Mahklyn’s formulas a try once they’re finished. In the meantime, though, it’s obvious hull strength is already becoming an issue in our current designs. There’s simply an upper limit on the practical dimensions and weights which can be constructed out of a material like wood, and we’re approaching them rapidly. Sir Dustyn’s been working on several ways to reinforce the hull’s longitudinal strength, including diagonal planking and angled trusses between frames, but the most effective one he’s come up with uses iron. Basically, he’s boring holes in the ships’ frames, then using long iron bolts between adjacent frames to stiffen the hull. Obviously, he hasn’t had very long to observe the approach’s success at sea, but so far he says it looks very promising.
“When I approached him about the notion of hanging iron armor on the outside of the ship, however, he told me immediately that he didn’t think a wooden hull was going to be very practical. I’d already expected that response, so I asked him what he thought about going to a ship that was wooden-planked but iron-framed. Frankly, I expected him to think the notion was preposterous, but it turns out he’d already been thinking in that direction, himself. In fact, his suggestion was that we should think about building the entire ship out of iron.”
Rock Point’s eyes widened, and this time his surprise was genuine. Not at the notion of iron or steel-hulled vessels, but at the discovery that Sir Dustyn Olyvyr was already thinking in that direction.
“I can see where that would offer some advantages,” he said after a moment. “But I can see a few drawbacks, too. For example, you can repair a wooden hull almost anywhere. A shattered iron frame member would be just a bit more difficult for the carpenters to fix! And then there’s the question of whether or not even Master Howsmyn could produce iron in quantities like that.”
“Oh, I agree entirely, Sir. I was impressed by the audacity of the suggestion, though, and the more I’ve thought about it, the more I have to say I believe the advantages would vastly outweigh the drawbacks—assuming, as you say, Master Howsmyn could produce the iron we needed. That’s for the future, however. For the immediate future, the best we’re going to be able to do is go to composite building techniques, with iron frames and wooden planking. And the truth is that that’ll still give us significant advantages over all-wooden construction.”
“I can see that. At the same time, I’d be very reluctant to simply scrap all the ships we’ve already built—not to mention the ones we’ve just captured—and start over with an entirely new construction technique.”
“Yes, Sir. As an intermediate step, we’ve been looking at the possibility of cutting an existing galleon down by a full deck. We’d sacrifice the spar deck armament and completely remove the forecastle and quarterdeck. That should save us enough weight to allow the construction of an iron casemate to protect the broadside guns. We’d only have a single armed deck, but the guns would be much better protected. And we’ve also been considering that with shell-firing weapons we could reduce the number of broadside guns and actually increase the destructiveness of the armament. Our present thinking is that we might completely remove the current krakens and all the carronades from a ship like Destroyer, say, and replace them with half as many weapons with an eight- or nine-inch bore. The smaller gun would fire a solid rifled shot somewhere around a hundred and eighty to two hundred pounds. The shell would probably be about half that, allowing for the bursting charge. In an emergency, it could fire a sixty-eight-pound round shot, which would still be more destructive than just about anything else currently at sea.”
“Rate of fire would drop significantly with that many fewer guns,” Rock Point pointed out, and Mahndrayn nodded.
“Absolutely, Sir. On the other hand, each hit would be enormously more destructive. It takes dozens of hits, sometimes hundreds, to drive a galleon out of action with solid shot. A handful of hundred-pound exploding shells would be more than enough to do the job, and just to indicate how the weapons would scale, a rifled thirty-pounder’s shot would weigh about ninety pounds, which would give you a shell weight of only forty-five or so, so you can see the advantage the larger gun has. Of course, the smoothbore thirty-pounder’s shell is only around twenty-five pounds, and its bursting charge is proportionately lighter, as well. And if both sides start armoring their vessels with iron, anything much lighter than eight inches probably won’t penetrate, anyway.”
“That sounds logical enough,” Rock Point acknowledged. “We’ll have to think about it, of course. Fortunately it’s not a decision we’re going to have to make anytime soon.”
“I’m afraid we might have to make it sooner than you may be thinking, Sir,” Seamount put in. Rock Point looked at him, and the commodore shrugged. “You’re talking about the possibility of beginning production and stockpiling weapons, Sir,” he reminded his superior. “If we’re goi
ng to do that, we’re going to have to decide which weapons to build, first.”
“Now that, Ahlfryd, is a very good point,” Rock Point agreed. “Very well, I’ll be thinking about it, and I’ll discuss it with the Emperor as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Seamount smiled. “In the meantime, we have a few other thoughts that should be more immediately applicable to our needs.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You may have noticed Commander Mahndrayn’s hand, Sir?”
“You mean that fathom of gauze wrapped around it?” Rock Point asked dryly.
“Exactly, Sir.” Seamount held up his own left hand, which had been mangled by an explosion many years before. “I think Urvyn was trying to do me one better. Unfortunately, he failed. All of his fingers are still intact … more or less.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Exactly what bearing does that have on our present discussion, however?”
“Well, what actually happened, Sir,” Seamount said more seriously, “is that we’ve been experimenting with better ways to fire our artillery. The flintlocks we’ve gone to are far, far better than the old slow match-and-linstock or heated irons we used to use. That most of our new prizes’ guns are still using, for that matter. But they still aren’t as efficient as we could wish. I’m sure you’re even better aware than we are here at the Experimental Board of how many misfires we still experience, especially when there’s a lot of spray around or it’s raining. So we’ve been looking for a more reliable method, and we’ve found one.”
“You have?” Rock Point’s eyes narrowed.
“Actually, we’ve come up with two of them, Sir.” Seamount shrugged. “Both work, but I have to admit to a strong preference for one of them over the other.”