A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “But what our captains’ reports make clear is that defeating an enemy vessel depended much more on destroying its crew than on destroying the fabric of the ship itself.” Mahndrayn’s eyes were intent, and he leaned forward slightly, hands moving in eloquent (if unconscious) gestures. “It was casualties which rendered a ship unable to continue to fight or maneuver, more often than not, Sir. Galleons are going to be more vulnerable to damage aloft than galleys, but galleys are more vulnerable to personnel losses among their rowers, and neither of them can fight effectively if they lose too much of their crews. That was the decisive factor in almost every combat report I’ve been able to examine.

  “So, instead of trying to sink the ship, it’s more effective to concentrate on using the ship’s hull to inflict casualties on the ship’s crew.” He raised both hands, palm uppermost. “Our tests indicate that a large, heavy shot, moving just fast enough to punch through the scantlings on one side of the hull but not fast enough to continue clear across and punch out through the other side, or simply embed itself, will produce the most casualties. It will produce the most splinters on its way through, and clouds of splinters, spreading outward from the shot hole, are going to produce maximum casualties. And if the ball doesn’t continue clear out of the ship or embed itself in its timbers, it will be available to ricochet around the gundeck and inflict additional direct casualties.”

  Rock Point nodded slowly. A part of him couldn’t help being just a little appalled at Mahndrayn’s cold- blooded approach to the best way to inflict the maximum number of casualties—how to kill or maim the most human beings possible—per shot. At the same time, he knew that was foolish of him. The object of any commander worthy of his men had to be finding ways to kill as many of their enemies in exchange for as few of them as possible.

  “On the basis of our tests,” Mahndrayn continued, “mounting the heaviest possible guns, taking into consideration factors such as how quickly they can be served and the effect their weight has on the ship’s structure, should provide the most effective armament. Fewer hits would be scored, but each individual hit would be far more effective.

  “That’s true for round shot, but our tests also indicate it’s even more true for shell- firing guns.” The commander shook his head, his eyes intent, as if gazing at something Rock Point couldn’t see. “We haven’t had many shells to experiment with—we’re still basically manufacturing them one at a time as needed for the tests, and Master Howsmyn tells me it’s going to be several months before we could go to any sort of volume production. But even with the relative handful we’ve been able to test, the difference between a single hit from a thirty- pounder firing a solid shot and a thirty- pounder firing a shell is . . . profound, Sir. As I say, a round shot punches a relatively small hole in the hull; a shell, especially if it lodges in the ship’s timbers, blows a huge hole. By our mea sure, the holes a thirty- pounder’s solid shot produces are only about five inches in diameter. Actually, they’re a little less than that, allowing for the wood’s elasticity. The holes a shell blows through the same hull are up to three and even six feet in diameter. One of those below the waterline, or even simply between wind and water, would be almost impossible for a carpenter to patch. One or two might be survivable, if the ship could fother a sail across the hole quickly enough, but several of them would send the biggest galleon in the world to the bottom.

  “In addition, shells are far more destructive to a ship’s upper works, as well. Not only do they tear holes in the side, they also produce more splinters in the process and destroy the ship’s structural integrity far more rapidly and effectively than round shot, as well. And they have a powerful incendiary effect.” The commander shook his head again. “By any standard, Admiral, a shell- firing armament is going to be enormously more destructive than one firing round shot.”

  “I see.” Rock Point gazed at Mahndrayn for a moment, then walked back across to the window and gazed down upon his flagship once more. “And what about the manufacturing problems your report mentioned?”

  “We’re working on those, Sir,” Seamount responded. “As Urvyn says, Master Howsmyn is making progress—in fact, he’s building an entirely new facility at his main foundry expressly to make them. We don’t want to interrupt the production of our existing, standard projectiles, and casting a hollow shot is going to be both more complicated and more time- consuming than casting solid shot. That means we won’t be able to produce shells as rapidly as round shot even when he has his new facility up and running, especially since we need to produce fuses for them, as well. Each shell for Commander Mahndrayn’s evaluation was basically special- made for him. If we’re going to produce them in adequate numbers, we need to get them up to a production rate which is at least half, let’s say, the rate for round shot, and we’re still a long way from that. As I say, Master Howsmyn’s making progress, though, and I think he’ll be able to begin large- scale production, if not at the rate we’d prefer, by, say, October. After that, it will take us several months—more likely at least a half year—to produce enough of them to replace our magazine allotments of round shot on a one- for- one basis.”

  “I see,” Rock Point repeated, never taking his eyes from Destroyer. He tried to imagine what a deluge of explosive shells would do to his flagship and her crew. Then he decided he didn’t want to imagine that, after all.

  He shook himself, glanced at Mahklyn out of the corner of one eye, and turned back to Seamount and Mahndrayn.

  “Obviously, you’re authorized to proceed, Ahlfryd. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you or any of your people about the need for absolute secrecy. Our best estimate right now is that sometime next spring or early next summer, the Group of Four’s navy will be ready—or as close to ‘ready’ as it’s ever going to be—to come after us. When that happens, we’re going to need every advantage we can get to even the odds. Including your infernal exploding shells. And we need those advantages to come as surprises to the other side.”

  “Yes, Sir. Understood.” Seamount nodded soberly, and Rock Point nodded back. Then he inhaled deeply.

  “Which brings us,” he said, “to your rifled artillery pieces.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Seamount’s eyes brightened visibly. “Ahlfryd and Commodore Mahndrayn have accomplished some really remarkably accurate shooting, Sir Domynyk,” Rahzhyr Mahklyn put in helpfully.

  “Indeed we have, Admiral!” Seamount beamed. “In fact, Urvyn and his crews, firing a rifled thirty- pounder, have been able to score hits regularly at ranges of over six thousand yards. In one test, they registered eight hits out of ten shots fired at a measured range of sixty- five hundred yards on a target the same length and height as one of our schooners!”

  Rock Point nodded, and he was just as impressed as his expression indicated. One of the new- model thirty- pounder smoothbores could throw a ball six thousand yards, given enough elevation, but the probability of hitting anything as small as a ship at that range was essentially non ex is tent. And that was true even when the gun was firing from solid land, as Mahndrayn’s crew had been doing in the test- firing Seamount had just described.

  Which is rather the point,the admiral thought wryly. “I expect we’ll be able to extend the range still farther once Master Howsmyn begins producing his ‘wire- built’ guns,” Seamount continued enthusiastically. “Of course, that’s still going to take some time. Not as much as I was afraid it would, though. His mechanics’ designs for the wire- drawing equipment have been completed and tested now. It’s coming up with a way to turn the gun and wrap the wire with sufficient precision and accuracy that’s taking the time at this point. Well, that and the power of the machinery we need. You see—”

  “Ahlfryd.”

  Seamount closed his mouth, and his eyes narrowed as he recognized the gentleness—and something very like . . . regret—in Rock Point’s tone.

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve just said Commander Mahndrayn’s gun crews
scored eighty percent hits at a range of over three miles. Is that accurate?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Seamount confirmed just a bit warily. “I assume this required favorable circumstances. I mean, clear weather for good visibility? A stable gun platform?”

  “Well, yes, Sir. Of course. But even under less than ideal conditions, accuracy would obviously be greatly enhanced, and—”

  “I realize that,” Rock Point said. “But, here’s the thing, Ahlfryd. We’re not going to have those ideal conditions at sea. Even under the best of conditions, both the ship and the target are going to be moving. In fact, they’re going to be moving in several different directions at once.”

  “Of course, Sir. But as I was saying, even if conditions are less than perfect, we’d still—”

  “Ahlfryd, who’s going to be more likely to have conditions favorable for long- range engagements with these rifled guns of yours? A fleet at sea—like, say, ours— or a nice stable, unmoving, solid stone fortress—like, say, one that belongs to the Group of Four? One that our ships might be attacking?”

  Seamount sat very still for a moment. Then his shoulders slumped. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with one hand. At the end of his desk, Commander Mahndrayn looked equally crestfallen. If the subject matter had been even a little less deadly serious, Rock Point was fairly certain he would have found it very difficult not to laugh at their expressions.

  “I suppose we should have thought of that, shouldn’t we?” Seamount said finally, his tone chagrined. “Obviously, this is something that’s going to favor the defense more than the offense, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know that that’s true in every case,” Rock Point demurred. “As you just pointed out, and as Dr. Mahklyn pointed out when he and High Admiral Lock Island and I first discussed this, your rifled guns are going to be more accurate at all ranges, including the ones at which naval artillery is already effective. That’s nothing to sneer at. The problem is that in order to deal effectively with this new navy the Church is building, we’re more likely to be attacking their anchorages than they are to be attacking ours. Or, to put it another way, if they are in a position to attack our anchorages, we’re probably already completely screwed. This is obviously something we want to pursue, but we’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not something we want to actually put aboard ship. Not yet.”

  “I see.” Seamount’s disappointment was still obvious, but he gave himself a shake and managed to smile. “So what do you and High Admiral Lock Island—and Dr. Mahklyn, I’m assuming—want us to do with this, Sir?”

  “We want you to continue to develop it,” Rock Point said crisply. “From what you’ve been saying, we wouldn’t be in a position to put these new guns into production for some time, anyway. It seems more likely to us from your reports that we’ll be able to provide shells for the smoothbores much more quickly. So our thinking at this point is that we press ahead as quickly as possible with the smoothbores. In fact, it’s been suggested that we look into producing Commander Mahndrayn’s proposed heavy shell guns, possibly something with an eight- or nine- inch bore, specifically to fire the most destructive shells possible. That should give us a decisive advantage at sea even without rifled artillery.

  “At the same time, and under conditions of as much secrecy as possible, press the development of Master Howsmyn’s rifled pieces—hard. Go ahead and test them here, at King’s Harbor, where you can keep curious eyes at bay. Once you’ve come up with a workable model, we’ll go ahead and put it into production as a shore- defense weapon. If the gun proves practical as a seagoing weapon, as well, we’ll develop a naval carriage for it, too. But we’ll hold it in reserve until either we know we’re going to need it to defend ourselves, or we’re in a position of such strength that revealing it to the enemy isn’t going to be critical.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And in the meantime, Commander,” Rock Point went on with a flashing smile as he turned his attention to Mahndrayn, “High Admiral Lock Island and I have another little challenge for you and your purveyors of destruction.”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  If Seamount had sounded a bit wary a few moments before, there was downright trepidation in Mahndrayn’s tone, and Rock Point’s smile broadened.

  “Oh, it’s nothing too complicated, Commander,” he assured the younger man. “It’s just that, as your tests have so thoroughly demonstrated, explosive shells are going to be extremely destructive. That being the case, and since your tests were so thorough and so professionally executed, it seems to the High Admiral and myself that you’re the perfect man for our next project—figuring out how to protect or armor a ship’s hull so that shells don’t tear it apart.”

  His smile turned positively beatific at Mahndrayn’s expression. “I’m sure you’ll find it no challenge at all, Commander.”

  .VI.

  Manchyr Cathedral,

  City of Manchyr,

  Princedom of Corisande

  Sir Koryn Gahrvai stood as the organ prelude soared like the wings of the Archangels themselves and the vast doors of Manchyr Cathedral swung open. The procession started up the aisle behind the scepter- bearer and the thurifer. Ropes of sweet- smelling smoke trailed the jeweled thurible as it swung on its golden chain, and the thurifer was followed by a half- dozen candle-bearers, then a solid phalanx of acolytes and under- priests. Behind that, however, came the true reason the cathedral was so densely packed on this particular Wednesday.

  Archbishop Maikel Staynair, Primate of the Church of Charis, followed those acolytes, those under- priests. As the cathedral choir’s massed voices rose in glorious song, those close enough to the archbishop could see his lips moving as he sang along with them. The rubies of his crown glittered like fresh hearts of blood in the morning sunlight spilling through the cathedral’s stained glass, and he was a full head taller than Klairmant Gairlyng, who walked at his side.

  They paced steadily through the tumultuous waves of music and voices, and Gahrvai wondered how hard it was to do that. Despite the serenity of the archbishop’s expression, the memory of the Temple Loyalists who’d attempted to assassinate him in his own cathedral had to be floating about in his mind, especially in light of what had happened to Tymahn Hahskans.

  If it was, there was no sign of it in Staynair’s demeanor, and Gahrvai discovered he wasn’t really surprised by that.

  His lips twitched as he remembered Staynair’s initial meeting with his own father and the rest of the Regency Council—minus Earl Craggy Hill, who’d been rather conveniently (in Gahrvai’s opinion) recalled to Vahlainah by some purely local affair. Although he supposed it was undutiful of him, Gahrvai had decided his father’s attitude towards the archbishop had been remarkably similar to a stiff- legged hunting hound whose keen sense of smell suggested he was about to come face- to- face with a slash lizard. Tartarian had been less overtly stiff, though even his manner had been more than a bit wary, and the rest of the Regency Council’s reactions had ranged downward from there.

  Yet there was something about Maikel Staynair....

  Sir Koryn Gahrvai couldn’t put a label on that “something,” but whatever it was, it was potent stuff. It was less what the archbishop had said than how he’d said it, Gahrvai decided. He’d obviously simply decided to assume the members of the council were men of goodwill. That, despite the fact of Cayleb’s—and, for that matter, his own—excommunication, they’d given their oaths in good faith. That he understood their first concern must be the welfare of the Corisandians who looked to them for protection. That he took it for granted that when men of goodwill recognized a problem, they would seek its solution.

  And it had been equally evident that if there was a single intolerant, bigoted, zealotry- ridden bone anywhere in his entire body he was a wizard at concealing it.

  That’s his real secret weapon,Gahrvai thought now. He genuinely is a man of God. I don’t think there’s an ounce of weakness anywhere in him, yet it’s obvious—to me, at least—that
it’s gentleness that drives him. Outraged gentleness, perhaps, but still gentleness. No one can spend twenty minutes in his presence without realizing that. He may be wrong, but there’s no question that he’s motivated by genuine love for God and his fellow man. And what makes that “secret weapon” so effective is that it’s not a weapon at all. It’s simply the way he is. Of course, there’s also. ...The general’s eyes drifted upward to the royal box. As in every cathedral, it was close enough to the sanctuary to be certain its occupants saw and heard everything clearly. With Prince Daivyn and Princess Irys in exile in Delferahk, the box was rather conspicuously unoccupied. Which only made the single Imperial Guardsman standing in front of its closed wicket gate even more noticeable.

  He wore the black armor and the black, gold, blue, and silver of the Charisian Empire, but what everyone seemed to notice about him first were those strange sapphire eyes. Unlike the vast majority of Corisandians, Gahrvai had met Seijin Merlin Athrawes before. Indeed, every member of the Regency Council had met him, in passing, at least, and the Earls of Anvil Rock and Tartarian had spent quite a bit of time in his company, since he’d been the only armsman Cayleb had allowed to be present during the surrender negotiations. Sir Alyk Ahrthyr knew him even better, in some ways—or knew the seijin’s handiwork better, at any rate, since it was the only thing that had kept him alive at the Battle of Green Valley.

  But everyone in the entire princedom knew his reputation. Knew he was the most deadly warrior in the entire world . . . and that he’d personally killed all three of the assassins who’d attacked Staynair in Tellesberg Cathedral. So knowing he was there, alert eyes sweeping back and forth constantly over the packed cathedral, probably contributed at least a little bit to the archbishop’s serenity.

  The opening hymn carried Staynair and Gairlyng to the sanctuary, and Gahrvai settled back in his own pew once both archbishops had seated themselves in their waiting thrones and the congregation was free to sit, as well.