by David Weber
It was true, and he knew it, and he wished he could bring himself to cut his own access to the SNARC—long enough, at least, to complete this ceremony. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t, and so he took refuge behind the stern “on- duty” façade of Seijin Merlin while the back of his mind continued to watch those tiny beads of light creeping steadily, steadily east.
.V.
East of the Harchong Narrows,
Gulf of Dohlar
Gwylym Manthyr wasn’t surprised by his fatigue. After the last three days, he would have been astounded if his knees hadn’t felt just a bit too limber and his eyes hadn’t ached.
He stretched and yawned as he looked around Dancer’s quarterdeck in the morning light. His flagship had come through the tempest more or less intact, but she hadn’t gotten off unscathed. Despite his having sent down the royals and topgallants, she’d lost her main and mizzen topmasts when a rogue wave rolled her almost onto her beam ends. She’d recovered—something he wouldn’t have been prepared to bet on at the moment—and the violent roll as she came back the other direction had whipped the topmasts out of her.
The good news was that the wind had continued backing. By now, it was out of the south- southeast, far enough abaft the bow for Dancer to hold a west-erly heading once again, close- hauled on the port tack under her main and mizzen courses and her fore topsail. It was an awkward, ill- balanced spread of canvas, but it was the best Captain Mahgail could manage until he could sway up replacement masts and spars. Unfortunately, the main and mizzen topgallant and royal masts had been lashed to the since- vanished topmasts when they were brought down and housed. They’d gone over the side with the lower masts, which meant they had to be replaced, as well. Not only would that require extra time, but Dancer didn’t have that many replacement spars onboard. What ever they could cobble up was going to be jury- rigged, at best, at least until Captain Mahgail could get her back to Claw Island and do a proper job.
Looks like some of those coasters full of naval stores you sent back to Claw Island will come in handy after all,he thought with a certain relish. The notion of using the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s own spars to repair his damages appealed to him strongly.
And it was as well he had them, he reflected, his smile fading, because Dancer wasn’t the only galleon who’d suffered damage aloft. Not surprisingly, the storm had scattered his ships. Only six of them were in sight at the moment, including Dancer, and four had lost spars, sails, or masts of their own. In fact, HMS Rock Point had lost her entire foremast, and her decks were a swarm of activity as her captain prepared to step a replacement. From Dancer’s quarterdeck, it looked as if he was using a spare main yard, which would probably serve well enough until they could get a proper mast set up back at Hardship Bay.
The true miracle, as far as Manthyr was concerned, was that HMS Messenger, the smallest of the schooners attached to the squadron, had not only survived the storm intact, but had actually located the flagship afterward. Just how Lieutenant Commander Grahzaial had managed both those feats was more than the admiral was prepared to guess at this point, but it certainly confirmed his already high opinion of Grahzaial’s seamanship.
That young man’s in line for bigger and better things,Manthyr thought. Then his lips twitched. Of course, giving up something as lively as Messenger in return for a great, lumbering galleon may not strike him as a “better thing,” at least at first. I’m sure he’ll get over it, though.
At the moment, Messenger was well to the east, keeping a wary eye on the horizon. Manthyr still wasn’t certain exactly how deep into the Gulf of Dohlar they’d been driven, but his best guess put him just east of the Harchong Narrows, the roughly four- hundred- and- fifty- mile stretch between Stene’s Cape Samuel to the north and the northern coast of Kyznetsov to the south. That would put him the better part of twelve hundred miles from Claw Island, which, combined with his ships’ damaged rigging, was going to make getting back to the island a slow, dragging, unmitigated pain in the arse. At the same time, he didn’t really expect the entire Dohlaran Navy to come sailing right at him. As severely as the storm had handled his own experienced, well- trained, well- found ships, he hated to think what it would have done to a less experienced fleet. If the Earl of Thirsk and his galleons had gotten in the way of that storm, they’d be lucky if they hadn’t lost entire ships, far less the occasional mast or spar.
He stepped back out of the way as Lieutenant Yairman Seasmoke, Dancer’s first lieutenant, and her boatswain prepared to send the replacement mizzen top-mast aloft. Mahgail was actually using a replacement fore topmast, which was a bit longer than the mizzen topmast it was replacing, but approximately the same diameter, which would allow it to fit through the hole in the lower mast cap once it was set up. The broken stub of the original topmast had been lowered to the deck, and the jeers, the top rope, and the top block attached to the underside of the cap were already in place. Now the men on the hauling end of the top rope took the strain and the replacement spar began inching upward, supported by the rope rove through the sheave in its heel. It was longer than the lower mast’s height above deck, so it had been necessary to take the heel of the new topmast forward, lowering it through the removed spar deck gratings to get sufficient clearance for it to be started up, but Seasmoke and the boatswain had things well in hand, and Manthyr watched the evolution with satisfaction.
“Excuse me, Sir.”
Manthyr turned toward the politely raised voice and smiled at Lieutenant Rahzmahn. The auburn- haired young Chisholmian looked as tired as Manthyr felt.
“Naiklos, ah... requested that I inform you your breakfast is ready. I believe he’s a bit provoked at not being able to offer you fresh eggs this morning.”
Rahzmahn’s expression was admirably grave, but the corners of his lips twitched, and Manthyr snorted. Both the chicken coop and the wyvern coop (wyverns and chickens couldn’t be confined together, because the former had a tendency to eat the latter) had been washed overboard during the storm. Manthyr was grateful it hadn’t been far worse, but Naiklos Vahlain clearly took it as a personal affront that the first hot meal he’d been able to offer his admiral in four days was going to be less than perfect.
“I’m sure he is—a bit provoked, I mean,” the admiral said. “Which probably means I shouldn’t keep him waiting. I assume you’ll join me, Dahnyld?”
“Thank you, Sir. I will.”
“Then let’s you and I go beard the dragon in his lair.”
Manthyr was just finishing his third cup of tea, feeling pleasantly fed (fresh eggs or no), when someone knocked on the cabin door.
Vahlain scurried over to open it, and the admiral looked up, then raised his eyebrows and lowered his cup as Captain Mahgail stepped into the cabin.
“I apologize for interrupting your breakfast, Sir Gwylym.” The flag captain could not have spoken more courteously, but something about his manner jangled an alarm bell in the back of Manthyr’s brain.
“That’s quite all right, Raif,” he replied, setting the cup on its saucer. “Dahnyld and I had just finished. What can I do for you?”
“Sir, we’ve just received a signal from Messenger. She reports five sail, all galleons, bearing almost due east. According to Commander Grahzaial, it’s a chase and four pursuers. And”— he met Manthyr’s eyes levelly across the breakfast table—“the lead ship is flying Charisian colors.”
Captain Caitahno Raisahndo stood on HMS Rakurai’s quarterdeck, hands clasped behind him, and watched with fierce anticipation as his ship slowly, slowly overtook the fleeing Charisian galleon while three of her consorts—including Captain Saigahn’s Guardsman— drove hard in her wake under all the canvas they could carry. Under normal circumstances, the Charisian would have been faster than they were, but she’d obviously been handled hard by the storm which had charged up the Gulf of Dohlar. It looked as if her mainmast might have been sprung during the storm. There had to be some reason she wasn’t carrying more sail when she was being pursued at f
our- to- one odds, at any rate.
At the moment, Raisahndo didn’t really care what her problem was. What he cared about was that the Royal Dohlaran Navy was about to exact its vengeance for the action off Dragon Island. And just as Earl Thirsk had promised, Raisahndo and his ship would be in the lead.
He turned and looked astern. Beyond HMS Scimitar, the rearmost ship of his own little force, he saw the mastheads and topgallants of at least two dozen other ships. Some were very nearly hull- up from Rakurai’s quarterdeck; the others were more strung out, scattered as each of them made the best speed she could in obedience to Earl Thirsk’s signal for “General Chase.” Some of the larger, purpose- built galleons, like Sir Dahrand Rohsail’s Grand Vicar Mahrys, which had been at the rear of the fleet’s formation when the chase began, were forging steadily ahead of their slower merchant- conversion consorts thanks to their bigger, more powerful sail plans. But none of them were going to overtake Rakurai before she overtook the Charisian she’d been pursuing since just before dawn.
“Excuse me, Captain.”
Raisahndo turned back forward and found himself facing Lieutenant Mahntee, Rakurai’s first lieutenant.
“Yes, Charlz?”
“Sir, the forward masthead reports the chase is signaling.”
“Signaling?” Raisahndo frowned. “I don’t suppose the lookout can see who she might be signaling to?”
“No, Sir. Not yet,” Mahntee replied . . . which came as no particular surprise. Whoever the Charisian was signaling to must be well ahead, still over the horizon from Raisahndo’s own more distant lookouts. Although, he reflected, whoever it was couldn’t be too far ahead if he was close enough to read the chase’s signals.
He felt his hands folding more tightly together behind his back. Signal flags implied someone to signal to, and Admiral Thirsk’s most recent intelligence reports indicated the Charisian admiral had decided to retire on Claw Island, at least temporarily, which probably meant they’d met the storm head- on. If they’d been scattered in the heavy weather, that might explain what the solitary Charisian fleeing from Raisahndo was doing this far east all by herself.
But it also meant he and the three ships in company with Rakurai might be rapidly closing with up to another twenty or so Charisian galleons.
That would be like the old story about the hunting hounds that caught the slash lizard,he thought with grim humor. On the other hand, I’ve got the Earl and all the rest of the fleet handy for support. For that matter, it’s always possible this fellow in front of me’s signaling to an empty ocean, hoping he can bluff me into thinking he’s got support handy.
“Very well, Charlz. I don’t know if the rest of the fleet’s close enough to read our signals, but signal Scimitar. Have her repeat to the Flag. ‘Estimate unknown number enemy sail ahead. Chase signaling.’ She’s to keep that hoist flying until it’s acknowledged by someone astern of her.”
“At once, Sir.”
Mahntee saluted, then beckoned for a midshipman while Captain Raisahn -do gazed ahead once more at the weather-stained canvas of the ship he was slowly overhauling.
“Another signal from Messenger, Sir Gwylym.”
Captain Mahgail’s voice was harsher, and Manthyr warned his face to remain calm as he turned from the stern windows to face the flag captain. Lieutenant Commander Grahzaial had taken his small schooner farther to the east, trying to get into signal range of the Dohlaran galleon. That had taken her beyond any distance at which Dancer’s signalmen could read her own signals. Now, the better part of two hours later, she was clearly close enough for that once more.
“Yes, Raif?” he inquired levelly, and Mahgail glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand.
“Messenger signals, ‘Chase bears east- by- north, distance from Flag thirty miles. Chase identified HMS Talisman. Talisman reports damaged mainmast and four Dohlaran galleons in pursuit, range twelve miles, own speed six knots. Also reports many additional sail in sight to eastward.’ ”
“I see.”
Manthyr turned back to the windows, listening to the sounds transmitted through the deck overhead as Dancer’s crew attacked her repairs with redoubled energy. Not that it was going to make a great deal of difference.
Thirty miles to Captain Tymahn Klahrksain’s Talisman. Twelve more to her pursuers, and, say, twenty to those “many additional sail” Klahrksain had reported. Fifty miles, then. The wind had freshened and backed still farther to the east. It was blowing a stiff topgallant breeze by now—not enough to significantly hamper Dancer’s repairs, but it wasn’t going to make them go any quicker, either. Rock Point was going to be rather more bothered by it, trying to replace her entire foremast, of course.
But what mattered was that Talisman was making at least six knots, even with damage— And how much damage? he wondered—aloft. If she could do that much but was still being overtaken, then her pursuers had to be capable of at least, say, seven. At the moment, Dancer could make possibly three, and Rock Point was even slower than that. Which meant the Dohlarans were overhauling him, whether they realized it or not, at somewhere around five knots.
Ten hours,he thought. No more than five before their lookouts are able to see us, and it’s not even lunchtime yet.
The long summer Safeholdian day stretched out before him. There were at least another fourteen hours of daylight, and as if that weren’t bad enough, the moon was just past full and he didn’t see a cloud in the sky.
They’re going to overhaul you, Gwylym,he told himself coldly. It’s going to happen. Now, what do you do about it?
Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk, looked down at the chart spread on his cabin table while he considered Rakurai’s signal.
By Thirsk’s best estimate, anyone the fleeing Charisian galleon might be signaling to had to be at least fifty or sixty miles ahead. Normally, the chance of overtaking Charisians in this sort of weather wouldn’t be very good—on average, Charisian galleons were bigger, able to carry more sail for a given wind condition, and despite any improvements to the Dohlaran Navy’s sail plans, Charisian sails were still individually larger and more efficient.
But that assumes they’re undamaged, Lywys, and it’s pretty obvious the fellow in front of Raisahndo isn’t undamaged. Which means. ...
He suppressed the surge of anticipation, but it was hard. And what made it even harder was that the scenario unfolding in his mind’s eye seemed so plausible.
He and his own galleons had been fortunate to make it into the shelter of Saram Bay when he realized the weather was making up. There, sheltered by the sharp fishhook shape of Cape Samuel, they’d ridden out the howling storm safe and snug. Even in their sheltered anchorage, two of his ships had dragged their anchors, but they’d managed to lay out additional anchors in plenty of time, and no one had ever been in any danger.
He’d been relieved by his ability to find shelter, because he’d been confi-dent that, despite the vast improvement in his crews’ sail drill, they would have lost ships if they’d been caught at sea. It wouldn’t have been anyone’s fault, either—just the consequences of inexperience, one of those little things landsmen didn’t consider when they started blithely talking about throwing fleets around. He’d wondered at the time if any of his opponent’s ships had been caught on the open sea, and he’d gotten his answer shortly before dawn.
Captain Raisahndo wasn’t the only person pursuing a Charisian galleon this morning. Three more of Thirsk’s galleons were the better part of forty miles to the south, pursuing a second Charisian at that very moment. Whether or not they were going to overtake her was another matter, but they were to windward of her, forcing her to flee farther east— deeper into the Gulf—to elude them. Unlike Raisahndo’s quarry, the second Charisian’s rigging appeared undamaged, and she was managing to open the range between her and her pursuers, albeit slowly. But even if she managed to shake them off completely, she’d still have to get back past the rest of Thirsk’s fleet eventually if she wanted to escape the Gulf.
And even allowing for the ships off chasing the second Charisian, he had thirty- nine.
“Ahlvyn,” he said, never looking away from the chart.
“Yes, My Lord?” Commander Khapahr replied.
“Have Captain Baiket signal all ships in company. ‘Suspect maximum eighteen enemy sail bearing approximately due west, distance fifty miles. Make all possible sail. Prepare for battle.’ ”
It was just after midday when the first Dohlaran galleon came into sight from Dancer’s quarterdeck. There were four of them, actually, and the two leading ships had been exchanging long- range fire with Talisman for over an hour before Manthyr found them with his own spyglass. It was unlikely Talisman’s long fourteens were going to inflict serious damage at such extended range, and even less likely the Dohlarans’ lighter twelve- pounders were going to accomplish a great deal. Especially when none of the pursuers could bring more than two guns each to bear, compared to Talisman’s four stern chasers. The possibility always existed, of course, and as Dancer’s own lamed condition demonstrated only too clearly, damage aloft could impose severe constraints on a ship’s ability to maneuver. More than that, the breeze was stiff enough, and everyone was carrying such a heavy press of canvas, that even damage which would normally have been minor could quickly become serious.
But Talisman hadn’t been lucky enough to inflict that sort of damage on any of her pursuers, and as the range had dropped, Captain Klahrksain’s reports had become ever more detailed . . . and hopeless.
There were at least thirty Dohlaran ships back there. For that matter, Manthyr could see the topgallants of at least twenty of them from his own quarter-deck now. And, unlike his own ship, they were obviously undamaged.