by David Weber
How the hell did Thirsk pull that off?a corner of Manthyr’s brain wondered almost conversationally. He sure as hell can’t have been through what we went through! So how . . . ?
Saram Bay, he decided. That was the only answer, given the relative positions of the two forces and the Dohlarans’ present heading. They’d managed to get into the bay’s shelter, ridden out the storm, and then come hunting again.
And this time, they’d gotten lucky.
There wasn’t a defeatist bone in Sir Gwylym Manthyr’s body, but he was a realist, and even adding Talisman to the ships already in company with Dancer, he’d have only eight. Eight . . . and only four of them were truly anything he’d call maneuverable. Rock Point and Dancer certainly weren’t. Damsel, one of his converted merchantmen, had lost her fore and main topmasts. She was in little better shape than Dancer, and her repairs had been going more slowly. Avalanche, yet another converted merchantman, had lost her jibboom and bowsprit when she buried her head in a massive wave. The total sail area she’d lost wasn’t all that vast, but headsails were particularly important when it came to maneuvering. Almost worse, she’d lost all four of the essential stays which set up from the complex structure of the foremast to the bowsprit, providing every bit of its forward support, which seriously weakened the entire structure of her rigging. Her crew had steeved a spare main topgallant yard as a stubby substitute, lashing it to the remnants of the shattered bowsprit, but it projected forward for barely twenty feet. That was a poor substitute for the bowsprit and jibboom’s original ninety feet of length. They were rigging the new stays now—or working on it, at any rate—but even once they’d done that, her foremast would be far more fragile than before the storm.
Dasherand Destruction, his remaining two galleons, were undamaged aloft. In this sort of weather, with any sort of head start, they should be able to show a clear pair of heels to any Dohlaran galleon ever launched. Except that none of their consorts could do the same thing.
Gwylym Manthyr had considered his limited options and alternatives carefully. And then, unflinchingly, he’d made his decision.
“Hoist the signal to Dasher and Destruction, if you please,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Rahzmahn replied, equally quietly.
Within minutes, the gaily colored bunting was streaming to the wind, stiff and starched as so much hammered metal. Manthyr didn’t look up at the signal himself, although he saw some members of Dancer’s company craning their necks as the flags broke. Every man aboard knew what the signal said; Manthyr had agreed with Raif Mahgail that they had a right to know—know both what their admiral had decided, and why he had decided it.
The answer was simple enough. Dancer, Rock Point, Damsel, and Avalanche couldn’t run. Dasher, Destruction, and—possibly— Talisman could. So those who couldn’t were going to cover the escape of those who could.
A battle at eight- to- one odds could have only one outcome. On the other hand, the short end of ten- to- three odds was no better, when all was said. For that matter, it wasn’t at all certain Talisman would be able to disengage from her pursuers, after all. But this way, those who could get free would have the best chance to do that, and at least Thirsk was said to be an honorable man. When the time came for Manthyr’s ships to strike, he hoped they’d find that was true.
He watched Dasher and Destruction setting more sail, beginning to lean more heavily to the press of their canvas while Rock Point, Damsel, and Avalanche turned towards the invisible coast of Tiegelkamp, far to the north, taking the wind almost dead aft as they formed line of battle ahead and astern of Dancer . . . directly across the Dohlarans’ course.
“Hoist Number One, Captain Mahgail,” Manthyr said, watching Talisman surge closer and closer to his truncated line. All four of Klahrksain’s pursuers were firing their bow chasers now, and he even saw a wind- shredded puff of gunsmoke from the forecastle of yet another of the Dohlaran galleons, much farther astern.
He heard cheers as the signal—“Engage the enemy”— broke from Dancer’s yardarm, but they were more subdued than usual, those cheers. No less determined, but without the high, confident dragon’s snarl of sublime Charisian confidence, the knowledge that Charis reigned supreme wherever there was saltwater. He didn’t blame the men for that. Indeed, his heart swelled with pride as they produced a cheer at all, even as he wept inside for what he was about to demand of them.
He stood as the endless minutes ticked past, listening to the approaching gunfire, watching Talisman foam ahead, watching the white water burst around her cutwater, the clouds of spray fly like sun- struck diamonds. She was close enough now for him to see splinters fly when a Dohlaran round shot slammed into her quarter galley. He could see holes in her spanker, her mizzen topsail, her main topgallant. Severed shrouds trailed over the side, hanging from her mizzen chains as evidence yet another Dohlaran shot had found its target. And he could see the damaged mainmast leaning dangerously, even under its reduced canvas, despite the spare mainyard her crew had fished to it in an effort to strengthen it.
She came closer, charging towards the line of her consorts, and Manthyr heard her crew cheering as her crippled sisters prepared to cover her escape. He saw Captain Klahrksain standing on his quarterdeck, raising his hat in silent salute to the ships standing to die so his own ship might live.
Her pursuers slowed abruptly, unwilling to sail directly into the prepared broadsides of four waiting Charisian galleons, and the distance between them and Talisman grew suddenly wider as the Charisian ship drove straight through the gap Manthyr had deliberately left between Dancer and Damsel.
He wasn’t surprised to see the quartet of Dohlarans split, two trying to work around ahead of his short line while the other two tried to pass astern of it. He didn’t doubt that if they could get close enough, find the position they wanted, they’d rake his leading and trailing ships heavily as they passed. He didn’t intend to give them that opening, and he doubted they expected him to. They were simply continuing their pursuit of their original quarry—slowed, forced to drop astern, by the roadblock of Manthyr’s battleline, but not stopped. He could only hope the delay he’d imposed would be sufficient for Talisman to regain enough ground to stay away from them at least until dark.
Or, for that matter, forDasher and Destruction to fall back enough to cover her, he thought grimly.
He hoped it would work out that way, but it was out of his hands, now. His duty and his task, like his options, had become brutally simple, and he remembered the Battle of Darcos Sound. Remembered the decision a monarch had made that day. The example and the challenge a dead king had presented to his navy and his kingdom.
“We’ll have that final signal now, Dahnyld,” he said, almost softly, and another hoist of flags replaced Number One. It was a longer hoist, using more flags, because one of the words wasn’t in the numerical vocabulary and had to be spelled out in its entirety, yet it was only three words.
For a moment, there was no sound except wind and wave. Even the gunfire of Talisman’s pursuers had died away as their new headings took her out of the play of their chasers. But then, as men aboard the other ships of Gwylym Manthyr’s short, doomed line read those flags, or had them read to them, the cheering began. The hard, harsh, defiant, savage cheering—the wolf howl’s cheering—he’d known those three words would awaken. He felt himself taking off his own hat, waving it over his head, waving it at those signal flags, and the flagship’s cheering redoubled.
Such a simple message, yet one whose meaning, whose significance, no Charisian could ever mistake, just as Manthyr knew the men of his ships had not mistaken it.
“Remember King Haarahld,” it said. And as he listened to those cheers, he knew that was all it had to say.
.VI.
Imperial Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Old Charis
It was very quiet in the Tellesberg Palace library. The sun had set, darkness was settling over the landscap
ed grounds, and the tall grandfather’s clock in one corner ticked loudly, steadily, in the stillness. Crown Princess Alahnah slept in her bassinet at her mother’s side, although it wasn’t going to be long before she roused again, demanding her next meal.
Merlin Athrawes was glad she would. All of them needed that reaffirmation of life and hope and growth. Needed it badly, at this particular moment.
“I should have insisted on sending more ships,” High Admiral Lock Island said quietly over his com from his distant flagship.
“We didn’t have them to send, Bryahn,” Domynyk Staynair replied, equally quietly. “Not then.”
“Besides, it’s not as if it would’ve made a lot of difference,” Cayleb said. “Not in this situation. And it’s not as if Gwylym made any mistakes, for that matter. The problem is that Thirsk didn’t make any, either.”
“That and the storm,” Merlin agreed, subvocalizing over his own built- in com from his post just outside the library door. “I think that at the very worst he could have fought a running engagement clear back to Claw Island if he’d had all eleven ships concentrated when Thirsk happened across him. Assuming he couldn’t simply have outrun the Dohlarans.”
“Of course it was the storm.” Cayleb nodded. “But it wouldn’t have mattered against someone like the Harchongese—or even against the Desnairians, at this point—because they wouldn’t have been at sea when it hit.” His nod turned into a headshake. “We all knew Thirsk was their most dangerous admiral. The relationship he’s managed to forge with Maik makes him even more dangerous, since it covers his back against his political enemies, but we always knew he wasn’t going to make the mistakes the rest of their so- called naval commanders are going to make.”
“At the moment, it’s rather cold comfort to have the accuracy of our predictions confirmed,” Lock Island said bitterly, and once again, Merlin found himself in complete agreement.
Gwylym Manthyr’s stand had successfully covered Dasher and Destruction’s escape, even though the two of them had dropped back to protect Talisman. Caitahno Raisahndo had realized none of his consorts were going to be able to join him . . . and that his quartet of galleons were no match for three purpose-built Charisian war galleons. Once he’d accepted that, he’d turned back to join the general assault on Manthyr’s crippled line of battle.
In fact, the only real flaws in Thirsk’s handling of the engagement, if they could be called “flaws,” were the way his captains had permitted themselves to all be drawn in against Manthyr’s line and the lack of order as his ships crowded in to engage the Charisians. In their eagerness to get to grips, his captains flung themselves on the formation right in front of them and allowed the ships which had kept running to escape. And as they swarmed around Manthyr’s short line, they’d gotten in one another’s way, turning what should have been the methodical de mo li tion of a vastly outnumbered force into a wild melee.
It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Thirsk’s order for a “general chase” had undoubtedly been the correct one. Rather than limit his entire fleet to the speed of its slowest unit, it had freed his faster units by ordering every ship to pursue in dependently. But it also meant his own flagship had been too far astern of those faster consorts for him to exercise tactical control once action was actually joined. His division commanders had made efforts in that direction, but most of them were still too new to their own command responsibilities—and to the potential control their new signal systems permitted—to impose true discipline.
The good news from the Dohlaran perspective was that discipline had broken down in a surfeit of aggressiveness, not hesitation. But the bad news was that Gwylym Manthyr had given them an extraordinarily costly lesson about the difference between an ordered formation and a mob.
The Charisian line had maintained iron discipline, pounding its opponents with deadly accurate broadsides. The smashing power of those heavy Charisian guns had savaged the Dohlaran galleons as they attempted to close, and more than one Dohlaran warship—hammered by the Charisian artillery—had staggered aside, at least briefly. Half the time, it seemed, that had brought them into collision with one of their consorts, and several of them had drifted completely out of the action, locked together by fouled rigging until their chastened crews could get them untangled.
Yet, in the end, not even Charisian discipline could overmatch such superior numbers. Not when their foes were just as willing to fight as they were. Eventually, a degree of order had been sorted out of the chaos, with Sir Dahrand Rohsail taking a leading role in the sorting, and a Dohlaran line of battle had coalesced. Two Dohlaran lines of battle, in fact, and the Charisian galleons had found themselves engaged from both sides simultaneously and pounded slowly into ruin.
That had been the end. Not immediately, of course. Charisian seamen were too stubborn to yield easily, and Gwylym Manthyr had been determined to attract as many of Thirsk’s ships onto his own as he could. To inflict as much damage, lame as many of them, as possible.
The brutal engagement had lasted almost four hours—lasted until all four Charisian galleons had been completely dismasted. Until their sides had been beaten in by point- blank cannon fire. Until blood ran from their scuppers, and the remaining gunners could scarcely serve their pieces because of the bodies in their way. They’d inflicted as many casualties as they’d taken—Merlin was certain of that—but their own losses were heartbreaking. It was impossible to be positive yet, even with the SNARCs, but he would be surprised if Gwylym Manthyr’s crews hadn’t taken at least sixty percent casualties before it was all over. He hoped he was overestimating, that the sheer fury of the engagement had caused him to be too pessimistic. Unfortunately, he couldn’t convince himself he had been.
Nor had Dancer and her three consorts been Manthyr’s only losses. HMS Silverlode had been driven ashore and wrecked at the height of the storm. Half her crew had been lost when she drove onto the rocks amid thirty- five-foot waves; the other half had been rounded up by the Harchong Army . . . who’d killed over half of the survivors in the process. HMS Defense had simply foundered, driven over on her beam ends by a huge sea no one could have seen or avoided in the darkness. She’d filled almost instantly and gone down with her entire company. And Dagger had ultimately been cornered against a lee shore by a trio of Thirsk’s galleons. Forced to fight against such heavy odds, she’d given a good account of herself before she was forced to surrender, but it was obvious the Dohlaran Navy’s days of letting itself be bullied into allowing Charis to dictate the terms of battle were over. And, finally, HMS Howell Bay and HMS North Bay were still deep inside the Gulf of Dohlar, trying to work their separate ways back out again without being intercepted.
Of Gwylym Manthyr’s nineteen galleons, including the captured Prince of Dohlar, eight had been captured or destroyed by the storm, and two might yet be intercepted before they could break free of the Gulf. The others had reached Claw Island by now, or would reach it shortly, and Captain Pawal, the senior officer left, had received Gwylym Manthyr’s final orders. Given the losses he’d already anticipated, and the obvious Dohlaran strength in the western portion of the Gulf of Dohlar, those instructions had been clear, concise, and unwavering.
It was only a matter of time—and not much of that—before Thirsk moved to attack Claw Island. So it was time to go, and Pawal was ordered to evacuate the Marines and all of the transports, covered by the remaining galleons.
Instead of heading east to return to Old Charis, however, he was to sail west, to Chisholm. It would actually be a shorter journey, and given the Dohlaran performance, reinforcing Chisholm had just become a significantly higher priority.
Yet the truth remained that the Charisian expedition wasn’t simply withdrawing, its mission accomplished. Oh, it would have been withdrawing even without the storm. And if it had—if Manthyr had evacuated Claw Island as planned and sailed home again—it would have been a very different matter. But that wasn’t what had happened. For the first time, one of the Church’s subje
ct navies had scored an unambiguous victory over the Imperial Charisian Navy. What had happened off Dragon Island could be argued either way, claimed as a tactical victory by either side. What had happened in the Harchong Narrows could not.
And the truth is,Merlin told himself unflinchingly, that Thirsk damned well earned that victory. The weather might have let him collect it, but it’s entirely possible we would have gotten hurt even worse if not for the storm. He was closer behind Gwylym than Gwylym realized, and even if his crews were less disciplined than he might have wished, they were full of fight. If he’d managed to get all forty- two of his ships into the approaches to Claw Island the way he’d planned, especially with him right there to impose tactical discipline, while Gwylym had to claw his way out with only nineteen warships and all those transports to protect ...
Manthyr’s decision to fight had prevented that much, at least. In what Merlin privately considered to be Thirsk’s only real mistake of the entire campaign, the Dohlaran earl had decided to take his own damaged ships and their prizes to Yu- Shai in Shwei Bay for repairs before resuming his offensive. In some ways, given the fact that he didn’t know where Manthyr’s other galleons were, it had made sense to avoid the risk that his cripples and captures might be pounced upon by undamaged Charisian warships. In fact, though, Merlin was certain Thirsk’s decision had been shaped more by a desire to show Yu- Shai what the Dohlaran Navy had done to the squadron which had attacked the city. And to ensure that his prizes did get home to Gorath Bay in the end. Not just because they were his trophies, either, although Merlin never doubted Thirsk had at least enough of common human vanity to want to display his prizes as exactly that. No. Those captured Charisian ships were going to be the proof his methods, his strategy, and his tactics actually worked. That Charisian squadrons could be defeated . . . and that he was the admiral who could do the defeating.