“Huzzay!” responded every one in a full-throated roar, Arabella not least among them.
“Hip hip!”
“Huzzay!”
“Hip hip!”
“HUZZAY!”
Khema’s eye-stalks trembled with strong emotion. “And three more for Captain Singh!” she cried, leading three more cheers, in which every one participated with even greater zeal.
Captain Singh appeared to take this praise with his usual equanimity … but Arabella, more sensitive than most to his moods after such long acquaintance, noticed him blinking rapidly, his eyes shining in the pale Martian sun. “Very well!” he called after the echoes had died away. “Run up the Company colors, idlers and waisters to the pulsers, and let us be off!” And as the tidy arrangement of officers and crew broke up, all moving to their stations in an orderly bedlam of sound, only Arabella heard him mutter to himself, “And may Heaven smile upon our efforts.”
* * *
Diana approached the oncoming fleet under false colors, the Honorable Mars Company’s ensign fluttering in the wind of her whirling pulsers. “I mean to sow confusion,” Captain Singh had explained to the Council. “Though I am certain they are aware that Diana is no longer their ally, perhaps a few officers or gunners may hesitate to open fire upon the Company flag. Any delay or lack of commitment in a key moment could make the difference between survival and destruction.”
Although such a deception seemed to Arabella less than sporting, she knew from her reading and personal experience that it was a common military tactic, with its own conventions and etiquette. And given her own contributions to the coming battle, she felt that she had no standing to complain. Even her own person was flying false colors, in a sense; her thukhong, as her mother would surely point out if she were here, gave her a distinctively masculine profile. Yet the fur and smooth leather that gripped her limbs so tightly—so scandalously—gave her solace and confidence. The very smell of this garment, so full of memories of happy adventure among the dunes, made her feel lithe and strong and capable of any thing … and it reminded her that she was, truly, a child of Mars, not of England, and indeed always had been.
No matter who her family might be. “Michael,” she muttered to herself between gritted teeth. She had heard nothing from him and not very much about him since that day in the desert, but she knew that in the succeeding months he had become an even more prominent Tory—even standing for a seat in the colonial assembly, though he had lost out to the incumbent—and had thrown in his lot and his fortune quite publicly with the Crown, supporting the Company’s new and harsher policies with speeches, letters, and monetary contributions. He had also continued to participate in, and profit from, the ulka trade, though the resistance—in large part thanks to the gold they had captured from him—had seen some success in reducing it.
She had never, before this year, realized the degree to which Michael took after their mother, even as Arabella had favored their father. And to think she had risked every thing to save him.
Of course, had she not done so, who knew where she might be to-day? It could very well be that at this moment she would be languishing in some paltry cottage in Croydon, while her wicked cousin Simon dined upon gethown and khula at Woodthrush Woods. And in that case, might Captain Singh still be a prisoner at Marieville? Might Napoleon, in fact, still rule France … or, indeed, with Victoire and her deadly sisters, the entire solar system?
If only things were not as they are, she reflected, they would certainly be different. But that was no reason for despair … quite the opposite, in fact, for the more she thought about it, the more certain she became that any small change might eventually lead to great effects, perhaps even to alter the course of history itself.
So be it. She would do what she could, and if that failed she would try something else. Again and again, if necessary, until fate brought her story to a close.
Arabella blew out a breath through her nose, straightened in her straps, and returned her attention to the present moment. Captain Singh was peering forward with his telescope, scanning side to side and up and down to take in the whole English fleet and the air around it. Suddenly he paused, focusing the instrument carefully … and then a small sly grin crept onto his face. “Oh ho,” he chuckled softly. He moved the telescope slightly to one side, repeating his careful inspection on a second target and then a third. “Dundas,” he muttered, “you are a fool … and worse, a predictable fool.” He collapsed the telescope and tucked it into his jacket pocket, turning to speak with Khema.
After Captain Singh and Khema had discussed whatever it was he had seen, Khema spoke to the new first mate, a solid young man called Morgan. “Raise the red signal-flags,” she said, “and ready the red rockets. The red, mind you.”
“Signal officer!” Morgan called in a voice larger even than his captain’s, but with its own unique accent. He was an American, a former officer of that country’s small but resolute aerial navy; he had made his way to Mars for love, then joined the resistance at Tekhmet after his beloved had fallen to the curse of ulka. The signal officer soon appeared, and Morgan relayed the Admiral’s instructions to him.
“What is it that you have observed?” Arabella asked Captain Singh in the lull that followed.
“The English vessels lack swivel-gun turrets,” he replied with grim satisfaction. “They have a few chasers, but their great guns fire only directly forward.”
“I am amazed!” Arabella said. “Victoire’s swivel-guns were nearly our undoing at Venus.” Napoleon’s flagship had been equipped with four large swivel-guns in armored turrets. Turning swiftly to meet any target, they had allowed a single armored ship to hold her own—better than hold her own—against Nelson’s entire fleet.
“Dundas and his dunderheaded compatriots in the Admiralty considered those turrets a weakness,” he fumed. “A weakness! They saw only that Nelson succeeded in disabling two of them, leaving an opening for Diana to destroy her.”
“Only at the cost of his flagship, and his life.”
“Indeed,” the captain acknowledged. “But the Admiralty is too conservative to even consider such a dramatic departure from their traditional designs, no matter how well proven.” He shook his head. “Still … under the circumstances, I suppose I have never been more fortunate to have a recommendation ignored. I may disagree with Fulton on many things, but in the matter of innovation in aerial men-of-war I must doff my hat to him.”
The red signal-flags then flew up the mainmast, and the captain again took up his glass and peered into the distance. Though Arabella saw nothing with the naked eye, she was content with his pleased reaction and did not draw out her own telescope from her thukhong pocket. “How much longer?” she asked.
He turned his glass to the closest English man-of-war, a hulking armored first-rate which, by the quantity of flags and gold leaf she carried, must be the flagship, HMAS Royal George. The name, supposedly in honor of the King, was, Arabella was certain, actually an expression of Princely self-importance. “Perhaps half an hour. Certainly no more than an hour.”
Arabella peered at the oncoming English fleet for a time, then looked all about. Apart from the English ships the sky appeared empty, with only a few bits of flotsam and scraps of cloud seeming to mar the clear blue sky of Mars, and nothing was visible abaft but the mottled, lichen-crusted, wreckage-strewn surface of Phobos. That motley surface hid much, she knew, including dozens of ballistas awaiting the signal to let fly their stones, but apart from the brave ballista operators themselves, mostly Martians and all volunteers, the structures which the resistance had occupied since the destruction of Tekhmet now stood vacant. Phobos, they all knew, was an open target—immovable, incapable of concealment, and defenseless save for its winds and its ballistas—and no matter what happened in the coming battle it would certainly bear the brunt of the English cannon. Those who were neither ballista operators nor khebek crew, including Fulton, had been evacuated to the Martian surface.
&nb
sp; “I should get below,” she said. Though she would much rather remain with her captain, her place during the battle was with Aadim. At least they had opened a larger scuttle between the quarterdeck and the great cabin, to ease communication between the two, and added windows on either side so that Arabella could have some visibility of the battle as it progressed.
“Break a leg,” he replied—a theatrical term they had both learned from Fox, and which seemed particularly apropos at this moment, with the curtain about to rise upon what would most likely be, for good or ill, their final performance.
“I love you.” Then, not wishing him to see the worried expression on her face, she immediately turned, pushed off the after rail with her foot, and shot down the ladder toward the great cabin.
* * *
In the great cabin, Arabella made certain that all was in readiness for battle. Aadim ticked and whirred patiently, his gears all carefully oiled and his many springs wound to optimum tension. Charts were rolled in their pigeon-holes for rapid access, and boxes of tools and spare parts lay ready close at hand in case repairs should become necessary. A wet washing-leather was available to sweep splinters or shards of glass from the air. All else had either been cleared away or stowed securely.
She looked up through the scuttle to the quarterdeck, which from her current position gave her a vantage onto the ship’s wheel. Watson stood there, gripping the wheel tightly, staring forward with a face so firm and determined that she felt her heart squeezed with anticipatory melancholy. So many had already been lost … she hoped that his young life would not be among those snuffed out this day.
Suddenly Morgan, out of sight above, called out a rapid series of commands: “Set jibs and spankers! Pulsers ahead, smartly now! Ready great guns and bow-chasers! And run up the colors!”
At once the ship surged to life around Arabella. Commands, responses, and the irregular thump of bare feet upon khoresh-wood planking sounded all about as the ship’s people leapt into action, readying sails and guns for the coming battle. The pulsers beyond the great stern window rushed past with renewed vigor, propelling the ship forward and pushing Arabella and every other unsecured object sternward. And with a squeak and hiss of lines through blocks, the false Mars Company ensign at the stern came down, replaced by the flag of the Martian Resistance.
This was the resistance flag’s first showing in battle. A great red circle on a field of sky blue, representing Mars, bore a small white oval at the top, representing Mars’s north polar cap, and a network of fine white lines representing canals. The red disk was surrounded by a golden ring, symbolizing the united peoples of Mars and their vow to protect the planet from outside interference, and was bracketed by a swift huresh and a fierce shorosh, both rampant. Working out this design had taken far too much of the Council’s time, but despite Arabella’s misgivings—any declaration of Mars’s unity seemed far more aspirational than factual—she had to admit that it was a very striking design.
But Arabella had no time to admire the great blue and red ensign which now fluttered abaft. Dashing all about the cabin—here taking a sighting upon Jupiter, there peering out the larboard window at the English ships ahead—she kept herself and Aadim busy, calculating sailing-plans and course corrections and calling them up through the scuttle. “Up a point,” she called, then, “Larboard two points.” Watson, at the wheel, kept pace with her rapid adjustments, steering the ship steadily through the Horn’s capricious winds.
“Signal rockets!” cried Morgan. Immediately a triple whoosh sounded, rapidly diminishing in pitch and loudness, followed by three bangs and three blossoms of red fire, whose light danced across the great cabin’s decks and bulkheads. Before the light and sound had faded, Arabella dashed to the starboard window and looked forward, where a remarkable sight met her eyes.
In the air between Diana and the nearest English man-of-war, a patch of sky seemed to crumple, shrivel, and involute itself. This peculiar sight swiftly resolved itself into a large painted-canvas bag—mottled gray forward, to match the surface of Phobos, and sky-blue aft—being struck and furled from about a khebek which had hung, silent and immobile, in that spot in the sky for nearly the entirety of the past day. The Martians performing this labor shielded their eyes against the sudden sunlight.
In every direction dozens more khebek suddenly appeared in this same manner—just as the aerial kraken had revealed itself by darkening its luminescent skin against the brightness of the Sun, and just as Malcolm’s army had cast aside the concealing trees of Birnam Wood at the climax of the Scottish play. Most of the khebek thus revealed lay either between or behind the English ships … well beyond the easy reach of their forward-facing great guns. “They will almost certainly obey the dictates of their Admiral Nelson,” Khema had explained to the assembled khebek captains before the battle, “who said, ‘Never mind the maneuvers, just go straight at ’em.’ If you can but restrain yourselves and wait patiently, they will charge straight at Phobos and pass you by, leaving themselves open to attack from behind.”
And, indeed, the English had behaved exactly as Khema had expected, and once the khebek had freed themselves from their painted canvas masquerades they began firing. Their cannon were small, and not numerous, but they had drilled and drilled for months and their accuracy and rate of fire were second to none.
As Khema had directed, the khebek targeted the English pulsers. For though the English shipwrights had learned from Victoire and armored the ships’ sterns more heavily, the propulsive sails themselves were, of necessity, exposed and lightly constructed, and a well-placed cannon-ball could do significant damage. For this reason no wise captain would let his adversary get behind him in battle … but the Prince Regent’s captains had forsaken their wisdom through overconfidence in their indomitable commanders, their impregnable armor, and their inviolable sense of English superiority.
“Huzzah!” Arabella cried as she saw an English second-rate’s pulsers tear themselves into fragments—the sails’ own rapid rotation completing the job of destruction begun by a khebek’s cannon-ball. The ship, though otherwise undamaged, immediately lost steerage-way and began to tumble, seized by the Horn’s constantly changing winds. Another ship, this one a first-rate with dual pulsers, suffered an even worse fate: with one pulser disabled and the other still driving at full speed, the ship spun out of control, flinging officers and crew into the uncaring air.
But though the khebek were clever, nimble, and had the advantage of surprise, they were still sadly surpassed in most respects by the heavily armed and armored English vessels and their numerous and highly experienced crews. More than half the English fleet survived the initial ambuscade unscathed, and these immediately turned to attack their much smaller adversaries. And though the khebek ducked and dodged, using their superior command of the Horn’s variable winds to avoid the lumbering first-rates, the English threw such a weight of metal—twenty-four eight-pound balls in each broadside, with a broadside every three minutes or less—that by profligacy and chance, if nothing else, they were bound to strike their targets every once in a while. And as a single eight-pound ball, properly placed, was sufficient to devastate a lightly-armored khebek, these occasional successes swiftly added up. One after another, the plucky Martian ships were disabled or completely demolished, smashed into flinders or exploding in a sphere of pale hydrogen flame.
Even when the English great guns proved insufficiently adroit to swat away the flies which perturbed their flanks, they were still equipped with smaller swivel-guns which, while not so devastating as the thundering broadsides, could still do significant damage. And if that were not enough, every English ship carried great numbers of Marines, who sniped from the rigging at any Martian officer who held still long enough. These rifles, sadly, took many a brave Martian out of action.
The skies swiftly became a turbulent aerial charnel of smoke, floating wreckage, and drifting body parts. The view was never so obscured as it had been at the battle above Tekhmet, as the air
here was constantly freshened by the Horn of Phobos, but navigation was still difficult, and Arabella and Aadim were constantly challenged to keep Diana and her great guns properly pointed at whichever English vessel was currently the greatest threat.
Diana herself was by far the most powerful ship in the fledgling Martian Aerial Navy, and with Captain Singh in command she had a devastating effect. Though only a single ship, and throwing much less weight of metal than even a third-rate, her command of the Horn’s unpredictable winds was infinitely superior to that of her ponderous English prey.
The ballistas of Phobos took a toll on the English as well. The stones, slow and inaccurate though they were by comparison with cannon-balls, were so massive that when they did strike their target they destroyed it completely with a single blow. At one point Arabella found herself gaping in astonishment as an English first-rate folded like a clenching fist around the ballista-stone which struck her amidships, changed in an instant from a proud Naval vessel to a crumpled ball of floating wreckage. And even that wreckage was soon consumed by red and orange flame, with hydrogen and khoresh-wood and even steel armor burning fiercely in the whipping winds. But every stone launched from Phobos inevitably betrayed the location of the ballista from which it had come, and the English guns soon hammered those sites into rubble.
As the battle progressed the English soon found their greater numbers and their magnificent, shining armor changed from intimidating advantages to stumbling-blocks. For the armored vessels, though highly resistant to direct cannon-fire, were heavy, slow, and cumbersome, and—especially with so many of them unable to maneuver properly, due to damage to their pulsers and the unpredictable winds—they frequently got in each other’s way, and indeed collided with one another on more than one occasion. And as they blundered about, invulnerable though they might be in the main, Diana and the khebek picked at their vulnerable parts—their pulsers, their rigging, and their officers.
Arabella the Traitor of Mars Page 27