“Let’s give our good friend Mr. Bonfors time to get aboard,” Harrington said.
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll fire on the boat with their chaser?” Montgomery said. “Sir.”
Terry started to say something and Harrington stopped him with his hand. Montgomery should have kept his thoughts to himself but this wasn’t the time to rebuke him.
“It’s obvious Mr. Bonfors didn’t finish the inspection,” Harrington said. “But we won’t be certain they refused to let him go below until he makes his report. We don’t want to give the lawyers any unnecessary grounds for complaint.”
He glanced around the men standing near the gun. “Besides, everybody says these slavers tend to be poor shots. They’re businessmen. They go to sea to make money.”
He paused for what he hoped would be an effect. “We go to sea to make war.”
Montgomery straightened. Harrington thought he saw a light flash in the eyes of one of the seamen in the gun crew. He turned away from the gun and made his way toward the stern with his hands behind his back, in exactly the same pose his second commanding officer, Captain Ferris, would have assumed. A good commander had to be an actor. Good actors never ruined an exit line with too much talk.
Emory had started campaigning for Giva’s removal a week after he had audited the first planning meeting. Giva had nagged at the prize money issue for a tiresome fifteen minutes at the end of the fourth meeting and Emory had maintained his link to Peter LeGrundy after she had exited. Giva had still been in Russia at that state of their association. Emory was staying at his New York residence, where he was sampling the opening premieres of the entertainment season. Peter had based himself in London so he could take a firsthand look at the Royal Navy archives.
“Are you really sure we can’t do anything about her supporters in the chronautical bureaucracy?” Emory said. “It seems to me there should be some small possibility we can overcome their personal predilections and convince them she has a bias that is obviously incompatible with scholarship. A ten-minute conversation with her would probably be sufficient.”
“She’s peppery, Emory. She feels she has to assert herself. She’s young and she’s an artist.”
“And what’s she going to be like when she’s actually recording? We’ll only have one opportunity, Peter—the only opportunity anybody will ever have. Whatever she records, that’s it.”
Under the rules laid down by the chrono bureaucrats, the Sparrow’s encounter with the slaver was surrounded by a restricted zone that encompassed hundreds of square miles of ocean and twenty hours of time. No one knew what would happen if a bubble entered a space/time volume occupied by another bubble—and the bureaucrats had decided they would avoid the smallest risk they would ever find out. The academics and fund-raisers who had written the preamble to the agency’s charter had decreed that its chrononauts would “dispel the mists of time with disciplined on-site observations,” and the careerists and political appointees who ran the agency had decreed each site would receive only one dispelling. Once their bubble left the restricted zone, no one else would ever return to it.
“She’s what they want,” Peter said. “I’ve counted the votes. There’s only one way you can get her out of that bubble—withdraw your grant and cancel the project.”
“And let the media have a fiesta reporting on the rich idler who tried to bribe a committee of dedicated scholars.”
Peter was being cautious, in Emory’s opinion. He could have changed the committee’s mind if he had made a determined effort. Giva had flaunted her biases as if she thought they were a fashion statement. But Peter also knew he would make some permanent enemies among the losing minority if he pressed his case.
Peter was a freelance scholar who lived from grant to grant. He had never managed to land a permanent academic position. He was balancing two forces that could have a potent impact on his future: a rich individual who could be a fertile source of grants and a committee composed of scholars who could help him capture a permanent job.
Emory could, of course, offer Peter some inducements that might overcome his respect for Giva’s supporters. But that was a course that had its own risks. You never knew when an academic might decide his scholarly integrity had to be asserted. In the end, Emory had adopted a more straightforward approach and applied for a seat in the bubble under the agency’s Chrono Tourist program. The extra passenger would cost the agency nothing and the fee would increase his grant by thirty percent. Giva would still control the cameras on the bubble but he could make his own amateurish record with his personal recording implant. He would have evidence he could use to support any claim that she had distorted the truth.
Harrington could have leaned over the side of the ship and called for a report while Bonfors was still en route but he was certain Captain Ferris would never have done that. Neither would Nelson. Instead, he stood by the deckhouse and remained at his post while Bonfors climbed over the side, saluted the stern, and marched across the deck.
“He threatened me,” Bonfors said. “He pointed at his guns and told me I could learn all I needed to know from his account books.”
“He refused to let you visit the hold?”
“He told me I could learn all I needed from his books. He told me he had eight guns and fifty hands and we only had one gun and twenty-five.”
Harrington frowned. Would a court interpret that as a threat? Could a lawyer claim Bonfors had deliberately misinterpreted the slave captain’s words?
“It was a clear refusal,” Bonfors said. “He gave me no indication he was going to let me inspect the hold.”
Harrington turned toward the gun. He sucked in a good lungful and enjoyed a small pulse of satisfaction when he heard his voice ring down the ship.
“You may fire at your discretion, Mr. Terry.”
Montgomery broke into a smile. Terry said something to his crew and the lead gunner drew the slow match from its bucket.
Terry folded his arms over his chest and judged the rise and fall of the two ships. Chain shot consisted of two balls connected by a length of chain. It could spin through the enemy rigging and wreak havoc on any rope or wood that intersected its trajectory.
Terry moved his arm. The lead gunner laid the end of the match across the touchhole.
It was the first time in his life Harrington had stood on a ship that was firing on other human beings. It was the moment he had been preparing for since he had been a twelve-year-old novice at the Naval School at Portsmouth, but the crash of the gun still caught him by surprise.
Montgomery was standing on tiptoe staring at the other ship. Terry was already snapping out orders. The sponger was pulling his tool out of its water bucket. Drill and training were doing their job. On the entire ship, there might have been six men who could feel the full weight of the moment, undistracted by the demands of their posts—and one of them was that supreme idler, the commanding officer.
The slaver’s foremast quivered. A rip spread across a topsail. Bonfors pulled his telescope out of his coat and ran it across the slaver’s upper rigging.
“I can see two lines dangling from the foretopsail,” Bonfors said.
Harrington was playing his own telescope across the slaver’s deck. Four men had gathered around the bowchaser. The two ships were positioned so its ball would hit the Sparrow toward the rear midships—a little forward of the exact spot where he was standing.
He had assumed they should start by destroying the slaver’s sails. Then, when there was no danger their quarry could slip away, they could pick it off at their leisure, from positions that kept them safe from its broadsides. Should he change that plan merely because he was staring at the muzzle of the enemy gun? Wouldn’t it make more sense to fire at the gun? Even though it was a small, hard-to-hit target?
It was a tempting thought. The slavers might even strike their colors if the shot missed the stern gun and broke a few bodies as it hurtled down the deck.
It was a thought generated by f
ear.
“Well started, Mr. Terry. Continue as you are.”
The slaver’s gun flashed. There was a short pause—just time enough to feel himself stiffen—and then, almost simultaneously, his brain picked up the crash of the gun and the thud of the ball striking the side of Sparrow’s hull.
The ball had hit the ship about where he had guessed it would. If it had been aimed a few degrees higher, it would have crossed the deck three steps to his right.
The Sparrow’s gun fired its second shot moments after the slaver’s ball hit the hull. The sponger shoved his tool down the gun barrel, the crew fell into their drill, and the Sparrow hurled a third ball across the gap while the slaver’s crew was still loading their second shot.
“The slaver’s got a crew working on the rear boat,” Giva said.
Emory had been watching the two gun crews and looking for signs they were actually creating some damage. The third shot from the Sparrow’s gun had drawn an excited, arms-raised leap from the midshipman posted with the gun crew. The upper third of the slaver’s forward mast had bounced away from the lower section, and sagged against the rigging.
Harrington’s report to the Admiralty said the slaver had brought out a boat and used it to pull the ship around to bring its broadside into play. Harrington hadn’t said when they had lowered the boat. Emory had assumed they had done it after the battle had raged for a while.
“It looks like they’re going to lower it on the other side of their ship,” Emory said. “Is that going to cause any problems?”
“The rotation program can correct for most of the deficiencies. We can always have a talking head explain some of the tactics—some professor who’s goofy about old weapons. We could even have you do it, Emory. You probably know more about the antislavery patrol than Peter and all the rest of the committee combined. That could be a real tingler—the hero’s descendant talking about the ancestor he heroworshiped as a boy. After he had actually seen him in action.”
Harrington was making another calculation. The slaver’s boat was pulling the slaver’s bow into the wind. There was no way Mr. Whitjoy could stay with the bow as it turned and avoid a broadside. Should he pull out of range, circle around, and place Sparrow across the enemy’s stern? Or should he hold his current position, take the broadside, and inflict more damage on their sails?
The blow to the slaver’s mast had weakened its sailing capabilities but it wasn’t decisive. He wanted them dead in the water—totally at his mercy.
The slaver’s bow gun was already pointing away from Sparrow. There would be a period—who knew how long?—when Sparrow could fire on the slaver and the slaver couldn’t fire back.
“Hold position, Mr. Whitjoy. Keep up the good work, Mr. Terry.”
Harrington was holding his pocket watch in his hand. The swivel gun roared again and he noted that Terry’s crew was firing a shot every minute and twenty seconds.
He put his hands behind his back and watched the enemy ship creep around. It was all a matter of luck. The balls from the slaver’s broadside would fly high or low—or pass over the deck at the height of a young commander’s belly. They would intersect the place where you were standing or pass a few feet to your right or left. The odds were on your side.
And there was nothing you could do about it.
Bonfors glanced back. He saw what Harrington was doing and resumed his telescopic observations of the enemy ship.
Terry’s crew fired three more times while the slaver made its turn. The second shot cut the broken topmast free from its support lines and sent it sliding through the rigging to the deck. The third shot slammed into the main mast with an impact that would have made every captive in the hold howl with joy if they could have seen the result—and understood what it meant. The top of the mast lurched to the right. The whole structure, complete with spars and furled sails, toppled toward the deck and sprawled over the slaver’s side.
Harrington felt himself yield to an uncontrollable rush of emotion. “Take her about, Mr. Whitjoy! Take us out of range.”
Whitjoy barked orders. Hands raced to their stations. The big triangular main sail swung across Sparrow’s deck. The hand at the wheel adjusted the angle of the rudder and Harrington’s ship began to turn away from the wind.
Some of the crew on the other ship had left their guns and rushed to the fallen sail. With luck, one or two of their compatriots would be lying under the wreckage.
If there was one virtue the Navy taught you, it was patience. You stood your watches, no matter how you felt. You endured storms that went on and on, for days at a time, without any sign they were coming to an end. You waited out calms. And now you locked yourself in your post and watched the elephantine motions of the ships, as Sparrow turned away from the wind, and the muzzles of the enemy guns slowly came to bear on the deck you were standing on … .
The flash of the first gun caught him by surprise. He would have waited at least another minute before he fired if he had been commanding the other ship. A huge noise whined past Sparrow’s stern. The second gun lit up a few seconds later, and he realized they were firing one gun at a time.
This time the invisible Thing passed over his head, about fifty feet up. Mr. Terry fired the swivel gun and he heard Montgomery’s treble shout a word of encouragement at the ball.
The slaver hurled its third shot. A tremendous bang shook the entire length of Sparrow’s hull. He looked up and down the deck, trying to find some sign of damage, and saw Montgomery covering his face with both hands.
A gunner grabbed Montgomery’s shoulders. Terry stepped in front of the boy and seized his wrists. The rest of the gun crew gathered around.
“Mr. Bonfors—please see what the trouble is. See if you can get the gun back in action.”
Bonfors shot him one of the most hostile looks he had ever received from another human being. It only lasted a moment but Harrington knew exactly what his second in command was thinking. The captain had seen an unpleasant duty and passed it to the appropriate subordinate. They both knew it was the right thing to do—the only thing a captain could do—but that didn’t alter the basic fact that the cold-hearted brute had calmly handed you a job that both of you would have given almost anything to avoid.
A crewman was standing by the railing near the bow. He pointed at the railing and Harrington understood what had happened. The big bang had been a glancing blow from a cannonball. Wooden splinters had flown off the rail at the speed of musket balls. One of the splinters had apparently hit Montgomery in the face.
“It looks like we now know who Montgomery is,” Emory said.
Giva was looking at a rerun on her display. “I got it all. The camera had him centered the whole time. I lost him when they all crowded around him. But I got the moment he was hit.”
Lieutenant Bonfors had reached the gun and started easing the crew away from Montgomery with a mixture of jovial comments and firm pushes. “Let’s keep our minds on our work, gentlemen. Take Mr. Montgomery to the captain’s cabin, Hawksbill. I believe we’ve got time for one more shot before we pull away from our opponent, Mr. Terry.”
Their planning sessions had contained one moment of pure harmony. They had all agreed Giva would have two cameras continuously tracking both midshipmen. They knew one of the boys was going to be hit but they didn’t know which one. They knew the boy was referred to as Mr. Montgomery in Harrington’s report but they didn’t know what he looked like or when it would happen. They only knew Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Clarke acquitted themselves with courage and competence. I regret to report that Mr. Montgomery has lost the sight of his left eye. He is bearing his misfortune with commendable cheerfulness.
Sparrow put a solid half mile between its stern and the slaver before it turned into a long, slow curve that ended with it bearing down on the slaver’s stern. The men in the slaver’s boat tried to turn with it, but Mister Whitjoy outmaneuvered them. The duel between sail power and oar power came to an abrupt end as soon as Sparrow drew within firing
range. Harrington ordered Terry to fire on the boat, the second shot raised a fountain of water near the boat’s bow, and every slaver in the boat crew lunged at the ladder that hung from the side of their ship.
Bonfors chuckled as he watched them scramble onto the deck. “They don’t seem to have much tolerance for being shot at, do they?”
Harrington was eyeing the relative positions of the two ships. In another five minutes Sparrow would be lying directly behind the slaver’s stern, poised to hurl ball after ball down the entire length of the other ship.
“You may fire at the deck as you see fit, Mr. Terry. We’ll give them three rounds. And pause to see if they strike.”
“They’re opening the hatch,” Emory said.
Captain Zachary and four of his men were crouching around the hatch in the center of the slave ship. They had drawn their pistols and they were all holding themselves close to the deck, in anticipation of the metal horror that could fly across their ship at any moment.
The four crewmen dropped through the hatch. Captain Zachary slithered backward and crouched on one knee, with his pistol clutched in both hands.
Harrington threw out his arm as soon as he saw the first black figures stumble into the sunlight. “Hold your fire, Mr. Terry.”
The slavers had arranged themselves so he could enjoy an unobstructed view of the slaves. The Africans were linked together with chains but the captain and his crew were still training guns on them. Two of the slaves slumped to the deck as they came out of the hold. Their companions picked them up and dragged them away from the hatch.
“I’d say a third of them appear to be women,” Bonfors said.
Harrington raised his telescope and verified Bonfors’s estimate. One of the women was holding a child.
The Year's Best SF 25 # 2007 Page 87