Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)
Page 35
The dragon-ship led the way westwards, to round the off-shore isle of the Calf of Man at the south-western tip of the main island, and then turn northwards. He kept about two miles out from the land, his desire being to lie seawards of the returning fleet—if return it did—with it to some extent silhouetted against the glow of the fires whereas they themselves would remain unseen against the western sky. The problem was, of course, how far west to go, how close to the shore Godfrey would sail, how much room they must give him and still be sure of seeing him. If the fires did not bring him back, as indicating his base invaded, then all this was wasted effort, and Saor was in trouble. But if he came, he would be in a hurry and apt to cut corners, might take his fleet through between the Calf and his mainland, but not so close to the shore as to endanger his ships on reefs and skerries. Somerled sent Conn and half-a-dozen ships to sail up and down as near land as they thought practical, whilst he and the others lay seawards, westwards, just near enough to be able to distinguish them. The refulgence in the sky to the east was a major help.
Another concern was that that glow would not last. Fires eventually died down, and already the glare had lessened perceptibly. If the enemy long delayed the chances of seeing them could be lessened seriously.
That was a problem which they did not have to solve, at any rate. It was Gillecolm, still sharper-eyed than most, who suddenly exclaimed, “How many ships has Conn Ironhand? How many?”
“I told him to take six. Why?”
“I see more. Nine. No, ten. See—there! Another one . . .”
“Lord!” his father cried. “You are right, by all the saints!”
“More—all sailing south!” That was Dougal, also on the dragon-ship stern-platform.
“Yes. It must be the first of the enemy. A plague on it—if we attack these the rest will be warned.”
“Conn will see that. He will deal with them . . .”
“More!” Gillecolm shouted, pointing northwards. “See—more sails.”
“Aye—here they come. Too many for Conn. Godfrey likely will be in a leading ship. Nothing for it but to attack now.” Somerled raised his horn and blew loud and long. Everywhere around the wailing was taken up. Gillecolm began to beat the dragon-ship’s gong, slowly at first but quickening. Other gongs commenced to sound. Oars dipped and splashed. The Isles fleet moved eastwards, gathering speed.
When the Manx ships became aware of them was hard to discern. Indeed everything was hard to discern, nothing certain. As they drew nearer Conn’s flotilla they could just see, by the confused huddle of ships, that they were engaged, which their own and which enemy ships impossible to tell. Somerled blew the succession of short sharp blasts on the horn, which was the agreed signal for a change of course to leeward—and all but rammed two of his own vessels tardy about obeying. Cursing he ploughed northwards, as he heard other horns repeating the signal.
Almost at once they found themselves in the path of one of the oncoming Manx vessels. Yells of alarm greeted them, but that was all. Taken wholly by surprise, the enemy craft tried to swing off; but against a deliberate assault it was for the moment helpless. The dragon-ship swung the same way and its rearing prow made contact and sheared viciously down the other’s side, cutting through oars and oarsmen like twigs on a bough. In only moments they left the screaming ruin behind, for the next Isles ship to deal with, and steered straight for the next enemy vessel which was looming up ahead.
This craft presumably had not seen just what had happened in front of it, for it came on, and only sought to take avoiding action at the last moment, too late to be spared the same fate as its predecessor—the advantage, for the attacker, of an action in darkness. But the disadvantages were quickly demonstrated also, for pressing on and leaving this one temporarily crippled, Somerled realised that he was now faced by three ships more or less in line abreast and very close. With only seconds to make up his mind, he chose to tackle the centre one, in the hope that this, if it sought to veer away as the others had done to avoid collision, might itself collide with one or other of its neighbours.
But these three had been close enough to see approximately what had happened to the ship in front and were able to react fairly effectively. The two outer vessels swung away left and right, and the centre one had time to have its rowers raise their oars high, out of danger, before the dragon-ship bore down on it, and so avoided disaster. The two vessels swept past each other only a few feet apart.
And now there were other enemy craft ahead. But the two flanking ships of this trio had obviously perceived the situation and were pulling round to close in on their attacker from either side, whilst the central craft was seeking to back-water and turn also. The ships in front would not know exactly what went on but would be able to see that there was trouble ahead, and come on alerted.
Somerled realised that he was, in fact, practically surrounded now. Looking back, none of his own ships were close enough to be distinguishable as such. For the moment he was alone amongst at least six enemy, who would perceive a dragon-ship as most certainly not one of their own fleet. He drove on at the nearest, hoping to run it down.
He was only partially successful in this, the other getting most of its oars up, in time. He sought to ram it head-on, instead, and the two ships ground together with an impact which shook both, unseating rowers and toppling men who were unprepared.
Somerled’s people, who naturally were more ready for this than the others, and in greater numbers likewise, promptly poured over the side and into the enemy vessel, yelling, swords and axes slashing. From the voices, the other was an Orkneyman.
Gillecolm handled the dragon-ship with expertise and Somerled had brief opportunity to gaze around him. Two other craft were bearing down on them, apparently intent on close attack, and more were circling nearby. A quick count showed no fewer than eight ships—whether any were his own it was impossible to tell. He had to make a swift decision. To remain side-by-side with this Orkneyman could be disastrous, with all these others able to move in and board him. Shouting to Farquhar MacFerdoch, the Abbot, who was leading his own boarding-party, to cope on the enemy ship as best he could, Somerled beat his sword against Gillecolm’s gong, to galvanise his oarsmen into swiftest action. The dragon-ship pulled away from the other, just in time.
With two ships converging upon him, Somerled required both room for manoeuvre and time for decision. Fortunately he controlled much greater oar-power, and therefore speed, than any ordinary longship. He was able to make good his escape, therefore, from the immediate dangerous situation, whilst remaining in the more general danger.
He was still surrounded by vessels, seen and of course more unseen. He could distinguish a dozen or more now. The trouble was to know which was which. Almost reluctantly he gave orders for the torches to be lit.
The lighting-up of the dragon-ship was to be the signal for all the others of his fleet to light theirs. Which, to be sure, would work both ways, identifying themselves but also singling them out as the enemy to the Manxmen. It would reveal their numbers as well as their positions—although he had sought to confuse in this respect by arranging for some craft to light two torches and some only one. The dragon-ship, which would be identifiable anyway by its size, lit two. The twenty captured ships would have no torches—which would admittedly confuse more than the enemy.
The pitch and tow of the torches blazed up quickly and in only a few moments other lights began to prick the darkness, near and far—no doubt all the other shipmasters had been eagerly awaiting the chance to distinguish between friend and foe.
At least it revealed three of his own ships amongst the dozen or so around him, which was a help. Two of these were close together and Somerled told Gillecolm to make for them, fast. There was one of his Manx pursuers close at hand and in the way, but on the dragon-ship wheeling round almost upon it, this vessel hurriedly changed course and swung away. No doubt its master now perceived its full size, thanks to the torches, and decided on discretion.
They managed to separate one of the Manxmen from its neighbour, cornered it amongst them and ran it down before others could come to its aid. Somerled put a boarding-party on to it and sent torch-bearers after them to set it alight, whilst his three companions circled closely to keep off others.
In the ruddy light of the flames, the unequal fight was soon over, with the enemy’s burning sail coming crashing down on friend and foe alike. When he saw that much of the craft was alight, with most of its oars fuelling the blaze, Somerled beat his gong to recall the boarders, and leaving the dying ship, went to the aid of one of his own, assailed now by two of the enemy.
That, then, became the pattern of much of what followed, at least as far as Somerled’s group was concerned—and, he hoped, with the rest of his fleet, for these were the tactics he had taught and practised. In the face of a surprised and disorganised foe they were, on the whole, very successful. Some of the Manxmen and Orkneymen perceived their lesson in time and formed similar little groups, but many did not, and paid the price. It was not all one way, of course, for they were dealing with experienced and courageous fighters. The Isles fleet suffered its casualties. But from the first the enemy was at multiple disadvantage. They had been hastening back to Rushen, strung out in no sort of order, and no doubt with the leadership well in front. They were taken by surprise and in darkness, and could have no idea as to the strength of the assault. The fires at their base area must weaken resolve, drawing men towards homes and families at risk—and they must also be aware of Saor’s fleet somewhere behind them. All this was as Somerled had planned it.
Undoubtedly many of the Manxmen cut and ran. But sufficient stayed to fight, and make Somerled realise that there must have been far more than any mere fifty ships, as their scout had suggested. Either he had been hopelessly out in his observation or else Godfrey had been reinforced, possibly by another flotilla from somewhere up the west coast of Man, Fishwick or Peel.
To offer any coherent or even summarised account of that scattered, confused and prolonged battle would be quite impossible, even Somerled’s own part in it. Nor could it be stated that there was any overall victory or defeat. By the very nature of it all, there could be nothing clear-cut nor decisive, since neither side could know how many of the other there were, what state the rest were in, whether indeed fighting was still going on elsewhere at any given time. A large-scale night sea-fight was something new, and the combatants had to learn as they fought—if it was not too late to learn—and how many chose not to fight at all no-one knew.
A further complication was the weather. The wind freshened and swung round to the south-west as the night advanced, and the seas steepened, so that more and more attention had to be paid to seamanship and coping with conditions, less to fighting. Also the new airt of the wind and seas had the effect of gradually dispersing the struggling ships and setting them northwards. As time went on and men grew ever more weary, so less and less battle was fought. With supplies of torches running out and the fires on land dying down, it became difficult, once more, to distinguish friend from foe.
Almost inevitably, then, the engagement more or less fizzled out in the small hours of the morning rather than came to any recognisable conclusion. Somerled was aware of the process for some considerable time before he finally admitted that the battle was over. They had not found an enemy to engage for the best part of an hour.
It became a time for wound-licking. On the dragon-ship there was little damage to the vessel but considerable casualties amongst her complement, the various boarding-parties having suffered fairly heavily. Few were dead but many were wounded, some severely. Somerled himself had a grazed brow, where his great horned helmet had been knocked off by a glancing axe-blow, the pain of it only becoming evident now that the fighting was over. His companion longships—only two of them now, one having disappeared—were in worse case, having both sustained structural damage, stove-in timbers, splintered oars and the like. Blood was everywhere.
There was time to spare now for first-aid and clearing up, for little could be done about reassembling the fleet and discovering losses before daylight. Even their present position was uncertain.
When at length the grey dawn broke over the snarling whitecapped waters, it was to reveal much that was unexpected. They were nearer to land than they had thought, no more than a mile off a savage, cliff-girt shore. Also evidently further north than they had realised. Ships were scattered near and far—and one, no great distance off, was another dragon-ship, Saor’s obviously; so the northern half of the fleet must have joined the battle without Somerled being aware of it. Many of the vessels looked to be mere drifting hulks, some abandoned, dismasted or burnt-out. Many others could be seen piled up along the rocks and skerries of the shore-line. How many were their own and how many enemy was not evident. It all made a sorry sight in the bleak morning light.
The two dragon-ships quickly pulled together and held a brief shouted exchange. Saor said that he and his had been in time to take part in the tail-end of the fighting, although he had found it hard to find who to fight. Probably it was their arrival which had hastened the end. He knew nothing about reinforcements for Godfrey and had not been involved in any real battle further north.
Somerled perceived that his ship and its companions were amongst the farthest north of the scattered fleet. He ordered a move southwards, followed by Saor and the others. As they went, vessels moved in to join them, some obviously limping and damaged and with reduced oar-power—but they left a lot of hulks behind, most of them probably Manxmen although it was hard to tell at any distance.
Somerled was grimly counting. By sun-up, and down near the southern corner of Man again, he added up to fifty-eight ships accompanying him, in various stages of impairment and dilapidation. He had started out with eighty, plus the twenty captured at St. Michael’s Haven—so there were over forty missing. It made a daunting thought. Some might yet appear, some might be salvaged, a proportion of their crews surviving. But by any standards it was a dire and costly victory—if victory it could be called.
Apart from the abandoned hulks there appeared to be no sign of Godfrey’s fleet. Presumably therefore the survivors had scuttled for Rushen and the shelter of its haven.
Somerled had not come all this way and at such cost to leave matters thus indeterminate, even though his depleted force was in no state for further battle meantime. He summoned Conn MacMahon, told him to take three other ships, to go back looking for stragglers, to aid any semi-crippled vessels and salvage what he could, as well as collecting survivors and wounded. The other fifty-four ships he ordered to follow him to St. Michael’s Haven.
Slowly and lacking élan the Isles fleet headed eastwards. They would still look a formidable force from a distance but that would be something of a misapprehension. Somerled hoped, however, that he could still make use of this appearance.
But when they had rounded the jutting tip of Langness, the south-eastern headland of Man, and approached St. Michael’s Isle and the hidden entrance to its bay, it was to discover what Somerled had half-expected. The narrow channel between island and mainland was tight blocked by Manx shipping, longships lying side-by-side and in rows. There would be no entry there, no amount of boarding and battling on so narrow a front would force this bottleneck. It looked grievously like stalemate.
A dragon-ship was very evident in the middle of the front of the barrier—Godfrey’s, for a wager. There lay any hope of extracting some gain from this ill-starred venture.
Somerled called to Saor to take charge of the fleet and to hold it there, about half-a-mile from the enemy. He was going forward to talk to Godfrey.
So, spurring on his tired oarsmen to mak
e a special effort in dash and style, the Isles flagship surged forward in a cloud of spray, banners streaming, a fine, challenging sight. Still, silent, the ranked Manx ships waited.
At less then two hundred yards from the centre of that line, Gillecolm had his rowers pull up, back-water and slew broadside-on, in expert fashion. His father cupped his hands, to shout.
“Ha—Godfrey Olafsson, are you there? I am Somerled. I am sorry that I missed you last night. We could have settled our differences decently, as honest men should. No doubt you sought me also? It was difficult in the dark.”
There was no reply to this sally for moments, and then a voice came thinly across the water. “I, Godfrey, speak. What do you here, Islesman? What do you want?”
“Much, good-brother—much. We have a deal to settle, you and I. We can do it by the honest method of another trial of strength—if you will come out and meet me. Either your ship and mine, or your fleet and mine. Or we can make a compact, a bargain. Yours is the choice.”
“I have nothing to bargain over, with you, upstart!”
“I think you have. And that is no way to name your sister’s husband!”
“What do you want with me?”
“Ah—that is better. I want peace between us, Godfrey. I want no more threats from you. I want no more talk of you being King of the Hebrides. Whilst you remain without lawful offspring, I want your sister’s son, Dougal here, named heir to the throne of Man—as is his right. Aye—and I want an end to your oppressions on Man, your persecutions of your own folk and my friends here. You make a bad king, Godfrey—and bad kings as neighbours endanger others.”
There was silence from the enemy line.
“How say you, then?” Somerled called. “Is it to be peace? A compact? Or more battle?”
“You rave! You are mad!” That came less than distinctly, as though choked over.
“You shall learn if I rave, man! I hold you and your kingdom in my hand. If you will not come out and fight, I can land anywhere on this island and take it. Your people hate you—they will not fight for you. And Orkney is far away.”