by Alma Boykin
“Blessed Saint Landis, what in the name of Godown happened?” Pjtor was impressed by the chaos and not in a positive way.
“The horses and mules got loose, imperial master,” Major Alyxson reported. “The mules all stayed together and got in with the oxen, but the horses ran every direction before bunching up and going north, or so the tracks show. There are men heading that direction. Your personal mounts and those of the other ranking officers stayed here.” He shook his head a little, adding, “Yours were hobbled, imperial master, the others were not.”
Someone was careless. They will not be careless again. Pjtor called Colonel Androv to him. The tall, dark man appeared quickly. “Imperial master, how may this one serve?”
“Find who failed to order all the horses and mules hobbled, and who failed to do it. That is the standing order, correct?”
“Yes, imperial master, it remains the standing order.”
“Have them flogged ten lashes with the five-tailed whip. Each.”
The colonel nodded once, a crisp motion. “Ten lashes with the five-tailed whip each, yes, Imperial master.”
“You are dismissed.”
The man bowed from where he knelt, rose, saluted and left. That was, after all, why the whip travelled with the army. Green and Anderson had expressed reservations about using it on the men, but Pjtor could not understand why they objected. The peasant soldiers needed discipline, and the rod failed to penetrate to their brains, or so it often seemed. They expected pain. The five-tailed whip emphasized their error and made it clear to their fellows the penalty for failure and disobedience. He saw no need to try to explain to the foreigners how much the peasants of NovRodi differed from the free soldiers of the east. That was his problem, not theirs. And the orders about hobbling the horses and mules should never, ever be ignored. Just because no one had seen Harriers in the area recently did not mean that a few had not followed the soldiers, looking for a chace to steal horses and cause trouble. They could be like meez that way.
At noon by sun, Pjtor watched two men whip the captain and senior sergeant responsible for everyone else having to chase the horses. He was not surprised by the apparent pleasure some of the other soldiers expressed, quietly though. They’d been out in the storm dark hunting horses in an unfamiliar land. Thus far several dozen beasts had been found and brought back, with more men still out searching. The sergeant took the blows well until he passed out after the eighth strike, but the captain squirmed in the ties, wailing and screaming worse than a woman in child bed. Pjtor was not pleased, and had Alyxson make a note of the man’s name. Officers were supposed to be examples to their men, not soft and weak. Task finished, Pjtor rode to the outer shore of the spit in hopes of seeing something on the horizon that was not a Frankonian flag.
“Easy there, it might be useful.”
“Aye, sergeant, but it’s heavy.” Huffing, puffing, and Pjtor heard men dragging something across the sand.
“Not for much longer, once that sun finishes drying it. Now get moving before the waves eat something else.”
What are they talking about? What floated up? He spurred his horse and rode over the crest of a dune to find all sorts of things, wood and canvas, rope, washed up on the beach, with more in the water. The tide was coming in, and was the after wind from the storm pushing it? It came from ships or a ship. Had the storm destroyed his fleet? He swung down from the saddle, handed the reins to his aid and walked over to the pile, careful of his balance on the shifting sand of the dune’s flank. The men all knelt as he approached. “You may rise and resume working.”
The round thing was part of a spar, probably from the topsail of a mizzenmast or foremast judging by the diameter and the few remaining attach points. He thumped the wood, noticing the good finish and smoothing work. The broad strips of canvas he ignored for the moment, instead looking at other chunks of wood. Something about the fitting looked odd, as if they’d been held together with a different fastener than he was used to. Pjtor crouched down and turned the bit of plank so he had better light on the edge. “Well, well.” Round nails. His people still used square iron nails because the tools for drawing round nails remained rare and expensive. He stood and went back to the sail.
“Pick that up and turn it over.” Two men did as ordered, struggling a bit with the awkward and heavy wet canvas. They revealed the reef points, the straps used to furl the sails, to tie the sails up to the spar in high wind or when at anchor. The attachments looked different from those Pjtor’s ships or the New Dalfans used. “You can set it down.” Pjtor returned to the officers and servants waiting with his horse. “It belongs to a Frankonian ship.”
“Thanks be to Godown!” an over-eager voice chirped.
“Aye, so long as bits of ours don’t wash up next, imperial master,” Alyxson observed. He was not smiling.
“Indeed. Storms do not care who they destroy,” Pjtor reminded the others with a glare and a growl. And if bits of ship were appearing, bodies would follow soon, or so he recalled Geert and the other sailors telling him. Apparently people floated for a while, then sank, if they were all in one piece. They’d need to be buried, somewhere. Especially if any were from NovRodi.
Later that afternoon, the wind blowing from the sea brought one of his messenger boats, a little worse for wear. Pjtor went to meet it as soon as the sail was sighted. “What news?” He bellowed.
“Godown granted us the victory, but the storm claimed one of your prizes, imperial master.”
Pjtor could stand it no longer. The next day, as soon as enough light appeared in the east, he was rowed out to his fighting ship and gave orders to sail east. The wind out of the northwest, filled the sails and Imperial Sea headed east, her look outs searching for any sign of the fleet. Happily for Pjtor’s nerves (and for the other people on board, he suspected), an hour after they lost sight of land, they caught a glimpse of sail. At the captain’s orders the gunners began preparing for action. They might have the victory, but Pjtor remembered more than a few occasions when the Harriers had feigned defeat only to slaughter those who pursued them. Why should the Frankonians not do likewise? Better run the gun drills once more and find the effort unneeded than to be sunk or dismasted. Pjtor stood on the crowndeck, above his quarters and behind the helm’s man, watching the men in the yards and noting how quickly other men cleared the deck for action.
“Flag sighted,” the watch called down to the deck. “The sign of NovRodi.” Pjtor nodded, still on guard. Some of the books talked about ships that traveled under stolen flags, using them to sneak up on other vessels and then ambushing them. It was illegal if the other side did it, Pjtor gathered, but acceptable if a touch dishonorable if your navy did it. Or so the long-ago author implied. Pjtor sighed. Godown allowed us to cross the sea of stars but He did not change our hearts? Truly, Godown’s ways are mysterious and His own. Maybe Blessed Toni had it right, that we are to be tested and tried, proving ourselves worthy of Godown’s paradise, and each generation and world faces its own tests. That makes sense, since Godown does not ask of us more than He gives. A peasant is judged on his conduct in his life, not on how much like a priest he was. Pjtor found a great deal of wisdom in Blessed Toni’s writings, even if she had not been elevated to sainthood. He’d been touched that Strella had also felt enough of a connection to take Toni as her religious name.
“Is that a cow?”
Pjtor shook himself out of his meditation and went to the rail to look. Yes, a dead cow floated beside the hull, or part of one at least. Pjtor clenched his fists. “Damn that man,” he whispered. To put animals and non-fighters on war ships . . . At least with the army the animals had a job to do. The sight of the black and white animal bothered Pjtor more than the wreckage on the shore had. It meant that other bodies, human bodies, floated in the deep.
They reached the NovRodi ships before the next turn of the glass. The captain ordered Imperial Sea to go past the fleet, then turn and double back to come along side. That took several more turns o
f the glass and the sun glared down, halfway to the western horizon when they came within speaking distance. Pjtor had counted at least five additional ships beside his sixteen, several being towed and missing masts or large portions of their rigging. Several had women and children aboard, and he thought he heard yard fowl clucking from one. The civilians pointed as he passed and he wondered if they knew who sailed beside them. He suspected they’d had a nasty surprise when the fighting had begun.
Indeed. A small boat took him to Imperial Pjtor, Basilius’s flagship. He noticed the damage, including a chunk blown out of the side-rail abeam the helmsman’s position. “Welcome aboard, imperial master.”
Pjtor noted the men kneeling and nodded. “Thank you, you may rise.”
“Admiral Basilius is in the main cabin, imperial master. A splinter from the rail took his arm,” a lieutenant explained.
“Very good.” Pjtor knew every inch of the ship, since he’d helped build it and had designed it. He stooped to enter the cabin, then straightened up. “As you were,” he called before anyone could move too far.
Basilius sat up in his bunk, propped by rolled clothes, blankets, and bolsters. Two other men in captains’ uniforms watched from beside a table with a large chart draped over it, and a very unhappy looking man in battered clothes of an unfamiliar cut glared at Pjtor. “Congratulations Admiral, Godown has been gracious.”
“Indeed, imperial master, most gracious and generous.” Basilius sounded unsteady, and Pjtor suspected he’d been given something to ease the pain of the remains of his arm. “If it is not too much, imperial master, please allow Captain Jones to brief you. I fear my grasp of the latter part of the battle is a bit confused yet.”
“Certainly.”
Jones looked as if he’d been born for the sea, small of stature but sturdy of build, not fat but well muscled, especially his shoulders. He bowed low. “We found the Frankonian ships three days ago at first light. The wind was with us, imperial master, and,” he gestured to the map. Pjtor looked down as the other man moved markers and tokens around, to show how the fleets had been. “Godown gave us the wind, and we divided into two as soon as we saw their formation. The copper bits are Frankonian.”
“Your damn spy boat gave you the wind, not Godown, ye bastard,” the stranger growled.
Pjtor looked him over. He wore a tight, waist-length black coat and white or light grey shirt, black pants to just below the knee and dark socks that fit into the cuffs of the pants. He’d pulled his brown hair back into a tail, like a woman or like some of the men of New Dalfa. His narrow face and pointed chin reminded Pjtor of the lagomophages, the lean creatures with sharp teeth and lush pelts that lived in the forests and hunted lagoms and other small mammals. Pjtor observed, “Contrary to what rumor might claim, my parents were married when I was conceived and born. The same is not true for your overlord’s sire, not that Godown cares. Neither does the sea.” He turned his attention back to the chart.
“We divided into two, imperial master, and planned to cut the Frankonians like so.” The Frankonians had been sailing in two clusters, an odd formation that Pjtor did not recall seeing in any of the books he’d read. Why bunch up like that? They’ll steal the wind of the leeward ships until they pass, and risk getting blown into each other. Unless they were changing position for some reason? Oh, were the ships with soldiers on board getting ahead of those with civilians? Hmm, that would make sense if they were shifting the line of action. The two sets of four ships sailed at a diagonal to each other, and Pjtor could see what Basilius had intended. One group of NovRodi ships would focus on the northeastern four, and the second group on the southwesterly set, coming down from the northwest on them in a line and then possibly swinging around to catch them from the leeward side after the initial attack, blocking their retreat. Pjtor could see it going terribly wrong in several different ways.
“And?”
The Frankonian markers separated farther. “This group slowed and furled sail. It opened the gap wider and some of us began to wonder if they had some kind of special weapon or new bow guns.”
“We were staying out of the fight, heathen.” He glared at Pjtor. “Believers do not kill other believers unprovoked.”
He’s going to go swimming if this continues. Pjtor decided to ignore the outburst for the moment. “As you were saying?”
“Um, yes, imperial master,” Captain Jones sounded a bit nervous, then recovered. “We crossed here. The lead ships of both groups opened fire first, aiming for our rigging with their deck gonnes. Northern Star lost part of her topgallant and St. Boris had her spritsail torn apart. But our broadsides caught them hard, imperial majesty. As did the rigging gunners. St. François lost her captain and steering man in the first pass.”
Damn, that’s not supposed to be possible. “And then you both turned?”
“Aye, and thanks be to Godown for the Dalfans and Hämäl-trained men. They brought us like so,” and he shifted the markers. After the NovRodi ships fired, each one had turned northeast, quartering the wind. “Um, New Dawn had a little problem, but she caught up. We fired broadsides again, aiming low, for the gunports. Not long after we began the turn, the wind shifted out of the west, then west southwest.”
“You filthy monsters aimed for the civilians is what you did. Don’t lie, you shot to kill us, not to stop the guns.” He spat toward Pjtor. “You know we have proper claim to the land and you northern beasts just wanted to kill us before we could uphold our rights under settlement law.”
Pjtor considered the map, the markers, and the obnoxious Frankonian. He straightened up and crossed the distance between table and irritant in two strides. He reached down, grabbing the man’s shoulders and slamming him hard against the bulkhead, knocking the wind out of him, then pinning him with a forearm against the throat, choking him into silence. “Your master’s understanding of law is questionable at best,” Pjtor said, keeping his voice down, speaking as clearly as possible. “And I might point out that with the disappearance of the Landers and their government, their laws fell into abeyance as well. My army defeated the Harriers, allies of the people you call the Turkowi. NovRodi had claim to the land prior to the Great Fires as well as current claim by possession and settlement. The king of Frankonia has no such right. He chose to put civilians on naval vessels. He ordered his captains to ignore my warning and to kill my courier. Do not bleat to me about law and right. I am Pjtor Adamson Svendborg, emperor of NovRodi, prince of Muskava, prince of the Sweetwater Sea, anointed of Godown to lead His people. You are a guest aboard my ship. Do not abuse my hospitality.” He pulled the man close, then shoved him into the bulkhead once more. The stranger’s head went thunk against the white-painted wood. Pjtor returned to the table. “Continue.”
“Yes, imperial master.” He took a deep breath. “It was a close fight, imperial master, and we did lose St. Boris, at least for now. She’s under tow, was dismasted and holed but the crew patched her. Despite what the, ah, guest claims, imperial master, we did not specifically aim for civilians, and did try to avoid those on deck when we could see them. As Admiral Basilius and the others had guessed, their presence slowed and distracted the Frankonians. That or they did not send first rate crews, imperial majesty. We should have lost more, should not have caught them.”
“But you did.” Pjtor spun the end of his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “What became of the three that are missing?”
“One blew up after catching fire, we think. One minute she was across from Great St. Landis and then she was falling out of the sky.” He shook his head. “Sheep cannot fly, imperial master. And they do a great deal of damage when they come down.”
“I—I can imagine.” Pjtor bit his tongue to keep from laughing at the mental picture. “What about cows?”
“None on board that one, at least, none that launched.” Now Pjtor did have to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing, this time at the very serious tone in the captain’s voice. The man continued, “I believe
those came from the ones on board the Frankonia that panicked and ran off the side.”
“Ahem. And the other ships?”
“One sank slowly from an internal leak, imperial master. Apparently she’d been sprung in an earlier storm and only constant pumping was keeping her afloat. And the other was torn apart in a storm from last night. Didn’t furl sails fast enough and heeled over. The people on board had all come onto the upper deck for some reason, plus the sails made her terribly top heavy and the wind shift caught her. Terrible seamanship, imperial master.”
Pjtor glanced at the Frankonian man, but he seemed preoccupied with leaning against the bulkhead and trying to breathe. “How many prisoners do we have?”
The other captain, not Jones, found a small ledger book in the cubby at the head of Basilius’s cot and turned some pages. “Imperial master, if I may?”
“Yes?”
“Assuming four-fifty to five hundred per ship, which seems correct allowing for the Frankonians being short crewed but loaded with passengers, at the close of battle there were roughly two thousand five hundred, including injured. Subsequent losses, including those who disappeared last night, we are at one thousand three hundred sixty-three, of those several hundred are injured and at least a hundred will probably die. Around two hundred fifty settlers remain, including a few soldiers, and the rest are sailors. Some of the sailors claim they were stolen from their own merchant and fishing ships, and two insist they are from the Sea Republic, one from Deecheeara in the southern Thumb, imperial master.”