by John Norman
“The Portia is off the starboard bow!” called an officer. “She is sorely beset!”
“Two ships approach her!” cried another man. “They will draw alongside of her! She is to be boarded and taken!”
“To the rescue of the Portia!” cried the officer on the stem castle. “Two points to starboard! Stroke!”
“Stroke!” called the oar master.
“Hold! Back oars!” cried the oar master, miserably. “Steady!” he called to the two helmsmen, now at a single tiller.
In the distance involved, at full strike, with the lost port rudder, we could not have come about in time to attain the attack course.
“Now, stroke!” called the oar master.
“Hold!” called the officer, miserably.
“Hold, hold!” cried the oar master.
In the delay a ship of the Voskjard had interposed herself between us and the Portia, Our rams, separated by some fifty yards, faced one another. We backed slowly away. No longer was the Tina alert to her helms. Even low and shallow drafted she could no longer veer in a matter of yards. She had been designed for a double-helm system. The port rudder was now gone. Additional open water was now required in which she might maneuver. The ship of the Voskjard lay to. She did not attack. It may be that from her position she could not detect the missing port rudder. Or it might be that she was waiting for support.
“Shall we not attack?” asked a man.
“That will do little to aid the Portia,” said another man.
The Tina lying to, several of us stood upon our benches, that we might observe the Portia‘s fate.
“Can we not yet press to her aid?” asked a man.
“If we did so,” said another man, glumly, pointing to the rocking galley of the Voskjard off our bow, “she would take us in the hull like a speared tarsk.”
“The Portia is done for,” said a man.
“Gone,” said another.
Grimly we watched the efficient approach of the Voskjard’s ships, one to the port of the Portia, the other to her starboard. On the deck of the Portia there seemed no more than fifteen or twenty figures.
“What are they doing?” asked a man.
“I do not know,” I said.
Men on the masts of the Portia were unslinging the ropes which held the tops of the long, heavy planked constructions back against the masts. These constructions were mounted on platforms. When freed of the masts they leaned back against the platforms. Other men were busying themselves at the foot of the masts, where they were lengthening and playing out the chains that attached the platforms to the masts. When they had done this other men, with shoulders and levers, and hauling on ropes, moved the platforms, which were on long, solid rollers, with their planked constructions, away from the masts, one to port, the other to starboard. At this point the fellows who had been handling the chains adjusted them to the appropriate lengths. Still by these chains, of course, the platforms with their planked constructions, were held to the ship’s masts. I saw the rollers then locked in position.
Pirates crowded to the rails of their ships. I saw grappling irons, on their lines, hurled over the bulwarks of the Portia.
But almost at the same time the planked constructions, on their platforms, were pulled downward by ropes. These constructions, some twenty-five feet in length, and some seven feet in width, as the pirates scattered back in their path, crashed downward, their great bent spikes shattering into the decking of the pirate ships, anchoring the ships together, yet holding them some seven or eight feet apart.
At the same time battle horns of Ar sounded from the galley and hatches were thrown open.
The pirates, startled, unable to reach the ship, stood confused along their railings.
“Infantrymen of Ar!” cried a man on the Tina.
Out of the opened hatches poured warriors of Ar, grimly helmeted, bearing great, rounded shields and mighty spears, bronze-headed and tapering.
Pirates rushed to the planked road bearing ingress to their ship, but a dozen spears, and then another dozen, hurled by running men devastated resistance, and then, on the run, swords drawn, their shields struck by arrows, buffeting, slashing, driving men into the water, the soldiers of Ar rushed over the bridges linking the ships. Half turned toward the stem of the vessel and half to the stern. The pirates’ lines, thin, strung out for boarding, were instantly cut. Vicious and swift, clean, exact, merciless, was the steel of professional warriors. In moments had the decks of both pirate vessels been cleared. And still soldiers emerged from the hold. In all, I had little doubt that they outnumbered the pirates eleven or twelve to one. The spacious hold of the Portia had been crammed with men.
“It was an infantry battle,” said a man beside me, in awe.
“But it was fought at sea,” said another.
We watched the great planked constructions being pried up from the decks of the pirate ships. We saw flags of Ar’s Station being run out upon their stem-castle lines.
“Ar knows what she does best,” said a man.
“Yes,” said another.
The ship of the Voskjard which had been lying to, preventing us from joining the fray, now backed away from us.
I think all of us, both friend and foe, had from that moment on a new respect for the ships of Ar’s Station.
“Let us join our sisters!” called Callimachus.
We then made our way toward the Portia and her prizes.
“It will be dark soon,” said a man.
“We can slip away under the cover of darkness,” said a man.
“Callimachus will not abandon Callisthenes,” I said.
“Where is Callisthenes?” asked a man.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Surely we cannot last another day,” said a man.
“Not without the support of Callisthenes,” said another fellow.
“It would be the third day of fighting,” said a man.
“Callisthenes will be here before morning,” said a man.
“How do you know?” asked a fellow.
“He must,” shrugged the fellow.
“We must rig a new port rudder,” I said. “We can obtain materials from the wreckage.”
“I will help,” said a man.
“I, too,” said another.
The thought of the Tamira crossed my mind. I had been within a hundred yards of her today.
“We shall seek permission to put down the longboat,” said one of my fellows.
“Do so,” I said.
The thought, too, of the Tuka, crossed my mind. She had been the lead ship of the Voskjard’s fast wedge attack. She now lay damaged, unmanned, stranded on a bar near the chain, not more than a pasang away. It was said that she was a well-known ship of the Voskjard. Too, she was a heavy class galley, with a large hold. “What are you thinking of?” asked a man. “Nothing,” I said “Nothing.”
Chapter 6 - WE AWAIT SUPPORT FROM CALLISTHENES; IT DOES NOT COME; THE THIRD FLEET OF THE VOSKJARD; AGAIN WE SOUND OUR BATTLE HORNS
We saw the Leda of Port Cos taken full in the hull.
“Back oars!” cried the oar master.
The Tina shook in the water and, swerving, slid back. A medium-class galley of the Voskjard slipped past our bow, the tooth of her ram failing to feed, the water from her cleft passage, swelling away from her, forcing us to port. I saw one of her great eyes, that on her starboard bow, slide balefully by. Our own ram, as she passed, gouged a furrow, the length of a spear, the wet wood squeaking, in her flank. A man screamed on the stern of the Portia, to starboard, not more than forty yards away, and tumbling, reeling, like a torch, his clothing soaked with flaming pitch, fell into the water.
“Back oars!” called the oar master. “Steady! Hold!”
Many of our benches were empty. Blood was on the thwarts.
A set of javelins, five of them, from a springal, struck from their guides by a forward-springing plank, raked the interior wall of the starboard rowing frame.
Ther
e was a grinding astern and a dozen men from one of the Voskjard’s pressing ships, close in the crowded waters, leapt aboard.
“Repel boarders!” I heard cry. “Keep the benches!” cried the oar master.
Men fled past us to strike the visitors from the stern. I kept my bench, my hands on the oar.
“Back oars!” called the oar master.
“The decks are cleared!” cried a man.
“The Portia has been stricken!” cried an officer. I saw one of our archers, his chest transfixed with an arrow, tumble from the stern castle. A spume of water rose like a geyser from the water near us, marking the miss of a huge stone hurled from an enemy catapult.
I saw, peering through the thole port, the Leda‘s bow lift suddenly at a sharp angle from the water, the ram and hull dripping water, glistening, and then, in a moment, she slipped back, three-quarters below the surface. Her stern was in the mud of the river bottom. The bow, then, in the current, with men clinging to it, swung toward the chain.
“Back oars!” called the oar master.
The ram of a Voskjard ship smote the jutting bow of the Leda. Men leaped from it into the water, mixing in the water with the striking oars of the Voskjard’s ship. Archers on the Voskjard’s ship, leaning over her gunnels, fired down on the struggling swimmers. Elsewhere I saw men fighting in the water.
“Two points to port!” called an officer.
We swung to port. Our ram, now, threatened the Voskjard’s ship. The archers scattered behind the bulwarks. Consternation held sudden sway upon her decks. Oars, like startled limbs, not in unison, unevenly, rose from the water. We saw rudder activity, not synchronized between the port and starboard rudders. Oars, one and two, and more, at a time, began to slash down at the water. She, too, swung to port. Then she had slipped away behind the shattered bow of the Leda. We had not charged her. Off the starboard bow lay a galley of the Voskjard, rocking on the water, seemingly somnolent, but we knew, in an instant, if we exposed our flank to her, she would come alive, springing to the attack. “Beware the sleen that seems to sleep,” is a Gorean proverb.
A bowl of flaming pitch, streaming smoke behind it looped toward us, flung by a ship near the chain. It struck in the water to the starboard side.
“Back oars, back oars,” said the oar master. “Back oars, gently, Lads.”
In moments we had drawn alongside of the Olivia, which had been the flagship of the fleet from Ar’s Station, commanded by Aemilianus. She and the Portia had been the last of the original ten ships which had constituted that small fleet. The Portia, now, was gone. To the starboard side of the Olivia was the Tais, slender, scarred, indefatigable, valiant, of Port Cos, which held the center of our line. On her starboard side were the Talender, of Fina and the Hermione, a prize taken in battle, manned by soldiers of Ar’s Station.
“We cannot take another attack,” said a man.
We listened to the signal horns from the Voskjard’s fleet.
“They are drawing back,” said a man.
“Perhaps they will go away,” said another.
“They are regrouping,” said a man.
“There will be another attack,” said a man.
“Of course,” said another.
We had begun the morning with eleven ships. Of Port Cos, we had had the Leda and Tais; of Ar’s Station, we had had the Olivia and Portia, and four prize ships; of Fina, we had had the Talender; of Victoria, we had had the Mira and Tina. Of these eleven ships, now only five remained, the Tais, Olivia, Talender, Tina and Hermione, which had been taken as a prize. It was a slender line which we had to present to the might of the Voskjard, surely still some twenty-eight or twenty-nine ships, now being marshaled off our bows.
“The Tais should make a run for it,” said a man near me, a native of Victoria, a survivor of the Mira.
“She remains in the line,” said a man.
“Who would have suspected it of the sleen of Cos,” said a soldier of Ar near me, one of several whom we had taken aboard, from the careening decks of the sinking Alcestis, which, yesterday, had been taken as a prize by the men of Ar. Without such men we could not have manned our oars.
“Interesting,” said one of his fellows.
“Perhaps there is courage, other than in Ar,” speculated another.
“The sleen of Cos have fought well,” said another.
“Yes,” said another.
“Where is Callisthenes?” inquired the fellow from the Mira.
“I do not know,” I said.
“We are out of stones and pitch,” said a man.
The sound of battle horns drifted across the water towards us.
I watched one of our archers, with a knife, removing an arrow from the wood of the stem castle. He worked carefully, in order not to damage it.
“They are running flags on their stem-castle lines now,” I said.
“It will be soon,” said a man.
“Their oars are outboard now,” said a man.
Again we heard the sounds of battle horns.
“To your stations, Lads!” called an officer.
We hastened to our places.
“Oars outboard!” called the oar master.
We slid the wood through the thole ports.
“They are coming now,” said the man behind me.
“Why is there silence?” called Callimachus from the stem castle. “Can we give no response?”
Men looked at one another.
Then, from the scarred, half-shattered, smoke-blackened stern castle of the Tina, first from one trumpet, lifted by a fellow who was little more than a boy, and then from another, and from another, there resounded notes of defiance. The trumpeters on the stern castle of the Olivia, too, seized up their instruments, and then, too, from the Tais, and from the Talender and Hermione, came the clear, unmistakable, brave sounds of men determined to stand together.
The hair on the back of my neck rose, and I was proud. I gripped the oar.
“Ready!” called the oar master. “Stroke!”
And the five ships of our small line sallied forth to meet the stately advance of the Voskjard’s fleet.
“The Hermione is down,” said a man.
“The Talender has been taken as a prize,” said another.
We rested on our oars.
“I had not thought we could survive that attack,” said a fellow.
On our starboard side was the Olivia, and on her starboard side was the valiant Tais.
“They are coming again,” said a man.
“It will be the end,” said another.
“There is shouting on the stern deck of the Olivia,” said a man, rising at the bench.
I, too, stood up.
“There is commotion there,” said another, standing now on his bench.
“What is it?” asked a fellow, his head down, leaning over his oar.
“There was then, too, a cry from our stern castle. “Ships! Ships astern!” cried an officer from the stern castle.
“It is Callisthenes!” cried a man.
I stood up on the rowing bench, clinging to the top of the rowing frame.
“Callisthenes!” cried a man.
“Keep your benches!” cried the oar master.
“Callisthenes!” cried other men.
On the horizon, astern, like tiny dots, sped toward us a flotilla, of ships.
“Callisthenes! Callisthenes!” we cried. Hats were flung into the sir. Rejoicing, we embraced one another. Tears of joy streamed down grizzled faces. Even soldiers of Ar, at our benches, crying out, seized up shields and bucklers, and smote them with the blades of spears and the flats of swords.
“The tide turns!” cried an officer. “The tide turns!”
Callisthenes commanded twenty ships.
“Keep your benches!” called the oar master. “The fleet of the Voskjard approaches!”
“Callisthenes!” we cried, joyfully. “Callisthenes!” Joy, too, reigned on the decks of the Olivia. We could hear cheering even from the
Tais, alongside of the Olivia.
“We are saved!” cried a man.
Callimachus, alone on the deck of the stem castle, with a glass of the Builders, surveyed the fleet, flung out across the horizon, advancing astern.
I climbed, joyfully, to the top of the rowing frame. The galleys, I could see, stretched from horizon to horizon. Suddenly I felt sick. “It cannot be Callisthenes,” I said. “There are too many ships.”
A man looked at me, startled, disbelievingly.
“It can only be ships of the Voskjard,” I said.
This insight was not unique to me. Almost simultaneously the cheering on the Olivia and on the Tais, too, ceased. Our three ships, silent, rocked on the water. We could hear battle horns, now, from not only the forces of the Voskjard moving towards us, off our bows, but we could hear, too, the notes of battle horns drifting across the water towards us from astern.
“It is the attack,” said a man, reading the notes.
“We are trapped,” said another man.
“To your stations, Lads!” called Callimachus.
I took my place at the oar. I was in consternation, and stunned. These ships, advancing from the south, were clearly ships of the Voskjard. But they could not approach from the south in such force, for the south was guarded by the fleet of Callisthenes. To bring a fleet in such force through the cut chain would seem impossible. Presumably it would have been brought, beached and on rollers, about the south guard station. This was the major danger we had anticipated in defending the river. It was for such a purpose that we had placed the twenty ships of Callisthenes at that point, to guard against this major weakness in our defenses. That the new ships of the Voskjard were bearing down now upon us, and in such force, suggested that they had not been opposed, that either they had been permitted to cut the chain and advance unmolested, or, more likely, perhaps, that they had been permitted to circumvent the chain by the use of the beach route about the south guard station.
“Ready!” called the oar master.
Callisthenes must have withdrawn his ships from their position. Too, his information on the power of the Voskjard had proved haplessly inadequate. The error in his intelligence on such matters must have been of the nature of a factor of almost three. His sources had been proved again, and even more seriously, unreliable. The ships of Callisthenes had been essential to our defense of the river. They had failed to support us in our fight at the chain. Now, it seemed, they had failed, too, even to prevent the third fleet of the Voskjard from making an unimpeded entry into the waters east of the chain, from which position, of course, they could take the defensive fleet in the rear. Callisthenes must have abandoned his post. He must have withdrawn his ships. He must, perhaps feeling battle fruitless, have retired to Port Cos.