Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  It was done for, Warner realized. Even if it survived, it was out of the fight, but its next astern was coming on fast.

  “Next one!” he shouted.

  Thud. McQuaid dropped a round on the pitching deck.

  “Crap!” McQuaid grabbed for it but missed as it rolled aft.

  “Take it easy, Dougie,” Frick said. “Let that one go. Get another.”

  The marine the gunner had yelled at earlier poked his head up for a moment, saw the shell rolling towards him, and caught the six-and-a-half-pound round as it tipped over the edge of the forecastle. He cradled it safely against his chest, winked at McQuaid, and then dropped back down into the forecastle’s blast shadow.

  McQuaid made himself slow down as he pulled another round from the case and loaded it. A bolt from the new leader’s ballista vanished tracelessly into a wave fifty yards from Ferox’s bow.

  “Ready!” he snapped.

  “Set!” Frick confirmed a moment later, and Warner looked aft again. This time, the wave set was confused. He couldn’t find the rhythm.

  “I’m set, Zen master!” Frick said pointedly as the first crossbow bolts began whistling in their direction.

  There! The wave was overtaking the stern. Now at the mast. The bow was rising, and—

  “Fire!”

  KABOOM!

  The recoilless roared, but this time, the round struck even higher on the target’s side. The explosion ripped a jagged gash in the bulwark and the combination of the blast and the savage spray of splinters killed or wounded most of the men actually on the galley’s forecastle, but structural damage was minimal.

  Warner cursed, remembering Art Mason’s warning that even the Carl Gustav would require direct hits to cripple something the size of a Tran war galley. He started to say something, then made himself bite his tongue as McQuaid reloaded yet again.

  “Ready!”

  “Set!”

  Warner swallowed. The enemy galley’s captain had altered course. He was steering straight for Ferox, probably to close and ram before he went the same way as his leader, and Frick’s point of aim had moved farther forward as the gunner tracked his target. The backblast was going to go farther aft this time. And if this shot didn’t stop the galley, it was going to get through to them.

  He looked aft, watching the waves. Timing it. And—

  “Fire!”

  This time the muzzle blast and the sound of the explosion were almost simultaneous, and he wheeled back to see the round smash into the galley’s hull, thirty feet aft of the ram and no more than a foot or two above its normal waterline. It blew a gaping hole in the shattered planking, and the wounded galley staggered as greedy water poured into it. It fell off as Ferox forged past it, so close he could hear the screams of pain and terror.

  Poor bastards. They’re as good as dead in this weather. And if we do the same thing to those troop ships . . .

  Disgust filled him, melding with the nausea he’d fought all day, and he vomited over the side of the ship.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GALLOWAY’S LAST STAND

  Lance Clavell’s radio chirped, and he unhooked it from his webbing and raised it to his ear. He hadn’t been assigned a radio, originally, but that was before Saxon had mentioned the additional handhelds in the cargo containers. They weren’t identical to the firefighter radios Baker’s “employers” had provided to the Brits, and they were probably a lot more fragile, but they were close enough to tie in to the radio net, and Clavell had been glad to get one.

  “Clavell here. Over,” he said, releasing the transmit button.

  “Get your people ready,” Art Mason said over the radio. “You’ve got incoming. Over.”

  “Understood. Over.”

  Clavell rehooked the radio carefully, a bit surprised by how steady his hand was, then raised his voice.

  “All right!” he told the musketeers he’d been assigned. “Lord Rick says at least some of the enemy are headed our way! Remember your orders!”

  He heard other voices shouting the same warning in Italian as Bisso passed the word from his central position in the Doge’s Palace, and he leaned out the open palace window, looking across the Palazzo San Marco towards the inner lagoon.

  The rain and dim light made it impossible to make out any details about the galley fight in the North Channel, even with binoculars, but the ship raft seemed to be holding, so where—?

  He swung the binoculars to his left, and his jaw tightened as he saw the galleys emerging from the inner end of the fishing boat channel.

  Thought that was supposed to be too shallow, he thought grimly. Surprise, surprise! Wonder what else is going to bite us on the ass before this is over? For damned sure something is!

  The galleys weren’t charging forward as soon as they cleared the channel, either. Instead, they were forming up, damn it.

  Bastards are too frigging smart to come in one at a time. They’re going to try to swamp us with a mass attack, instead.

  He lowered the binoculars and looked at the Palazzo itself.

  Only the northernmost, lowest section of the big square had been covered in seawater when the last container arrived, but that had been days ago. Today, the water had climbed much higher up the Palazzo’s shallow slope. Shallow waves ran in across it to break against the defensive barricade, and the water was up to the calves of the men huddled behind it. More waves lapped ankle deep even across the lower steps of the Doge’s Palace, and the dim afternoon light was growing dimmer as a storm-shot evening came on quickly. The pelting rain was cold, the wind blew it almost directly into the defenders’ faces, and despite his current perch inside the palace on the west edge of the square, Lance Clavell couldn’t remember the last time he’d been colder, wetter, or more miserable.

  On the other hand, he thought, watching the water wash across the paving stones between him and the invisible edge of the square, it’s one hell of a killing ground. Just as long as everyone remembers their assigned sectors. Last thing we need is friendly fire casualties!

  He’d made that point, repeatedly, to the two platoons of Chelm musketeers under his command. All of the musketeers, not just the ones assigned to him, had been positioned carefully along the barricade and in the buildings to either side. Those on the barricade were supported by halberd-armed militia and two platoons of the Doge’s guard. More of the Doge’s men were stationed inside the Palace with Sergeant Major Bisso. Additional musketeers covered the Palace’s windows. Clavell was less than confident about the priming of the men on the barricade, but the muskets in the buildings should be sheltered from the driving rain.

  And then there were Major Baker and his Gurkhas, positioned along the center of the barricade.

  If the rain bothered them, they gave no sign of it. They sat calmly on the firing step behind the barricade, sipping hot tea from their canteen cups. As Clavell watched, a Nikeisian emerged from one of the palaces fronting on the square and splashed across with a steaming pot to refresh their tea, and he tried to imagine something more quintessentially British.

  Passavopolous and his Tran-born loader were with them, along with one of the Brits’ Bren guns. Passavopolous was trying to make jokes with the Gurkhas. Clavell doubted they understood a word he was saying, but they smiled politely, anyway.

  Guess you’ll be finding out how well it all works in about, oh, twenty minutes, he thought, turning back to watch a solid wave of at least a dozen galleys begin rowing steadily across the lagoon towards him. You spent all damned day telling people everything was under control and that it’d all work out fine in the end. Hope to hell you were right!

  “Professore! Professore!”

  Clavell wheeled to find Ginarosa Torricelli standing up to her knees in the water as she tugged on his sleeve. She looked far more like a bedraggled rat than a Councilor’s daughter daughter, yet she and her child militiamen had made themselves astoundingly useful. They’d been assigned to firefighting duties, originally, but the pounding rain had made bu
cket brigades superfluous. So they’d become scouts, message runners, and guides, instead. They knew the city’s streets better than anyone else, and they’d become a different sort of fire brigade, leading flying squads of mercs and Tamaerthan archers, like Jimmy Harrison’s, to critical spots. In fact, Ginarosa had been with Jimmy, the last Clavell heard, although Jimmy had made a point of sending her to the rear with “important messages” whenever he thought he could get away with it.

  Too bad she was too damned stubborn to stay there, damn it!

  Clavell doubted Ginarosa’s father knew everything his daughter had been up to, and he didn’t expect Councilor Torricelli to be delighted when he found out. For that matter, Clavell wished the girl would just stay put in his palace where he’d stashed Lucia Michaeli and Bart Saxon for safekeeping. If something happened to her—

  “What?” he asked.

  “Lord Bart and Lord Cal are back,” she replied, “and Lucia has been wounded!”

  “Back?” Clavell stared at her. “Back from where?”

  “They had gone to defend the Canale Gottardo Capponi. Did no one tell you? They were forced to retreat, but they reached Lord Jimmy and he told me to guide them to the Palazzo.”

  “No, they didn’t tell me they were going!” And the Colonel will have my ass if anything happens to Saxon, damn it! What the hell was he thinking?

  “You said Signorina Michaeli’s been wounded? How badly?”

  “I don’t know. But Lord Bart told me they need a medico, and I thought—”

  She gestured at the radio clipped to his webbing, and he grimaced in understanding. Saxon might be idiotic enough to traipse off to “defend” the canal with a sixteen-year-old girl, but at least Ginarosa had her wits about her, and he nodded to her in approval.

  “I’ll pass the word,” he assured her, “but I think a lot of people are going to need medics. We’ll do what we can, I promise, but I don’t know how quickly they can get to her. Where is she now?”

  “Lord Bart carried her back to your palace.”

  “She’s probably as safe there as she’d be anywhere else. Now you get yourself inside to keep her company!”

  “Of course, Professore,” she replied, and he unhooked the radio as she waded away from him.

  Yeah, sure you’ll stay where it’s safe, he thought bitterly, and pressed the transmit button.

  “Major Mason, this is Clavell. Over.”

  “Whatcha got? Over,” Mason replied.

  “Major,” Clavell said, watching the galleys slide steadily closer, “you’re not gonna believe what Saxon and Haskins have been up to.”

  * * *

  “They did what?”

  Rick stared at Mason, and the major shrugged.

  “That’s what Clavell says. Says the Michaeli girl got hurt pretty bad, too.”

  Rick shook his head in disbelief, wondering what lunacy had afflicted Saxon. If Rick had been forced to pick one man on Tran they couldn’t afford to lose, Saxon would have to be pretty damn high on the list.

  “Gotta say, Sir, that crazy as they were, they could be the reason we didn’t have galleys coming through the fishing channel a lot sooner.”

  “Maybe, but if it was a choice between not plugging the channel and risking Saxon, I’d have voted for not plugging the channel. And it’s sure as hell open now, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Mason agreed.

  They stood gazing down at the inner lagoon, and neither of them liked what they saw. Fighting raged all across the arc from San Giorgio to San Lazzaro, and the defense was losing ground. The defenders of the northern ship raft were retreating towards its eastern end, anchored where the fortress on San Lazzaro still held. Cargill and his Gurkhas had retreated into the Fortezza di San Lazzaro instead of falling back to Isola di San Matteo, the way they’d been supposed to, which might well be the only reason that fortress hadn’t already fallen. But it had also deprived the bridges from San Lazzaro to San Matteo of the firepower which had been meant to hold them. And it meant that if the fortress did fall, Rick lost Cargill and his men, as well.

  He bit his lip as he thought about all of the men fighting and dying out there. The men he was responsible for, God help him, but also the men on the other side. He was so sick of the slaughter. Of the knowledge that each battle he won only promised that he’d be available to fight the next one.

  And that he only had to lose one to lose it all.

  “At least it looks like Baker was right about command and control on the other side,” he said out loud. “If they were able to coordinate, those galleys would be heading down to hit del Verme from behind and open the West Channel for their great galleys and some of the navibus onerārius troop ships. And then we would be screwed.”

  “Small blessings, Sir,” Mason replied, then chuckled harshly. “I’ll take whatever we can get, though!”

  “You and me both, Art. You and me both.”

  Rick thought for a moment longer, then inhaled deeply.

  “What does Bisso have in reserve? Mercs and musketeers, I mean.”

  “He’s got Brentano’s team, Sir. No musketeers or archers.” Mason grimaced. “I’m thinking he’s gonna need Brent’s boys right where they are in a couple of minutes.”

  “Maybe he is, but tell him to send them to San Matteo anyway. We need Brentano on the bridges if Cargill’s locked up on San Lazzaro.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Rick looked back at the North Channel and his mouth tightened. The pirates might not be organized enough to attack del Verme’s back, but they didn’t have to, either. The increasingly heavy rain and oncoming darkness made it difficult to be certain from here, but it sure as hell looked like the attackers were starting to clear a way through the western end of the North Channel’s ship raft, closest to Lido Island. As inextricably as the pounding seas had jammed those ships together, it was going to take them a while, but “a while” wasn’t the same thing as forever.

  Getting close to time for Walbrook, he thought grimly. And I don’t have any dice left to throw after that.

  * * *

  “Oh, shit!” Larry Warner snarled as Sergeant Frick toppled back with a crossbow bolt clear through the bony part of his shoulder. He thudded to the deck . . . and the recoilless rifle tipped over the side.

  Even if Frick lived, which was far from certain given the state of medicine here on Tran, he’d be crippled for life. Douglas McQuaid grabbed the gunner as he curled up in agony and dragged him into the shelter of the bulwark while more crossbow bolts slashed overhead or buried themselves in the ship’s planking.

  The security line on the Carl Gustav jerked taut, and the same marine who’d caught the loose round earlier leapt to heave the star weapon back aboard. He got it as high as the top of the bulwark, then grabbed it by the venturi lock and pulled it the rest of the way to safety. Warner heard him shout in triumph—and then another crossbow bolt took him between the shoulder blades and he slammed to the deck.

  Warner put his head up from where he crouched against the inside of the bulwark himself and his stomach clenched.

  They’d managed to cripple two of the troop laden navibus onerārius with the recoilless, despite the wild seas. It had cost them another six rounds of precious ammunition, though, even with him trying to time the ship’s motion for Frick. One of the troop ships had gone down completely, and Warner didn’t like to think about how many men must have drowned in the process. The second one had been hit right on the waterline and looked like it was going, too, and they’d put at least eight or nine enemy galleys out of action with a combination of the recoilless and firebombs. But getting in close enough to attack the transports had been costly. They’d lost three of the Roman galleys, including one of the triremes with a six-man section of Gurkhas aboard, cutting their way through the escorting galleys. Worse, the seven remaining Romans were trapped inside the pirate formation now, with fire coming from three directions and at least ten pirate galleys in hot pursuit and closing fast from astern, and Marti
ns had been right about both the force of the wind and the options its direction offered.

  We are so fucked, Warner thought as he ducked back down and peered aft.

  Captain Pilinius was down. Whether he was wounded or dead was more than Warner knew, but he’d been hauled below by the flagship’s surgeon and it was Martins standing next to the steersman now, while Junius conned the ship. All seven of the remaining galleys, including Ferox, showed signs of damage, and the rest of the fleetmaster’s winnowed squadron formed a ragged wedge on either side of his flagship as the brutal wind drove them helplessly south.

  Warner left McQuaid to do what he could for Frick while he himself clawed his way aft along the safety lines. A dozen bodies lay sprawled along the main deck, marked down by enemy archers and crossbowmen despite the rain and the spray, but Warner reached the quarterdeck unharmed.

  So far, at least.

  “Frick’s down!” he shouted to Martins through the tumult, and the British lieutenant gave him a choppy nod.

  “Saw it!” he shouted back. “Anyone else we can put on it?”

  “McQuaid, but I think he’s going to be more useful shooting boarders with a rifle than trying to hit anybody else with the recoilless with the ship bouncing around like this.”

  Martins looked as if he were going to argue for a moment, but then he looked at the pirate galleys closing in from either side and astern and nodded.

  “Seems probable,” he acknowledged, with a grimace.

  “Are we in as much shit as I think we are?” Warner asked.

  “Probably.” Martins actually managed a smile. “Only one place we can go now, old man.” He pointed ahead to where the entrance to the North Channel was coming up fast.

  “Fantastic.” Warner felt his shoulders slump, then forced his spine to straighten. “What? About fifteen minutes?” he asked.

  “Closer to twenty, I should say. Always assuming none of these other buggers catch us up, first. I’m afraid they’re likely to overhaul Fulminis, at least, before we get there.”