by David Weber
As it happened, Wyllym Ruhsyl had both of those.
* * *
Fresh smoke blossomed from the Charisian’s waist, and a second shell screamed through the air. This time, the gunners had fired a little high, however. The projectile made a sharp, flat slapping sound as it punched through Serpent’s main course and exploded at least a hundred yards clear.
Maybe that first shot was a fluke, Mahkluskee told himself. It could’ve been.
He told himself that very firmly … and never believed it for a moment.
* * *
“Shan-wei!” Ruhsyl snarled as his second shot went high.
“Told you not to miss.” Zhowaltyr had to raise his voice, but his dry tone came through Ruhsyl’s protective earplugs quite well. “Not like those shells grow on trees out here, y’know!”
The gun captain glared at him, but wisely didn’t reply.
“Load!” he barked instead, and his crew sprang into motion once more.
* * *
“Fire!” Jyrdyn Klynmywlyr snapped, and the 18-pounders bellowed afresh.
The stinking cloud of gun smoke streamed back across the deck, and he squinted through it, straining to see the fall of the shot. At this range, there wasn’t much time for the smoke to clear, but he saw the flash of white as at least one of the round shot went bouncing and bounding across the waves well astern of the Charisian schooner.
“Damn and blast!” He shook his head angrily. Problems in elevation were one thing; being that far off in deflection was something else entirely.
“I want that frigging ship hit, not the Shan-wei-damned water!” he snarled. “Anybody not understand that?!”
He glared at his own gun crew for a moment, then swiveled the same fiery eyes to the other crew and held them for a pair of heartbeats. Then he inhaled sharply.
“Load!”
* * *
“Fire!”
The 14-pounder lurched back on its slides, coming up against the breeching tackle, and the smoke cloud—not the dirty gray-white of conventional gunpowder but the dark brown of the much more powerful Charisian chocolate powder—blasted up and out. The shell shrieked across the water between the two ships and landed perhaps thirty feet short of its target.
* * *
The deck jerked under Mahkluskee’s feet, and he threw out a hand to the compass binnacle for balance.
The Charisian shell had hit the water and continued forward. Its down-angle had been too sharp to actually hit Serpent’s hull below the waterline, but the fuse had activated just as it passed under the brig’s keel. Fortunately, it was too far away and the charge was too light to break the ship’s back or stave in her planking, but the caulked seams between those planks were another matter. Half a dozen of them started, and water began spurting into the hull. It wasn’t a dangerous flow—not yet—but there was time for that to change.
“Fire!”
* * *
The 18-pounders thundered again … and this time, Jyrdyn Klynmywlyr found his mark. A single 4.6-inch round shot slammed into Fleet Wing’s hull right at the waterline and continued onward through one of the schooner’s iron water tanks before it lodged in her timbers on the far side of the hull.
“Hands below!” the ship’s carpenter snapped, sending his assistants below to check for leaks. Hektor absorbed that information, but his attention remained fully focused on Serpent.
The only man aboard his ship more focused on the brig than he was, was Wyllym Ruhsyl.
“Fire!”
* * *
Serpent bucked as a 4.5-inch shell slammed squarely into her hull, punched through her planking, and exploded in her cable tier. The tightly coiled hemp absorbed much of the explosion … but it was also flammable, and smoke began wafting upwards.
“Away fire parties!” Oskahr Fytsymyns bellowed, and half a dozen men vanished down the forward hatch.
The Royal Dohlaran Navy’s firefighting techniques had improved radically over the last couple of years, especially once Earl Thirsk started contemplating the ramifications of explosive shells hitting wooden hulls. Serpent’s firefighters dragged a canvas hose behind them, and four more men tailed onto the forward pump, ready to send water surging through the hose when—if—they reached the source of that smoke.
The smoke rose through the hatch behind the firefighting party, rolling along the deck like ground fog, wreathing around the gunners’ knees before it topped the bulwark and the wind snatched it away, but they ignored it.
“Fire!”
* * *
The two ships forged through the water as the minutes dragged past and the artillery duel raged.
The carronade gunners on both sides stood watching, rammers and handspikes in hand, waiting until the moment might come for them to join the exchange. But Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk had no intention of giving Serpent’s shorter-ranged weapons the opportunity to fire upon his ship. Mahkluskee’s gunners were better than he’d anticipated, and they’d managed to hit Fleet Wing three more times over the past twenty-five minutes. In absolute terms, that was a dismal percentage of the shots they’d fired; in terms of gunners aboard a small ship in eight- or nine-foot waves, it was a very respectable accomplishment, and the last thing he wanted was to let the rest of Serpent’s gunners join the fray.
Wyllym Ruhsyl’s gun crew, however, was even better. They’d fired barely more than half as many shots and hit their target five times. Fleet Wing had suffered six casualties, none of them fatal; Serpent had seven dead and eight wounded, and she’d been hit twice below the waterline. Her pumps had kept pace with the inflow handily … until six minutes ago, when one of Ruhsyl’s shells had landed with freakish perversity right on top of her forward pump.
With only the after pump still in action, the water was gaining, slowly but inexorably. The brig had also lost half the pumping capacity dedicated to her firefighting teams, and although the fire in the cable tier had been contained, it hadn’t been extinguished. It continued to smolder, and another shell had exploded in Mahkluskee’s cabin, starting a second fire. That one had been smothered quickly, but the Dohlaran skipper could feel his people’s growing desperation. They’d hit the Charisian several times—he knew they had—yet there was no external evidence of it, and that accursed pivot gun continued to flash and thunder with metronome precision.
“Hit ’em, lads!” he heard himself shouting. “Hit the bastards!”
A rigging hit, he thought bitterly. That’s what we need—one hit on the bastard’s rigging!
That was the schooner rig’s one weakness as a man-of-war; it was more vulnerable than a square-rigger to damage aloft. If they could only bring down a mast, or even shoot away the foresail’s gaff! Anything to slow the Charisian, give Serpent a chance to break off. It would have to be a truly devastating hit to give the brig any hope of clawing upwind into carronade range, but at this point, he’d be more than willing to simply run.
I don’t care how accurate those bastards are, we could take them if they weren’t firing shells while we fired round shot! Who ever thought of fitting a gun that small with shells? And how did they get so damned much powder inside them? Why the Shan-wei can they do things like that, and we can’t? Which side are the Archangels really on?!
Something quailed inside him at the blasphemy of his own question, but that didn’t rob it of its point. Dohlar was the one fighting for God and Langhorne, so why was it that—
* * *
“Fire!”
Wyllym Ruhsyl yanked the firing lanyard for what seemed like the thousandth time. The 14-pounder bellowed, smoke blossomed … and HMS Serpent disintegrated in a massive ball of fire, smoke, and hurtling splinters as a 4.5-inch shell drilled straight into her powder magazine and exploded.
.III.
Lake City
and
Camp Mahrtyn Taisyn,
Traytown,
Tarikah Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“It would appear all is in readiness,” Capt
ain of Horse Medyng Hwojahn, Baron of Wind Song, remarked. His breath rose in a cloud of steam as he gazed through the tripod-mounted spyglass at the formidable lines of snow-shrouded fortifications. They stretched as far as he could see, even with the spyglass, and he straightened and turned to the tall—very tall, for a Harchongian—officer at his right shoulder. “Whenever seems best to you, Lord of Foot Zhyngbau.”
“Yes, My Lord!” the lord of foot at his shoulder bowed and touched his chest in salute, then snapped his fingers sharply. An aide bowed in turn and lifted the signal flag which had lain ready at his feet. He raised it and swept it in a vigorous circle high overhead, sharply enough that the swallow-tailed banner popped loudly in the wind of its passage.
For a few moments, nothing happened. And then, from well behind Wind Song’s vantage point, thunder rumbled like Chihiro’s kettle drums. Forty heavy angle-guns, the product of the Church of God Awaiting’s steadily growing steel foundries, hurled their shells overhead. They came wailing down the heavens, shrieking their anger, and impacted on the fortifications in a hurricane eruption of fire, smoke, flying snow, and pulverized dirt. For five minutes that torrent of devastation crashed down, stunning the ear. Then ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
The awesome, terrifying display of sheer destruction lasted for a full thirty minutes. Then it ended, if not with quite knife-like sharpness, sharply enough, and Wind Song reached up and plucked the cotton-silk earplugs out of his ears.
“Impressive, Shygau,” he said to the lord of foot, and Shygau Zhyngbau permitted himself a somewhat broader smile, bordering perilously closely upon a grin, than Harchongese etiquette would have approved in a properly behaved noble.
Of course, Zhyngbau’s connection to the aristocracy was … tenuous, at best. Technically, he was some sort of distant relation of Lord Admiral of Navies Mountain Shadow, although he and the duke had never met. The relationship was sufficient, barely, to make him at least marginally tolerable as the senior artillerist of the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels. Personally, Wind Song wouldn’t have cared if the man had been a serf, given his sheer capability. Then again, Wind Song’s own horizons had been somewhat … broadened since his uncle had assumed command of the Mighty Host and he’d come face-to-face with the realities of the Jihad.
“From here, it looks pretty bad,” Wind Song continued, turning to the considerably shorter officer standing to his left.
Unlike Shygau, Captain of Horse Syang Rungwyn had no aristocratic connection whatsoever, and he was—sad to say—totally deficient in the graces, deportment, and exquisite rhetoric of the Harchong Empire’s great houses. He wasn’t even connected to the bureaucrats who ran that empire. In fact, his sole qualification for his position as the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels’ senior engineer was that he was even better at his job than Zhyngbau was at his.
“It does,” Rungwyn acknowledged. “May I, My Lord?”
He indicated the spyglass, and Wind Song moved aside to allow him to peer through it. There was still enough drifting smoke—and flailed snow—to make detailed observation difficult, but it was beginning to settle. Rungwyn’s gloved fingers adjusted the glass carefully, then swung it in minute increments as he studied the churned, cratered wilderness the artillery storm had created. His expression was impassive, and when he straightened, his eyes were merely thoughtful.
“Actually, My Lord, I believe first impressions may have been misleading.” He twitched his right hand in a brushing-away gesture. “The trenches have caved in in many instances, and the obstacle belt’s been severely damaged, but I think we’ll find the majority of the deep bunkers fared much better than that.”
“Truly?” Wind Song arched one eyebrow, then bent over the spyglass to examine the battered fortifications. It was possible, he conceded, that Rungwyn had a point.
And perhaps you should have looked first yourself before you began spouting opinions, Medyng. How often has Uncle Taychau suggested that to you? It doesn’t always follow that something which looks irresistible truly is.
“I believe you may have a point, Captain of Horse,” he said as he straightened his back. “I propose we go and take a closer look.”
“But not too precipitously, My Lord,” Zhyngbau put in. Wind Song looked at him, and the lord of foot shrugged. “I regret to point out that our fuses are still less reliable than the heretics’, and I would truly prefer not to be blown up by—or, even more, not to blow you up with—an unexploded shell’s delayed detonation. I suspect Earl Rainbow Waters would be mildly perturbed with me for allowing anything like that. May I suggest you wait another twenty minutes, perhaps … and that my gunners and I precede you?”
“Since I have no greater desire to be blown up than you have to see that sad fate overtake me, suppose we make it a full hour, instead? Or, for that matter, two. I see it’s almost time for luncheon, anyway. I invite both of you to share the meal with me.” The baron smiled with an edge of genuine warmth. “It will give your gunners an opportunity to check for those unexploded shells … without you, since I fear my uncle would be only marginally less delighted to lose you than to lose me. It will also give us an opportunity to share our pre-inspection impressions and perhaps hit upon some additional thoughts for the test of the new bombardment rockets when they arrive.”
* * *
Well, that’s … irritating, Kynt Clareyk, Baron Green Valley and the commanding officer of the Army of Midhold, thought as he crossed to his office stove. In fact, that’s intensely irritating.
At the moment, his army—which was due to be rechristened the Army of Tarikah next month—lay encamped along the Lakeside-Gray Hill High Road. “Encamped” was probably the wrong word, given its implication of impermanence, when applied to the solidly built barracks the always-efficient Imperial Charisian Army Corps of Engineers, was busily constructing. Those engineers had been encouraged to even greater efficiency in this case by the current weather, and by the time they were done, Camp Mahrtyn Taisyn would sprawl over several square miles of New Northland Province and provide snug, weather-tight housing for upwards of eighty thousand men. That was still very much a work in progress at the moment, but some buildings—like the one housing the commanding general—had been assigned a greater priority than others, and Green Valley listened to the icy midnight wind whining around the eaves as he used a pair of tongs to settle two new lumps of Glacierheart coal into the stove. He pushed the door shut with the tongs, then returned to his desk and tipped back in his chair to consider the implications of the latest SNARC report.
It shouldn’t really be that much of a surprise, he told himself. You already knew Rainbow Waters had a brain he wasn’t afraid to use, and then you went and gave him plenty of time to do the using. What did you think would happen?
That wasn’t entirely fair, and he knew it, but he wasn’t in the mood for “fair.”
There was no doubt in his mind that the delay imposed by liberation of the Inquisition’s concentration camps had been both a moral and a strategic imperative. Charis and her allies had to save as many of the Inquisition’s victims as possible. Their own souls, their own ability to look into the mirror, demanded it. And even if that hadn’t been the case, they had to demonstrate to friend and foe alike that they cared what happened to Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s victims. So, yes, the Army of Midhold had had no alternative but to stop short of the Hildermoss River while its logistic capability was diverted to rescuing and then caring for, feeding, and transporting thousands upon thousands of sick, half-starved, brutalized prisoners to safety. In the end, they’d rescued considerably more than the three hundred thousand he’d estimated they might get out … despite losing every single inmate from three of those camps.
The inmates of Camp Raichel had been successfully marched deeper into captivity by the Inquisition and their AOG guards. Twenty percent of them had died along the way, but the death toll would have been far higher if Dialydd Mab hadn’t … arranged a change of command for the guard force. The inmates of Camp Urth
a and Camp Zhakleen, unfortunately, had not been marched to the rear. They’d simply been massacred … all hundred and twenty thousand of them. In Camp Zhakleen’s case, they’d been joined by over a third of the camp’s AOG guard force, who’d mutineed against Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s orders and attempted to protect the prisoners, and Kynt Clareyk prayed regularly for the souls of the men who’d made that choice. Just as he’d seen to it that the guards of Camp Hainree, who’d mutineed successfully and marched eighty-seven thousand Siddarmarkian civilians to safety, had been treated as honorably and humanely as humanly possible when they reached the Allies’ lines barely five hours ahead of the pursing AOG cavalry.
That kind of humanity—and courage—was far too precious to waste.
But whereas he’d estimated they might recover as many as three hundred thousand, they’d actually saved well over half a million, and that had held them up even longer than he’d feared. In fact, it had cost the entire remaining campaign season in North Haven.
Actually, I suppose we could have resumed the advance after we cleared our supply lines … if we’d wanted to end up like Hitler’s army in 1941. There are a lot better Old Earth generals to emulate, though. Carl Gustav Mannerheim comes to mind, for example.
He grimaced at the thought, which was especially apropos, in a less than amusing fashion, given what Owl had just projected across his contact lenses. Green Valley’s troops would probably have fared better than the Wehrmacht had fared in Russia, given the ICA’s specialized winter equipment and training. But they might not have, too, in which case the end result would have been to leave the Charis-Siddarmark alliance at the end of tattered, overextended supply lines, fighting to haul desperately needed food and fuel forward through the wasteland the retreating Army of God had left in its wake.