by David Weber
“One possibility would be to split our own units, send some of them through North Channel and some of them through Basset Channel, but that would simply beg to be defeated in detail. So I propose to sortie with the entire Squadron concentrated. We have two galleons and a screw-galley in dockyard hands and we won’t be able to get them back in time, so Captain Kharmahdy will tow out into the harbor and fire them to prevent their capture.”
His expression showed his unhappiness at that thought, but he continued unflinchingly.
“The rest of the Squadron will get underway within the hour. If I were the heretics, I’d anticipate that anyone trying to evade my ironclads would choose North Channel, because it’s closer to Rhaigair and farther from South Channel. In addition, there’s that damned battery of theirs on Shyan Island. It couldn’t stop us from getting through Basset Channel any more than St. Thermyn or St. Charlz are going to stop the heretics, but it would still be a factor in my thinking.
“The wind’s almost dead out of the northwest, so it’ll serve equally well for either, and the channel mouths are over eighty miles apart. They may have opted to hold their main strength in a central position off the Shipworm Shoal and used light units to watch both channels and whistle up their galleons when someone finally emerges from one of them. That’s what I’d’ve done in their place, but the sighting reports indicate they have at least some of their galleons far enough forward in both channels to support their scouts. That means they can’t have their full strength covering either of them. So we’ll use Basset Channel, and hope they’ve gone all logical on us and weighted their right flank more heavily than their left. We can’t know what we’ll run into, but whatever it is, it’ll be the best odds we can find.”
* * *
Sir Dunkyn Yairley, Baron of Sarmouth, stood on HMS Destiny’s sternwalk in a thick, warm duffle coat, chin buried in a soft, woolen muffler as he leaned forward, both gloved hands braced on the carved railing, and gazed out over the cold, windy blue water of the Gulf of Dohlar.
At the moment, Destiny lay hove-to thirty miles northeast of Broken Hawser Rock at the eastern tip of the Shyan Island Shoal, moving a little uneasily in the offshore swell but well beyond visual range from any Harchongese battery. Thirty other galleons kept company with her, and long chains of schooners were busily relaying signals to her from the scouts closer in to the mouths of Basset Channel and North Channel. He knew some of his captains thought he’d chosen his station poorly, although they were, of course, far too tactful to say so. He was perfectly placed to intercept anyone coming through Basset, and he was far enough out to let the Dohlarans get too far from safety to retreat without a fight before he pounced. But he was also over a hundred miles from North Channel, and he’d stationed only a single six-ship division to support the schooners watching that avenue of escape.
In theory, he should have sufficient warning to intercept the Dohlarans well out into the gulf even if they chose the northern route … assuming the scouts managed to maintain contact while whistling up the rest of his squadron. Theory had an unhappy habit of failing in real life, however, and he couldn’t blame the captains who thought he should have chosen a more central position rather than risk letting the Dohlarans slip away under the cover of darkness or heavy weather in the event that he’d guessed their intentions wrongly.
Of course, none of those captains knew that even as he stood on the sternwalk, gazing thoughtfully out over the water, the SNARC remote perched on the chain supporting the lamp above the table in Caitahno Raisahndo’s day cabin was transmitting every word the Dohlaran admiral said to his earplug.
The real reason he’d disposed his force as he had was that Raisahndo’s galleons were twice as far from North Channel’s mouth as Destiny was. Sarmouth had always rather expected Raisahndo, who was no one’s fool, to opt for the less blatantly obvious Basset Channel route. Even if he’d been wrong about that, however, the SNARCs would have given him ample warning to “change his mind” and move his main body to cover the northern route well before Raisahndo and his galleons ever hove into sight of his waiting schooners.
It’s not really fair, he thought as Owl projected schematics of Saram and Rhaigair Bay—and the exact position of every Dohlaran vessel in either of them—onto his contact lenses. It was like peering down over God’s own shoulder, and Raisahndo had about as much chance of eluding Sarmouth’s observation as he would have had hiding from the Archangels.
Assuming the Archangels had ever existed, that was. Which they hadn’t.
Unhappily for Admiral Raisahndo, the Imperial Charisian Navy—and Sir Dunkyn Yairley—did exist.
Well, maybe it isn’t fair … but it’s a damned poor excuse for a flag officer who worries about “fair” when it comes to keeping his people alive and making the other fellow’s people do the dying.
Truth be told, he wasn’t that eager for anyone to die, but he rather doubted Caitahno Raisahndo was going to meekly haul down his flag when he ran into the Imperial Charisian Navy at sea. Which could be very unfortunate for the Western Squadron, given the powerful reinforcements Tymythy Darys had delivered to Claw Island even before Zhaztro’s arrival. Unlike Sir Dunkyn Yairley, the officers and men of HMS Lightning, Seamount, and Floodtide were eager to kill as many of Raisahndo’s ships—and men—as they could. They especially wanted any of the ships which had been present in the Kaudzhu Narrows and taken their sister ship Dreadnought, but any unit of Raisahndo’s squadron would do in a pinch.
Well, they’ll get their chance, he thought grimly. I don’t suppose it’ll hurt my reputation for smelling my way to the enemy, either. For that matter, he snorted, I guess it shouldn’t. After all, I did figure out what Raisahndo was most likely to do even before he was kind enough to confirm it to the SNARCs. Fortunately, I’m far too modest a fellow to gloat at the doubters’ awestruck admiration of my strategic brilliance once it’s vindicated.
He chuckled and shook his head, then straightened and tucked his hands behind him. Under current wind conditions, Raisahndo could make a good perhaps seven knots—what would have been six knots, back on Old Earth—at which rate it would take him over forty hours to clear Basset Channel. That was on the direct route from Rhaigair, however, and it was very unlikely he’d take that route with Zhaztro loose inside the bay. No, he’d circle wide—heading east, hugging the north shore of the bay and hopefully disappearing from sight before Zhaztro came into range of Rhaigair. The Western Squadron was far slower than the ironclads, but Zhaztro’s smoke would be visible to a galleon’s masthead lookouts well before anyone aboard his own low-lying ships spotted its topsails. With only a little luck, Raisahndo should be able to successfully play hide-and-seek with the invaders … especially since Zhaztro had no interest in chasing him. Immediately, at least. The 2nd Ironclad Squadron would deal with the Western Squadron if it was unwise enough to enter its reach, but first things first. Hainz Zhaztro’s primary business was with Rhaigair, and unlike Sarmouth, he was unable to eavesdrop on Raisahndo’s intentions and movements. He was perfectly content to leave Sarmouth and his galleons to keep the Dohlaran force penned up inside the Bay while he got on with demolishing their base and its fortifications. If Raisahndo avoided action by turning back from the Gulf when he sighted Sarmouth, there’d be plenty of time for the ironclads to hunt him down then.
But assuming Sarmouth had properly assessed the Dohlaran’s choice of courses, eluding Zhaztro would add another fifty miles, easily, to his route. Which meant he’d present himself in the waters between Shyan Island and Shipworm Shoal about this same time day after tomorrow.
Just in time for lunch, he thought. I can work with that.
He clapped his hands together, breath steaming before it whipped away on the wind, and smiled a small, cold smile as he discovered he was just a bit less blasé about personally delivering a little retribution to the victors of the Kaudzhu Narrows than he’d realized.
.III.
HMS Eraystor, 22,
and
Main Ship Channel,
Rhaigair Bay,
Province of Stene,
Harchgong Empire.
“Enter!”
The chart room door opened and a tallish young man with fair hair and gray eyes stepped through it.
“Second Lieutenant’s respects, Sir.” He touched his chest in salute to Sir Hainz Zhaztro. “Trident’s just signaled. She reports no sign of the enemy … except for a few columns of smoke that are probably from ships on fire.”
There was a pronounced edge of satisfaction in the last fourteen words, Admiral Zhaztro noted without surprise. Despite his coloration—inherited from his “imported” Siddarmarkian mother—Midshipman Paitryk Shawnysy was a native Old Charisian. His accent was straight from Tellesberg, but his attitude towards the Group of Four and all its works came from what had happened to his mother’s family when the Sword of Schueler struck the Republic.
“Thank you,” the admiral replied. “My compliments to Lieutenant Audhaimyr. And instruct him to relay a ‘Well done’ to Trident from me.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Your compliments to Lieutenant Audhaimyr, and relay ‘Well done’ to Trident,” Shawnysy replied. Zhaztro nodded at the confirmation, and the midshipman saluted again and withdrew.
“Well, that’s disappointing, Sir,” Captain Cahnyrs observed as the door closed behind him. “I’ve been looking to something a tad more … energetic than that. I hate to miss a party I’ve been counting on.”
“‘A few’ columns of smoke hardly indicate Raisahndo’s burned his entire squadron just to evade us. And the fact that Trident didn’t see anyone doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” Zhaztro reminded his flag captain. “Her lookouts’ maximum range can’t be more than twenty miles, even assuming conditions are as clear for them as they are for us, and you know how patchy the weather can be this time of year. Even if she’s got brilliant sunlight and crystal blue skies, there’s plenty of room for them to be hiding from her somewhere deeper into the bay.”
“Of course there is.” Cahnyrs nodded. “But if I was Raisahndo and I thought the Imperial Charisian Navy was about to come calling, I’d have my warships up close enough to support my fortifications.”
“You might. Or you might think about it and decide it would be smarter to keep them as far out of those nasty Charisians’ range as you possibly could.”
“Either they’re going to stop us short of the city or they aren’t, Sir.” Cahnyrs shrugged. “If they aren’t, it doesn’t matter where their ships are. Sooner or later we’ll find them, and when we do, they’ll be dead meat. At the same time, we know they’ve been reinforced with some pretty powerful galleons. It’s at least possible those ships could make the difference as to whether or not we get past the shore batteries, and everything we know about Raisahndo suggests he’s the sort who’d recognize that.” The flag captain shook his head. “No, Sir. If he was still inside Rhaigair Bay, he’d be anchored on springs to support the batteries or at least hovering close enough to the channels to see if he’d be needed. And if he was that close Trident would’ve seen his mastheads. If she didn’t, he’s not there. Which means he’s gotten away from us.”
“Only from us, even if you’re right, Alyk. I expect Baron Sarmouth’s people will have a little something to say about his travel plans if you are, though.”
“Assuming the Baron’s guessed right.”
“That’s very small-minded—and mercenary—of you,” Zhaztro scolded, and Cahnyrs grinned. The flag captain was an old friend of Dunkyn Yairley’s, and he’d bet the baron five gold marks that he hadn’t guessed right.
“Oh, I’m sure Dunkyn’ll catch up with him in the end, Sir. I just think it’s going to take a little longer than he thinks it will.”
“Well, in the meantime, we have our own fish to fry,” Zhaztro said, returning his attention to the large-scale chart on the table between them.
“I just hope the seijins are right about those ‘sea-bombs’ of theirs,” Cahnyrs replied, his humor fading noticeably. “I hate the very idea of those damned things! Hell of an unfair weapon.”
“Excuse me, Sir,” Commander Lywys Pharsaygyn cocked his head, “but isn’t the idea behind any weapon to give you an ‘unfair’ advantage over the fellow who doesn’t have it? Which, by the way, if memory serves, is something you sneaky Charisians have been doing for years now!”
“Point, Commander. A very good one, actually.” Cahnyrs nodded. “I guess what truly pisses me off is that the Temple Boys and their friends came up with the idea first.”
“I’ve noticed Old Charisians have a certain … youthful enthusiasm for coming up with things first, Sir,” Zhaztro’s chief of staff observed with a smile. “I almost said that they take a childish pleasure in it, but that probably would have been disrespectful.”
“Grossly so,” Cahnyrs agreed. “Especially because it would be so accurate,” he added with a cheerful nod, and Zhaztro chuckled.
Like himself, Pharsaygyn was an Emeraldian, and he’d been with Zhaztro for six years now, ever since Darcos Sound, where he’d served in Arbalest—as a common seaman, of all things. Of course, he’d been a rather uncommon sort of common seaman, however the muster book had described him. The younger son of a prominent Eraystor merchant family with powerful Church connections, he’d been destined for seminary and a career with Mother Church. In fact, one of his uncles was a Schuelerite upper-priest serving in the Inquisition in Zion itself, and Pharsaygyn had offered his services to the Emeraldian Navy as a clerk because he’d genuinely believed what his uncle had told him about Charis and the reason Mother Church was supporting Hektor Daykyn’s war against the island kingdom.
Zhaztro had heard about him from one of his own cousins, a Manchyr importer who’d done business with the Pharsaygyn family, and grabbed him before anyone else realized he was available. He’d never regretted it. Pharsaygyn had served with distinction and courage as Zhaztro’s flag secretary throughout that short, disastrous war … and his disillusionment when he discovered the truth about the Inquisition’s allegations had been brutal. Instead of leaving naval service, however—which he would have been fully entitled to do, as a short-term volunteer—he’d sought Zhaztro’s assistance in obtaining a commission when the Emeraldian Navy was folded into the Imperial Charisian Navy. He’d passed the competitive examination with absurd ease, although he was scarcely the finest shiphandler in the world. Then again, Zhaztro wouldn’t have applied that label to himself, where galleon command was concerned, either.
More to the point where his present duties were concerned, Pharsaygyn had never really wanted command. He’d been a born staff officer who’d enjoyed Zhaztro’s total confidence and he’d transitioned from secretary to flag lieutenant the instant his Charisian commission came through. And then, last year, following a well-deserved promotion, he’d moved directly to the position of 2nd Ironclad Squadron’s chief of staff. Zhaztro had offered to help him find a command of his own, instead, but he’d turned that down flat.
“I’m not a real officer like you, Sir,” he’d said with a smile. “God help the poor seaman stuck in a galleon under my command the first time we hit a real blow! Let’s face it, Sir—I’m just around till the job’s done. Better to steer a career officer into a positon like that. He needs it on his resume a lot more than I do.”
That “not a real officer” was a gross disservice to his accomplishments and value, but Zhaztro had decided he was probably right. Personally, the admiral would have offered even odds Pharsaygyn would seek ordination in the Church of Charis once the Group of Four was defeated, but until then, the commander was fully focused on bringing about that defeat.
“The truth is, Sir,” he said to the flag captain now, “that sea-bombs are the sort of weapon that’s going to appeal to the weaker navy. They’d be an ideal way to deal with something like this squadron, too. In fact, if they did have them, they’d have put them right damned here.”
He tapped the cha
rt with the index finger of his mangled left hand—he’d lost the last two fingers at Darcos Sound—and his expression had turned much more serious, but then he shrugged and shook his head with a smile.
“As for coming up with things first, if it makes you feel any better, I’m willing to bet Baron Seamount did come up with the idea well before any Temple Boy did. It’s the sort of thing that would occur to him—a way to achieve an enormous economization in force while denying a more powerful enemy fleet passage through defended waters. And it’s also exactly the sort of thing Admiral Lock Island or Admiral Rock Point would’ve told him to stick in the very bottom of his seabag and forget about.” He shook his head again, his smile even broader. “The last thing they would’ve wanted would’ve been to suggest the idea to someone like Dohlar before Thirsk thought of it on his own!”
“I hate it when he turns all logical, Sir,” Cahnyrs complained.
“Unfortunately, it’s one of the reasons I keep him around,” Zhaztro said just a bit absently, frowning down at the chart.
South Channel lay two hundred miles behind Eraystor, and her true target, Rhaigair Bay, at the mouth of the Rhaigair River, lay before her. And while Rhaigair was far smaller than Saram Bay, it was also a much more difficult objective.
There were four passages through the islands which guarded the Rhaigair approaches, but only two of them really mattered.
Sand Passage, the westernmost channel, between the mainland and the twin islands the Harchongians called The Sisters, was suitable only for light craft and shallow draft fishing boats. That completely disqualified it for his purposes.
Broad Channel, the next possibility to the east, between The Sisters and Sharyn Island, was—as its name suggested—the widest approach. It was also shallow, although the soundings showed sufficient depth for a City-class ironclad … if she was careful and chose the right stage of the tide. Unfortunately, the Harchongians had spent a year or so after Gwylym Manthyr’s foray into Gorath Bay driving a double line of pilings across the eight-mile-wide channel. The Lywysite-equipped dive teams which had been sent out to Earl Sharpfield could probably have cleared the barrier, but not without investing five-days in the effort … and risking serious loss of life along the way, given water temperatures at this time of year.