Ison of the Isles (7 page)

On such a rough sea, the aim would be more a matter of the ship’s heading and roll than of any adjustments to the guns. As the target neared, Harg felt an old itch of excitement. He glanced back to make sure the steersman was alert, then reminded himself it was Jearl’s business, not his.

Each gun captain had a piece of slow match smouldering, waiting for the command to hold it to the touchhole. The target seemed very far away, but with these guns, four hundred yards was point-blank range; it would do no good to get closer.

As they drew even with the target, everyone fell silent. Then, as
Smoke
began to lift on a wave, the gunner shouted, “Fire!”

The main deck battery gave a deafening bellow and the huge cannons recoiled back on their breeching-ropes. Half a second later, the gun deck battery fired. The ship rocked with the force of the explosion. The gun crews peered through the clouds of smoke to see what effect their salvo had had.

“Reload, rot you!” the gunner shouted. The crews turned back to their duties. Wet sponges hissed, thrust down the hot throats of the cannons.

From the quarterdeck Harg could see what most of the crew couldn’t—that the entire salvo had gone sailing harmlessly past the target into the sea. As he watched the men methodically sponging, loading, ramming, and wadding, he said to Jearl, “They need practice. If they can’t move more quickly than that, the Innings will be aboard us between shots.”

“Yes, sir,” Jearl said noncommittally.

“During the war, we aimed to refire our guns within a minute’s time if we could.”

“I have heard two minutes mentioned as a goal.”

“When the other ship’s firing on you, two minutes might as well be a day. If we tangle with the Southern Squadron, and they can get off two shots for every one of ours, we’ll be in trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harg couldn’t help getting the impression that to Jearl, the prospect of actually meeting the Southern Squadron in battle was more theoretical than real. He raised his voice so that Jonci and the signal lieutenant could both hear. “All right, we’re going to come about and bear down on the target again, and this time we’re going to get off
two
shots before we’re past. And we’re going to make them hit.”

A gust of wind painted dark streaks across the sea, and raindrops began to spot the deck. Harg ignored it, watching as the line of ships came ponderously about. They had to tack twice, close-hauled against the unpredictable wind, in order to come on the target again. The pace was irritatingly slow.

By the time the fleet was in position to attack again, the rain was falling in sheets. Harg paced back and forth, trying to keep an eye on the other ships through walls of wind-driven rain. Jearl stood immobile, streams of water running from his hat.

The flag went up to signal the attack, and ahead the
Wavedancer
made the last course change to bring her down on the target. The raft was hard to spot this time—now hidden, now revealed by the building waves. Jonci’s voice cut through the drumming of rain on the deck as the port battery made ready to fire.

“Sacred horns!” Harg swore, peering ahead. “What’s
Windemon
up to?”

One of the ships had broken from the line, already made ragged by wind and waves, and seemed to be shaking out the reefs in its sails to overhaul the ship ahead.

“Lieutenant! Signal
Windemon
to resume position,” Harg snapped. Inwardly, he cursed Katri,
Windemon
’s captain. She had the daring defiance of a pirate, and her Adaina crew loved her for it.

If Katri saw the signal, she paid no heed.
Windemon
and
Spinneret
drew abreast; now Dev was putting on sail as if it were a race. As they neared the target the two ships parted, one on each side, with barely 500 yards between them. They fired simultaneously. Even the laconic Jearl gave a startled exclamation. Splinters flew, and the mast on the target twisted, swayed, then came crashing down into the sea. A cheer went up from the
Smoke
’s crew.

Harg clenched his teeth. That little show of bravado would cost him dearly. All the effort he had spent defending his Adaina captains to the sceptical Tornas had gone flying into the wind with one rash, undisciplined move. He wanted to throttle Katri.

The way back to Harbourdown was grey with a drenching downpour. As soon as the ships nosed into the harbour, Harg said, “Signal all ships’ captains to assemble on the flagship. I’ll see them in the aft cabin.”

They were already arguing when they came in. Katri and Dev were together, displaying a smug defiance that set Harg’s teeth on edge. The Torna captains were sourly disgruntled.

“If it’s each ship for itself, we might as well be a pack of animals,” one of them was saying.

“What I can’t stand is commanders who don’t think for themselves,” Katri shot back. “Some people can’t pee without permission.”

“You’re out of line, Katri,” Harg snapped. “You’ve been out of line all day.”

“Damn right I have,” she flared back. “This sailing around like we were soldiers on parade—anyone who’s been in a fight can tell you, it’s not how to win. You’ve got to swarm your enemy, intimidate him.”

Jearl’s face was stiff and expressionless. “What you did was against all the rules of naval combat,” he said in a dry, clipped tone.

“Whose rules?” Katri said impatiently. “The rules of the people we’re fighting, that’s whose! Well I’ve got a rule for you. If it’s two to one, the enemy’s twice as busy as you.”

“If you attack from both sides, you’re as likely to hit your ally as the enemy,” Jearl said.

Harg caught the quick glance Katri and Dev gave each other, and instantly understood. “Did you hit each other?” he demanded.

“Only a little hole,” Dev said. “Easily patched.”

“You might not be so lucky in a real battle,” Jearl said.

In a rebellious undertone Katri said, “What do you know about real battles?”

“What was that?” Harg said.

“Nothing,” Katri answered.

“It
was
something. Listen here, Katri. The issue isn’t who was right. The issue is, you had orders and you disobeyed them. You’re not a pirate any more, and you can’t just take it on yourself to decide our battle tactics.” He paused, hating what he was going to have to say. “You’re relieved of your command until further notice, Katri. Your first lieutenant will be in charge of the
Windemon
till I decide what to do.”

Katri stood staring at him, her mouth set in an angry line. Dev was scowling darkly, arms crossed. The Torna officers were utterly quiet. The silence stretched painfully; then Katri turned and strode out.

For a moment Harg thought Dev was going to follow her. Harg said, “We can’t fight a war never knowing who’s going to be behind us when we attack, or whether they’ll follow orders. We can’t be negotiating strategy and deciding tactics by vote. To beat the Innings, we have to use the weapons of the Innings: discipline and order. Otherwise, we might as well sink all those ships out there in the harbour, and save the Innings the trouble.”

Dev was still scowling, but he didn’t move. Harg turned to the Torna officers, who were staring at him with a surprised respect. “Now, the other big problem I saw today was gunnery. I want all gun crews to be able to reload and fire again in less than two minutes. Drill them till they can do it.”

The ride ashore in the gig was silent. All Harg could think was that Katri was right. He would make her wait a fortnight, but he would reinstate her, because she had more instinct for a fight than the rest of them combined. He needed that pirate cleverness and initiative, and the Tornas needed it too, if they could only see it. And they would, in time. That was the problem—it took time to mould a functioning force out of a mismatched collection of martinets and rebels.

When he stepped onto the dock, an aide was already waiting for him with news. While they had been out, a merchant vessel had arrived from Tornabay, having dodged the blockade. “There was someone on board who wants to see you,” the aide said. “He is waiting in your office.”

Harg had been looking forward to a pint at Rosenry’s, and he headed toward the Customs House in a bad mood. But when he entered his headquarters and the newcomer rose to meet him, everything else disappeared. It was Gill.

They hadn’t seen each other since that confused night in Tornabay, when all of Harg’s plans had fallen apart and they had had to scatter and flee. Harg was across the room in a few strides, and engulfed Gill in a bear hug. “By the root, am I glad to see you! Tell me what’s happened. Where’s the
Ripplewill
? Where are the others?”

Gill was smiling. “Hello, Harg,” he said. He looked windblown and weary. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been in Tornabay, hiding out. They never got close enough that night to get a good look at me; they were too busy going after you.”

“What about Torr? Tway?”

“By the time I made it to the harbour, there was no sign of
Ripplewill
. She must have gotten away in the night. I couldn’t find Tway. But Harg—they captured Calpe.”

He desperately didn’t want to hear this. “What have they done? Tried her?”

“No. You’re not going to like this.”

“What?”

“One of the Innings in the palace there, a fellow named Provost Minicleer, keeps a kind of harem, a collection of women to serve his pleasures. He took a fancy to her. She’s his personal prisoner.”

The thought of Calpe—his fierce, beautiful lieutenant—served up as a native delicacy for some Inning lecher’s consumption made Harg wither inside. “Is there any chance of rescuing her?” he asked.

“Not now,” Gill said. “Tornabay’s swarming with troops. The Southern Squadron finally arrived.”

This news had been inevitable, but even so it had a doomsday sound. “Tell me,” Harg said intently. “Ships, men, anything you know.”

“They’ve got thirty-nine ships—fourteen warships, ten frigates, the rest sloops and supply boats.”

Harg calculated rapidly. “That means over six thousand men.”

“More than that. They were short when they got to Tornabay, so a lot of the crews were raised by press gangs. They just about swept the streets clear.”

“When are they setting out?”

“A squadron has probably set out already. They hadn’t intended to move so soon, but when the news about Holby Dorn came in, the outcry in Tornabay was so loud, Admiral Talley was just about forced to act. He promised to send a squadron against Dorn, under Commodore Tenniel. He’ll follow soon himself, with the rest of the fleet.”

“Where’s this squadron heading?”

Gill shrugged. “Wherever Dorn is. You probably know that better than they do.”

Harg shook his head. “Dorn’s a free agent, more’s the pity. But he’s served a good purpose now, getting them to split their forces.” His mind was flying. He could never have taken on the whole fleet with just seven warships; but an isolated squadron on police duty, expecting nothing more than pirates, was a bait too good to pass up. Tiarch would be livid; his remit was to deal with Dorn, nothing more. But sometimes opportunity just trumped orders.

An echo of his own words about discipline and orders came back to him briefly, but he thrust it from his mind, and clapped Gill on the back. “You’re a hero, Gill. I’m going to get Rosenry to give you a good meal and a good night’s sleep so you can leave with us tomorrow.”

“Leave? For where?”

“We’re going to go hunt us some Innings.”

The dawn was holding its breath as Harg swung himself up onto the
Smoke
’s main deck from the -gig. His order for silence had held; from the seven ships anchored behind Mariveg Head not a sound rose but the occasional creak of rigging and the tap of blocks against the yards as the swell rolled under them. The clammy fog still hung thick, but it now had the sickly yellow hue that meant there was clear sky somewhere above. The rigging drooped listlessly in the still air.

The captains were already assembled on the quarterdeck, waiting for him. He paused till Jearl and Gill had followed him up from the gig, then spoke, softly.

“Pont City is about five miles south of us, across a strait and down the coast. It lies on a bay open to the west.” He cupped his left hand to show them. “The bay is almost closed off by a long sand spit that comes down from the north, here where my thumb is. Dorn’s fleet is hiding inside the bay, and the townspeople have stretched a log boom across the ship channel in the bay mouth. The Inning fleet is anchored outside the bay, in a line along the sand spit. They can’t shell the harbour or the city from where they are; they’re probably just waiting for daylight to demolish the boom and move into the bay. We’ve got to make sure they don’t get that far.”

He looked around at their faces, all grave and intent. So far so good. “They’ve got nine ships anchored about 150 yards apart in a line stretching north-south. On the north they’re sheltered by a little sand point. They’ve put their biggest ships at the south end of the line, nearest the bay mouth.”

“What kind of firepower do they have?” one of the Torna captains asked.

“That’s the bad news. We’re probably outgunned.” He glanced at Jearl. In reality, there was no “probably” about it. One of the enemy mounted sixty-four guns; the islanders had no ordnance to match that.

It was ten days since they had set out from Harbourdown to cut off the Inning squadron, and this was the first they had seen of it. They had sailed first to Torbert, Holby Dorn’s last known location, on the assumption that the Inning fleet would stop there; but there had been no sign of them. The terrorized citizens of Torbert, after an initial panic at the arrival of an armed fleet, had begged them to stay and defend the town; but Harg had no ships to spare. The Inner Chain was awash in panicky rumours, but at last some solid news had arrived: Dorn’s pirates had attacked a merchant convoy on the Middle Sea. True to his new style, he had bloodily slain all the Tornas aboard, then fled with his booty toward Pont. And so Harg’s fleet had stood out to sea while the citizens of Torbert lined the wharves, frantic to see their defenders go.

Earlier that summer, the rebellious town of Pont, inspired by Harbourdown’s example, had overrun a small Inning garrison and declared its independence. It was not clear to Harg whether they actually supported Dorn, or just had no way to expel him from their harbour once he took refuge there. The consequences would be the same for them either way, since the Innings would not make fine distinctions: Pont would share Dorn’s fate, unless something prevented it.

Last evening, while his warships hid behind Mariveg Head, Harg had watched from the hill as the Innings sailed by. Nine vast floating fortresses, wall upon wall of iron and oak. The low, pink sunlight had made the tiered sails look like thunderclouds sweeping across the water. Now he understood better the seeming recklessness with which Talley had split his forces. The single squadron anchored for the night outside Pont Bay was more than a match for the rebels’ whole fleet.

Harg glanced around. The deck of
Smoke
was cleared for action; the gun tackles were unlashed, the rammers and sponges laid out, the crews assembled at their stations. Tubs of water and sand stood about, the one ready to put out fires, the other for scattering on the deck if it should become slippery with blood. Above, the topsails stirred restlessly in a waking wind. Harg felt its breath on his cheek; the wind was north. The plan that had been a vague hunch in his mind as he had peered across the water at the Inning squadron suddenly crystallized.

He scanned the circle of faces. His captains looked tense and grim. He would need a different mood for his plan. He grinned at them craftily.

“We’re going to give them a little surprise,” he said. “If I know my Innings, they won’t slip anchor when they spot us. They’ll expect us to take them on in line of battle, one ship apiece, and duel it out like gentlemen, because that’s what Rothurs would do. We’re not going to act like Rothurs; we’re going to mob the windward end of their line and leave the lee ships to watch the show. Their biggest ships won’t be able to beat upwind to help their friends—at least, not until too late.”

One of the Torna captains protested, “There won’t be space alongside their line for more than one of us per ship.”

“We’re going to attack them from both sides.”

Now he really had their attention. He went on quickly: “They’ve got to be moored far enough from shoal water to swing round on their anchors; so there has to be room enough for a ship to cut between them and moor to their inshore side.”

“Inside point-blank range,” one of the captains said faintly.

“Right. We can unnerve them that way, and do some real damage.” He didn’t need to mention that the reverse was also true.

Another said, “Our ships will be trapped between the Inning line and land. It won’t be easy to withdraw.”

“We’re not going to withdraw,” Harg said.

He glanced around the circle. He could anticipate a hundred other objections: What if the wind changed? What if they struck each other? “We’ll have to aim low and carefully. I’ll lead the inshore squad in
Windemon
; Jearl will take the seaward side in
Smoke
. Who will join me? Barko?”

The lean pirate was grinning with glee. “I’m with you, Harg. They’ll never expect this. It’s completely mad. They won’t even have loaded their inshore guns.”

Not about to be outdone by Barko, Dev said, “I’ll go, too.”

“All right,” Harg said. That would put the biggest risks on the Adaina ships, but that didn’t surprise him. He turned to the Tornas. “Now, I want your ships on the outside to moor no more than 200 yards from the enemy.”

Jearl was frowning at him. It was closer than any of the Torna officers had been trained to go. A few of them exchanged glances.

“We’re going to make them think they fell into a nest of firesnakes,” Harg said, voice low and fierce. “They will never have seen anything like this.”

They had begun to catch his drift, even some of his fire. He said, “All right, go back and warn your people we’re going to be striking quick and hard. They’re going to have to fight like the Ashwin. If we win, we’ll have revenge for Sandhaven.” He got seven tense smiles.

He touched hands with each of them as they turned to descend the gangway and return to their ships. He could almost feel their emotions transmitted through their palms. Once, when he felt the slightest faintness he said quietly, “I’m trusting you, Gall; the rest of us are dead if anyone fails.” Gall’s grip tightened in his hand.

Last of all, he touched Jearl’s hand. “If anything happens to me, you’re in charge,” he said. Jearl nodded gravely. Then Harg turned to Jonci, whom he had promoted to temporarily replace Katri aboard the
Windemon
. “Let’s go.”

When they arrived at Jonci’s ship, he asked, “Has everyone had breakfast?”

“Everyone but you, Harg,” Jonci said.

“Right.” Food was the last thing he wanted. He felt impossibly keyed up. The world around him seemed unnaturally distinct. The decisions were made, everything was ready.

And then the wind died. Harg paced the deck in an agony, glancing up every few seconds as if he could will the wind back into being. Jonci stood stoically by the wheel; the crew had all settled back to wait. In the breathless quiet a thousand details were occurring to Harg; he had to force himself not to pester Jonci with questions.

“The sea teaches you patience,” Jonci observed to Gill as Harg passed them. “It’s got its own time for everything. It’s no use thinking we can choose.”

Harg forced himself to stop moving, though staying still took more effort. Jonci was right; he was acting like an Inning, thinking time was at his command.

Ten minutes later the sails stirred. The fog was lifting; the masts now cast faint shadows across the deck. Still Harg didn’t move. Another gust came, and the crew began to look up and stir. Harg forced himself to wait, impassive, until he was sure there was a steady breeze. At last he said, “All right, let’s weigh.”

The
Windemon
was third in line as they came in sight of Pont Bay. Dev’s
Spinneret
was in the lead. The Inning ships were still anchored where Harg had left them at dawn, noses pointed north into the wind.

“They’ve seen us by now,” Jonci said at his side. “Are they moving?” If the Innings headed out to sea to fight where they could manoeuvre, it would be a very different battle.

“They won’t,” Harg said. “They’ll think they’re safer where they are.”

He was right. All along the Inning line the gunports were opening like rows of black teeth, but they made no move toward their sails. Ahead, the
Spinneret
was rounding the small spit of land that protected the Innings on the north,
Wavedancer
in her wake. As the second ship cut a few yards inland from
Spinneret
’s course, she shuddered; her masts bent forward and the sails belled out as she was brought to a sudden halt. She was aground on an unseen shoal.

“Ashes!” Harg said, wincing as he watched the
Wavedancer
pivot around on her bow, driven broadside on the shoal.

“Well, now we know where the shallows are,” Jonci said.

“That’s an expensive buoy,” Harg muttered.

Dev’s crew were whooping like the wild pirates they were as they swept down on the Inning line. One of the Inning ships let loose a broadside while the
Spinneret
was still out of range, wasting their shot. Harg smiled grimly; it was exactly the kind of move he’d been haranguing his own officers about. He knew how these Inning ships were going to fight.

Spinneret
headed straight for the gap between the first and second ships; seeing where Dev was bound, Jonci set course toward the second and third. As they passed the second ship, there was a puff of smoke, then a booming report; Harg felt
Windemon
shudder underfoot as a ball crashed into her side. A shower of splinters went up where another one had hit the gunwale just abreast of the line of gunners.

“Hold your fire!” Jonci’s voice came calmly. Harg felt a surge of elation. Gods, but his captains were good.

They were in between the two ships, passing barely fifty yards from the carved and gilded stern of the ship that had fired on them when the
Windemon
let loose her port batteries. There was a deafening concussion, and the guns recoiled inboard. Instantly the gun crews were swarming around the cannons. A few moments later the starboard battery thundered a volley on the ship that would be their main opponent; with a grim amusement Harg noted that the name
Discipline
, painted on her bow, had been defaced with shot. As they emerged on the other side, barely inching into the unknown waters, he was pleased to see that Barko had been right; the
Discipline
’s crew was still scrambling to load the inshore batteries. He could imagine the consternation on their decks.

“Now’s our chance!” Harg shouted out. “Let’s fry the bastards!”

The stern anchor cable roared overside, and when the wind swung the
Windemon
parallel to her opponent, the bow anchor followed. Harg went to the taffrail to see where the rest of the fleet was. There was another roar, and he was momentarily blinded by a cloud of eye-stinging, throat-burning smoke from the quarterdeck guns. Blinking away his tears, he saw that the rest of the fleet, slowed by having to skirt the foundering
Wavedancer
, was still out in the bay, bearing down on the Inning line. “Can they see our signals?” Harg said to Gill, who stood at his side. Then, “Never mind, send one up anyway. Say, ‘200 yards.’”

“They won’t need to see that one,” Gill said, turning to summon the signal lieutenant.

The next moment the
Discipline
fired the 22 cannons of her starboard battery. There was a whistling rain of iron, a swift, deadly tattoo of hits, and a scream. For an instant a stunned silence fell over
Windemon
, broken only by a sobbing moan from the main deck. They had never been fired on before, Harg thought; they didn’t know what it felt like. Then Jonci’s calm, capable voice was ordering the wounded taken below. Harg forced himself to the quarterdeck rail to look at the legless man being carried down the companionway, a trail of blood following. His only thought was that the rhythm couldn’t be broken; the crew couldn’t be allowed to think, or they would all be dead. Their only hope was to fire faster and fiercer than the enemy.

“Pay them back for that one!” Harg shouted. “We’ve got her to ourselves a few minutes; let’s win before the others come.”

Someone gave a defiant pirate yell; Harg blessed him, whoever he was. The gunners jumped back to their tasks, their shock not over but put aside.

Soon
Windemon
’s deck was an inferno. The line of cannons crouched black and angry all down the deck; they roared, bucking back on their breeching ropes, only to be tackled, tamed, and muzzled again. Their black smoke turned the day dark and the air acrid. Soon the
Discipline
was invisible past the sooty billows; the only evidence she was even there was the screaming hail of fire that tore up the rails and planking, sent cut rigging thumping to the deck, and showered deadly splinters through the unnatural gloom.

Behind them, the
Spinneret
was stinging her opponent like a tenacious wasp, but Harg could see she was being badly mauled. As the broadsides kept coming, a jagged hole was torn in her side where two gunports were battered into one; a grisly trickle of blood ran out and down the hull. As Harg watched, her foremast shook, then twisted, splintered, and slowly fell, taking a tangle of rigging with it. Now
Spinneret
was crippled; there would be no escape for Dev.