A Mighty Fortress by David Weber
But it did matter how that area was distributed, because of how it affected the ship’s motion. At the moment, for example, one reason Captain Yairley had set the fore course was that, unlike the ship’s other square sails, the fore course actually tended to lift the bow slightly, easing the vessel’s motion, rather than driving the bow down deeper and harder. A captain had to think about the blanketing effect of his sails, as well, and, generally speaking, the higher a sail, the greater its heeling effect. So in heavy weather, the standard order of reducing sail would be to take in first the royals (assuming the ship carried them in the first place), then the topgallants, the courses, and finally the topsails. (The courses came off before the higher topsails because of their greater size and the difficulty in handling them, despite the greater heeling effect of the topsails.)
Hektor’s own initial estimate that the other galleons were as large as Destiny appeared to have been in error, too. The other ships were at least a little smaller than he’d thought, although not greatly so, which meant Destiny could safely carry more canvas than they could under these conditions. Captain Yairley had been doing just that, having shaken out his reefs and set the fore course (the main course was brailed up to keep it from blanketing the foremast, with the wind dead aft on her new course), and even without her own royals, Destiny’s speed had risen to almost eight knots. She’d been steadily overhauling the other vessels for the past five hours now, despite the fact that they’d both put on extra sail of their own once they finally noticed they were being pursued, so it was certainly possible—likely, in fact—the chases had decided they couldn’t outrun Destiny after all. And if that was the case, there was no point in their risking damage to sails or rigging by carrying too much canvas. Particularly not since it was always possible something would carry away aloft in Destiny, in which case they might be able to outsail her yet.
On the other hand, the topgallants would have been the first sails to be furled if a captain decided to shorten for any reason, not simply because of weather concerns. So it was also possible the other ships had simply decided to allow Destiny to overtake them. Which would require either a very stupid merchant skipper, given the depredations of Charisian privateers and naval cruisers, or else a—
“I believe we’ll clear the ship for action in about another... three hours, I think, Master Lathyk,” Yairley said calmly. “We’ll be coming up on lunch shortly, I believe, so there’s no point rushing things. But see to it all hands get something hot to eat, and plenty of it, if you please.”
“Aye, Sir,” the first lieutenant acknowledged. He beckoned to one of the midshipmen and started giving the lad crisp instructions, and Yairley glanced at Hektor.
“You don’t think they’re merchantmen after all, do you, Sir?” Hektor asked quietly. Some captains would have bitten the head off of any officer, be he ever so well connected to the aristocracy, for having the impertinence to ask him such a question uninvited. Hektor wasn’t concerned about that, though, and not because of his own noble title.
“No, Master Aplyn- Ahrmahk, I don’t,” Yairley replied. He nodded ahead to where the other ships’ sails were visible now from the deck as Destiny rose with the waves. “Both those fellows are inviting us to catch up with them, and no merchant skipper would do that, even if they haven’t seen our colors by now. Which they well may not have.”
He glanced up to where the Empire’s banner streamed out, stiff and hard-looking, from the mizzen yard. On Destiny’s new course, running almost directly before the wind as she charged after the other ships, it was entirely possible that her colors were hidden from her quarry by the canvas on her foremast and mainmast.
“They may not realize we’re a king’s ship—I mean, an emperor’s ship”— Yairley grimaced as he made the self- correction—“but they have to assume we’re at least a privateer. Under the circumstances, merchant vessels would go right on running for all they were worth in hopes of staying away from us until dark. Mind you, I don’t think they’d succeed, but they might, and no one ever knows what the wind’s going to do.”
He paused, one eyebrow raised, and Hektor recognized the cue.
“So if they aren’t running as hard as they can—if they’ve decided they want us to catch up with them while we’ll both have daylight still in hand—you think they’re war galleons, too, Sir,” he said.
“I think that’s very likely, Master Aplyn- Ahrmahk.” Yairley nodded slightly, with the satisfaction of a teacher whose student had drawn the proper conclusion. “I’d thought for a moment, before they both shortened, that it might be a merchant with an escort dropping astern of the ship under his protection. But no escort would be foolish enough to keep his charge in close company if he’d decided to drop back to engage us, so it seems to me we have to assume they’re both warships. According to Baron Wave Thunder’s latest estimates, Desnair should have at least a dozen of their converted galleons about ready for sea. There’s no way to be positive yet, but I’ll be quite surprised if these aren’t two of them. The only question in my mind,” the captain continued, his voice becoming a bit dreamy as his eyes unfocused in thought, “is what two of them would be doing out here by themselves.”
“They might simply be working up, Sir,” Hektor suggested diffidently, and Yairley nodded.
“Indeed they might, but not this far out to sea, I’m thinking.” He indicated the brisk wind, the motion of the hard- driven ship, with a twitch of his head. “These conditions are a bit lively for a lubberly lot like the Desnairian Navy, wouldn’t you say, Master Aplyn- Ahrmahk? I’d expect them to stay closer to home if all they’re after is sail drill, especially if there are only two of them. We’re a good six hundred and fifty leagues from their shipyards at Geyra—and over a hundred leagues off Hennet Head, for that matter. It’s possible they’re from the ships building in the Gulf of Jahras instead of the Geyra yards. God knows they’re building a lot more of their total navy in the Gulf than they are at Geyra. But even that would be an awful long way to come just to drill their crews, and I’d think Baron Jahras would be a tad nervous about having just two of his meet a squadron or two of our galleons when they decided to venture out into deeper water. He’s certainly been... cautious enough about things like that so far, at least. So I wonder...”
The captain stood thinking for several more moments, then nodded again, this time obviously to himself, before he glanced once more at the youthful ensign standing beside him.
“I can think of one good reason for them to be here, Master AplynAhrmahk,” he said with a slight smile. “And if I’m right, the men are going to be just a bit unhappy that we sighted them when we did, instead of a few days later.”
“Sir?” Hektor suppressed an urge to scratch his head in puzzlement, and Yairley’s smile broadened.
“Now then, Master Aplyn- Ahrmahk! A captain has to maintain at least a few little secrets, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me, Sir.”
Captain Ahbaht turned, raising one eyebrow, to face Lieutenant Laizair Mahrtynsyn, Archangel Chihiro’s first lieutenant.
“Yes, Laizair? What is it?” Ahbaht’s tone was a bit brusque. He and Mahrtynsyn normally got along quite well, but at the moment, as the pursuing vessel’s lower masts began to loom above the horizon, even from deck level, the captain had a few things on his mind. The distance to the other ship was down to little more than seven miles, and given their present speeds, she would be up to Archangel Chihiro in no more than two or two and a half hours. For that matter, she’d be into extreme gunshot in little more than ninety minutes.
“Master Chaimbyrs”— Mahrtynsyn twitched his head slightly in the direction of the mizzen top, where Lieutenant Chaimbyrs was ensconced watching the other ship—“reports that he’s just seen her colors, Sir. She’s flying the Charisian banner... and a commission streamer.”
Ahbaht’s expression tightened ever so slightly. Only someone who knew the captain well would have noticed, but Mahrtynsyn did know him well. And he also k
“I see,” Ahbaht said, after a moment. “And has he had an opportunity to estimate her force?”
“We’ve not seen her ports yet, Sir, but she’s carrying at least ten or twelve of their short guns on her weather deck. Probably more. And,” Mahrtynsyn added almost apologetically, “Master Chaimbyrs says she doesn’t look merchant- built to him.”
The tightening around the captain’s eyes was more noticeable this time. If Chaimbyrs’ estimates were correct—and the second lieutenant was quite a competent officer—then their pursuer wasn’t simply an imperial warship, but one of the Charisian Navy’s new, purpose- built galleons, whereas both of Wailahr’s ships were converted merchant vessels.
“I see,” Ahbaht repeated, nodding to his first officer. “Thank you, Master Mahrtynsyn.”
Mahrtynsyn touched his chest in salute, then withdrew to the larboard side of the quarterdeck while Ahbaht clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the rail, gazing out across the crested waves in obvious thought.
The lieutenant didn’t envy his captain at the moment. On the other hand, he didn’t feel an enormous amount of sympathy, either. For the most part, he respected Ahbaht as a seaman, although for all his years of naval ser -vice, the captain had precious little experience with galleons. Virtually all of his previous time had been served aboard the Desnairian Navy’s limited number of galleys, and his ship- handling skills, while adequate, weren’t as good as Mahrtynsyn’s own. In fact, that was one reason Mahrtynsyn had been assigned as his first lieutenant.
In terms of military experience, though, Ahbaht was far more qualified to command than Mahrtynsyn was, and the lieutenant knew it. Of course, no one in Desnairian ser vice had any experience at all in broadside gunnery tactics, but at least Ahbaht had smelled powder smoke in actual combat, which was more than Mahrtynsyn had. Given that experience, Ahbaht had to be (or damned well ought to be, at any rate) even better aware of the looming confrontation’s balance of combat power than Mahrtynsyn was.
Not to mention the minor fact that an officer with his experience should, perhaps, have been just a bit more careful about, spent a little more time thinking over, what he had recommended to Commodore Wailahr.
At first glance, Wailahr’s two ships ought to have had the advantage. There were two of them, after all. But that wasn’t all that was involved here—not by a long shot.
One of the Charisian Navy’s new galleons would mount at least fifty guns (and probably more) to Archangel Chihiro’s forty. Worse, they’d be heavier guns. Archangel Chihiro, like her consort, Blessed Warrior, carried twenty- six lizards on her gundeck and fourteen falcons on her upper deck. That might seem to give her eighty percent of the Charisian’s broadside, and all of their guns not only had the new trunnions and carriages but used the new bagged powder charges the Charisians had introduced, so they ought to be able to match the other ship’s rate of fire, as well. So far, all well and good, Mahrtynsyn thought dryly. But the lizards’ round shot weighed only a bit over twenty pounds each, and the falcons’ weighed less than nine, while if the reports about the Charisians were correct, the other ship would mount long thirty- pounders on her gundeck and short thirty- pounders—what the Charisians called “carronades”— on her upper deck.
Which would give her over twice Archangel Chihiro’s weight of metal. In fact, she’d carry a heavier weight of broadside than both the Desnairian ships combined . . . in a much more heavily framed and planked hull. And that changed Ahbaht’s earlier calculations significantly. Not only would each hit be far more destructive than he almost certainly had been expecting, but her heavier hull would take substantially less damage from each hit she received in return.
Of course, two lighter ships, if well handled, ought to be able to outmaneuver a single opponent, and it was extremely unlikely the Charisian carried a big enough crew to fully man both broadsides—especially if she had to reserve hands to manage her own sails. If they could get to grips with her from both sides simultaneously, they ought to be able to overpower her in fairly short order. But while the sail- handling skills of Archangel Chihiro’s crew had improved hugely since they’d left Desnair the City, Mahrtynsyn very strongly doubted they could even come close to an experienced Charisian crew’s level of competence.
He felt fairly confident that, since the other ship had been cruising alone, with no one else in company with her, Ahbaht had assumed she was most likely a privateer, not a regular man- of- war. It would have been a reasonable enough assumption, in many ways, and had it proved accurate, she would have been far more lightly gunned, while the quality of her ship’s company would have been much more problematical, as well. Besides, privateers weren’t in the business of taking hard knocks if they could avoid it. If a privateer’s skipper had realized he was pursuing two Desnairian warships, rather than a pair of fat merchant prizes, he would almost certainly have decided his time could be more profitably spent elsewhere. A Charisian Navy captain was likely to feel a bit differently about that.
But just how does the Captain break the news to the Commodore?Mahrtynsyn wondered a bit sardonically. “Excuse me, Commodore, but it turns out that’s a war galleon back there, instead. And I’m just a bit less confident about beating her than I was about beating a privateer.” The lieutenant snorted mentally. Sure, I can just hear him saying that!
No. Ahbaht wasn’t going to risk pissing Wailahr off by turning cautious at this point. And since Wailahr lacked the seagoing experience to realize exactly how weight of metal and—especially—relative ship- handling skills really factored into a sea battle, it was unlikely he was going to recognize just how dicey this entire situation could turn. He certainly wasn’t going to decide to try avoiding action at this point. Not without Ahbaht suggesting it, at any rate.
Which meant things were going to get just a bit lively in the next two hours or so.
Sir Dunkyn Yairley gazed ahead at the towering canvas of the Desnairian ships and scratched his chin thoughtfully. As always, the prospect of battle created a hollow, unsettled feeling in his belly. None of his officers and men appeared to share his apprehension, and it was, of course, unthinkable for him to reveal it to them. He often wondered if he was truly fundamentally different from them in that regard, or if they were simply better at hiding their emotions than he was.
Not that it mattered at the moment.
“Well,” he remarked out loud, permitting neither his voice nor his expression to hint at any internal trepidation, “at least they seem to have figured out we’re not just some deaf, dumb, and blind merchant ship!”
The men manning the quarterdeck carronades heard him, as he’d intended, and grinned. Some of them nudged each other in amusement, and a couple actually chuckled. No sign they felt anything but confident anticipation!
Cheerful idiots, aren’t they? Yairley thought, but there was as much affectionate amusement of his own as exasperation in the reflection.
He pushed the thought aside as he reconsidered his position.
He was confident he had an accurate appraisal of the other ships’ armament, now, and he rather wished he’d been up against a few less guns. His own were heavier, and he had no doubt his gun crews were far more experienced, and almost certainly better drilled, into the bargain. But eighty guns were still eighty guns, and he had only fifty- four.
I wonder if that’s a galley commander over there?he mused.
It could well make a difference, given the habits of thought involved. Galley captains thought in terms of head- on approaches—since their chase armament, which always mounted the heaviest guns, fired only directly ahead—and boarding
Yairley stopped scratching his chin and clasped his hands behind him, his expression distant as he contemplated the narrowing stretch of water between Destiny and her adversaries. The Desnairians weren’t quite in line. The wind had backed about five points—from south- southeast to east- southeast—during the long hours since the chase had begun, and the rearmost of the two ships was a good two hundred yards to leeward and astern of her consort as they sailed along on the starboard tack. Yairley wondered if that was intentional or simply sloppy stationkeeping. Or, for that matter, if it simply represented lack of experience on his opponents’ part. The Desnairian Empire did still follow the tradition of putting army officers in charge of warships, after all.
Let’s not get too overconfident in that respect, Dunkyn,he reminded himself. Still, we can hope, can’t we?
Two hundred yards might not sound like an enormous distance to a landsman, but Yairley was no landsman. To an artillerist accustomed to thinking in terms of land battles fought on nice, motionless pieces of dirt, two hundred yards would equate to easy canister range, where it would be difficult for any semi- competent gun crew to miss a target fifty- plus yards long, six or seven yards high, and the next best thing to ten yards wide. For a seaman, accustomed to the fact that his gun platform was likely to be moving in at least three different directions simultaneously, completely irrespective of his target’s motion, a two- hundred- yard range was something else entirely.