by Eric Flint
To Saunders’ surprise, the young General Wolfe spent a considerable amount of time on deck, showing little sign of the terrible seasickness that had plagued him before the awful fog had passed over Neptune. Wolfe was reserved and aloof most of the time but had spoken forthrightly about his vision on the night of the fog—he had seen his brother Edward, with whom he had served in Flanders during the Pragmatic War a decade and a half earlier.
“I saw my old mentor Admiral Wager,” Saunders had told him, in a moment of disarming honesty that Wolfe seemed to appreciate. “And Mr. Prince told me afterward that he had seen his father, Prince Frederick.”
“Yet none of that can be,” Wolfe had replied. “Ned died in 1742, and His Highness in 1751—”
“And Sir Charles Wager in 1743. No, sir, you are correct—these are impossible visions. But they are hard to dismiss. Each of us saw someone who was dear to us. And it was not only the officers. I have heard many accounts of visions by other officers and crewmembers—it’s a wonder that we were able to hold the course and keep the ship in order.”
“Words fail me, Admiral. I do not know what to say . . . but it is reassuring to think that it was not only me. I scarcely feel myself to be the same man.”
“Are you the man who led the assault on Louisbourg last year?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Then you are the man that you have always been, General Wolfe. I daresay that is enough for the king . . . and his great-nephew.”
There were numerous things that troubled Saunders during their navigation through the ice-strewn waters. His charts were scarcely adequate, though the skills he had learned through the years served him well. But accounts of North Atlantic currents and winds were useless, either due to their position or—he scarcely wished to admit it—because something had fundamentally changed while they were making the crossing.
Just as surely as the comet was no longer in the sky, it was clear that the distant land had changed. Saunders and Prince made a series of careful observations on clear days with calm seas and mapped a range of jagged mountains to the north and northeast, almost at the limit of their vision. Prince climbed the topmast to confirm what they saw from the quarterdeck—a scene which was probably not foreseen at the Court of St. James when he was added to the expedition; but he came safely down at least. They marked the mountain range to lie well west and south of Iceland—where no such terrain was known to be.
At last, with provisions beginning to run low, they sighted land to westward; the northern extremity of Newfoundland, which seemed just as rocky and inhospitable as he remembered it. That placed them at 51 or 52 degrees north latitude, at least four hundred miles north of their intended destination . . . and of the other ships in the squadron there was no sign.
The ice persisted as they traveled southward, enough so that they were unable to reach Louisbourg harbor until two weeks later. It was still iced in, as it had been the previous year. This was not lost on Wolfe, who had hoped to be a part of an expedition against the great French fortress of Québec, had the season not already been too far advanced to make it practical.
1759 was not 1758, however; and regardless of the weather, Louisbourg was now in His Majesty’s hands, and the gateway to the St. Lawrence was open.
It took another two days to reach Halifax on the southern coast of Nova Scotia. Both Saunders and Wolfe hoped to find other ships waiting for them that had somehow survived whatever event had occurred out on the ocean. Instead there was only one, which they identified at a distance as the 70-gun Somerset, a part of another squadron sent to meet them in the Maritimes.
“Do you know this officer, sir?” Prince said to Saunders, as they watched the boat row across from Somerset to Neptune. The commander of Somerset was clearly visible; he was a stout, stern-faced man, who sat in the middle of the boat, holding his hat to his head against the stiff wind—the only seeming concession to the chill inclemency that seemed to be characteristic of the area.
“The captain of Somerset? Not very well,” Saunders said. “I know he has been in His Majesty’s service since an early age and was advanced by both Vernon and Knowles—which speaks well of him.”
“Not to mention the ship he commands now.”
“Somerset is a third-rater, but it’s a fine vessel nonetheless,” Saunders said. “I believe it was here at Louisbourg, so I am sure General Wolfe knows the gentleman.”
The Prince did not answer. It was clear that the admiral and general had become cordial during the last few weeks aboard, but he still found Wolfe distant and haughty, even when paying his respects to a prince of the blood.
“Why is Somerset here in Halifax, My Lord?”
“He was attached to Admiral Knowles’ squadron, which was intended to rendezvous with us at Louisbourg. That his ship is the only one here does not bode well. They were to have transported a portion of the troops intended for the Québec expedition—and if they are not here . . . ”
“I don’t need to observe, sir, that the rest of our ships are absent as well.”
“I don’t need to be reminded of that,” Saunders snapped back, and immediately thought better of it. “Yes. Yes, of course. And now there is an impossible range of mountains in the ocean. I wonder if . . . they had a similar experience to ours.”
“I assume you’ll ask him yourself, sir.”
“I expect we’ll both have questions that require answers.”
Hughes was piped aboard with all due ceremony. Wolfe was present to greet him, though he seemed to have no particular regard (or, for that matter, disdain) for the captain of Somerset. After formal greeting and review of the honor guard, Saunders led Hughes, his executive officer and General Wolfe to his own cabin.
“Is Somerset the only ship of Holmes’ squadron on station here, Captain?” he asked when the four men were settled.
“I regret to say that it is,” Hughes said. In person he was a substantial man, still relatively young—though Wolfe himself was several years his junior—Captain Hughes more than filled the sea-chair he was assigned. “We were separated in the Atlantic during the crossing. There was . . . ”
Saunders saw a troubled expression on Hughes’ face, but wanted to hear the man’s firsthand account. “Please proceed, Captain. What happened?”
“It is almost impossible to believe, my Lord. I was in flag distance of Devonshire, a ship very slightly larger than my own; we were in a heavy blow, somewhere near the thirtieth degree of west longitude. I had just given the order to close haul when something began to happen.”
Once again Hughes paused for several seconds, as if gathering his thoughts. “There was a cloud, rather like a bank of fog—except that it was glowing. Eerie, really: like a river mist filled with tiny lights. I lost sight of Devonshire in the fog—and when it cleared, I caught sight of it again—and it was as if it had been lifted in the air, a hundred feet or more.”
“Out of the ocean?”
“Yes—yes, sir. And it looked as if it was caught—I don’t know quite how to describe it. It was as if a shoal of rocks had come up out of the ocean, and Devonshire was caught on them, a hundred feet in the air, and then it fell crashing into the sea.
“A great wave, the like of which I’ve never seen, sir, drove us away from the spot, and it was the last I saw of Devonshire or any of the rest of the ships of the fleet.”
“A shoal of rocks in the middle of the ocean?” Saunders said. “Are you sure, Captain? That is an extraordinary tale.”
“I swear by Heaven and by my oath as an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, My Lord, that it is true. I’m not sure, but I believe we were able to make out the shoal a day or so later when the weather cleared. But it wasn’t just a shoal then, it was like a mountain range.”
“In the ocean.”
Hughes nodded.
Saunders exchanged a glance with the prince, then stood and walked to his chart-table; he picked up the annotated chart of the North Atlantic and brought it to where the portly c
aptain was sitting.
“The mountains extend northward well above fifty-three degrees latitude, Captain. We have observed them as well. If your observations are correct, it suggests that we are—in some way—separated from Europe, perhaps permanently.”
“Permanently, My Lord? How could that possibly be?”
“How could there be a mountain range in the ocean, Hughes? Which begs the question—what has happened to Knowles’ squadron, and to mine?”
“And the troops intended for the assault on New France,” Wolfe said. “What of them?”
Hughes did not respond, but all the men knew the answer.
“Without resources, Admiral, it will be impossible to carry out His Highness’ orders here in America. Without troops, there is no possibility of investing Québec.”
“Without a way home,” Saunders said, “we may have to decide our own course.”
He looked directly at Mr. Prince, who appeared uncomfortable with the scrutiny.
“Are you suggesting that we abandon our orders, Admiral Saunders?” Wolfe said quietly. “Because if so, you are jumping to a rather sudden and unsettling conclusion. I’m not sure I am ready to go along with that, not just yet.”
“We will have to take stock of our situation, General Wolfe,” Saunders replied. “It is not merely a matter of force projection. Our ships’ support—stores, sails, every tot of rum and coat-button—depends on contractors based in England and supplies coming across the ocean. If that chain is cut, more than war planning is affected.”
“Obviously,” Wolfe said.
“I assure you, sir, it is more obvious for those on whose shoulders responsibility falls.”
“Are you suggesting that I—”
“With due respect, sirs,” Mr. Prince interrupted—a presumption that would never be accepted from anyone of lesser status—“I don’t think anyone is suggesting anything. We have an extraordinary situation, and we must think of the welfare of our ships and our men in view of what has happened and what is happening.”
Wolfe considered the words, and the man who had made them, and settled back into his chair without further comment.
Chapter 8
This might be a matter of our own survival
Halifax
If there was any doubt regarding the changed circumstances of the expedition, it was resolved two days later when HMS Magnanime, a 74-gun warship, reached Halifax harbor. Even to an untrained eye, it looked as if it had been through hell: its sails were patched and it had a badly-damaged foremast; Wolfe and Saunders could see that the mainmast had been restepped as well.
Magnanime was in good enough order to pipe the admiral and general aboard in proper form, but the commander waiting for them at the top of the gangplank wore a first lieutenant’s uniform.
“Lieutenant George Baker, My Lord,” he said, offering a perfect salute.
“I was expecting Captain Howe.”
“It would have been his great honor to receive you, sir,” the young lieutenant said. “But it is a stroke of fortune that any of us have come safely to harbor.”
“I’m sure that your skill contributed to that effort, Lieutenant.”
“It is kind of you to say so, my Lord,” he answered. “If you and General Wolfe would care to review the honor guard?”
Once the formalities were accomplished, Baker accompanied Saunders and Wolfe ashore. They had established a temporary headquarters in the offices of Robert Grant, the Royal Navy’s contractor at Halifax; it was certainly comfortable enough but had an air of the civilian about it. Saunders sent word to Captain Hughes and Prince Edward to join them, and shortly they were gathered around a set of charts and bound books from Neptune.
“When we left England, we had three squadrons and almost forty sail,” Saunders said. “Now we have Neptune, Somerset and what is left of Magnanime. Durell has ships in this theater, though God knows whether something has happened to them. Very well, Captain Baker—give us your story.”
Baker did not respond for a moment to the title—he had been given a promotion on the spot, it seemed—but regained his composure. “We were about three weeks out from Spithead, My Lord, when we encountered calm seas and a thick fog the likes of which I have never seen. Captain Howe had been signaling the flagship, but the visibility became too poor, so he ordered us to sail close-hauled, hoping we would come out of the fog.”
“And did you?” Saunders asked.
Baker looked pale and did not respond for a moment. His face held an expression that suggested he was experiencing a painful memory.
“Something happened to Captain Howe,” Hughes said quietly, glancing at Saunders, who nodded.
“Out with it, man! We’ve all been through something singular, the likes of which we can’t quite understand.”
“We came out of the fog and were aimed bow on to a . . . ”
Saunders began to speak, but Prince Edward raised his hand slightly, and for a second time in a matter of less than a minute Sir Charles Saunders yielded to a subordinate—though in the second instance, the subordinate was of royal blood.
“Take your time, Captain,” Mr. Prince said. “This is the fate of Captain Howe you are about to describe.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Commander or ‘sir’ will do, Captain. Please tell us what happened to Captain Howe.”
“It was a creature—something of legend. A sea-monster, a—a kraken, if the admiral pleases. A huge thing, as big as Magnanime, maybe even bigger. One moment we were in the fog, and the next . . . it was pulling men off the deck into the sea. There wasn’t time to prepare a broadside, though I managed to heave the ship to and get off a few shots with the stern chasers. We lost our foremast and the rigging was fouled on the other two—I don’t know how we managed it, but we drifted back into the fog and the thing lost sight of us.”
“One of the men pulled off the deck was Captain Howe,” Saunders said, his voice flat and emotionless. Howe was one of the most experienced and talented ship-captains in His Majesty’s Navy; Saunders had argued strenuously with Lord Anson to have him included.
“Aye, sir. One of the very first. Three other officers senior to me were also lost. I didn’t even realize I was senior man aboard for the better part of an hour. We drifted for two or three bells, staying in the fog bank in case the thing was still out there. I kept the men busy working on the rigging and sails, but they were terrified. I don’t mind admitting, my Lord, that I was as well.”
“And you finally cleared the fog, I take it. Did you see any of the other ships in your squadron?”
“No, sir. Not a one.”
“I was originally to have sailed with Magnanime,” the prince said. “Richard Howe was a good man, one of the best.” He smiled faintly. “It was decided that the . . . delicacy of the situation required that I be in the officers’ complement of an admiral.”
“General Wolfe,” Baker said. “I have the honor to have had Major Dunbar’s 40th aboard Magnanime, and the men acquitted themselves with great skill in assisting what remained of my crew. I promised myself that if we reached shore, I would commend them particularly to your attention.”
“I will include that in my dispatches,” Wolfe said. “Though it isn’t clear when they might ever be delivered.” He glanced at Hughes, who had sat silently through the entire interview.
“What are your orders, Admiral?” Baker asked.
“For the moment, Captain, see to your men and your vessel. Whatever you need to requisition from the contractor, you may do on my account.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood and saluted. “Thank you, sir. I will have a written report—”
“In due course. Attend to your duties, sir.”
He saluted again and took his leave.
“That is a very brave officer,” Wolfe said to Saunders.
“It seems to me that all of our officers will need to be brave. We have damn few of them.” He shifted in his seat; he had been sitting in proper military posture, a
nd he saw no need to continue the practice. “If all we have is three ships and a few hundred troops, General, there is no possibility of an expedition against Québec. So let me ask you: what do you intend?”
“I’m not sure. I have been seriously considering the matter for the last few days. There is one thing that reassures me: if we are cut off from support from home, the French likely are as well. Our plans will have to be . . . less extensive, I daresay; but there is no reason that we should not undertake something.”
“You still want to attack New France.”
“You seem surprised, Admiral. Isn’t that why we’re in North America? They are still the enemy, are they not?”
“They are—unless mountains rising from the sea and great and terrible krakens are our enemy.”
“I’m not quite sure I take your meaning, My Lord.”
“I think I have some insight,” Prince Edward said. “If I may.”
“Please,” Wolfe said.
“Consider the ancient war of the Persians against the city-states of Greece, General Wolfe. When Xerxes, King of Kings, gathered together his army of a million men and built his bridge of boats across the Bosporus to invade the Greek lands, he would certainly have fared much better if those states continued to war with each other. Instead, though they had many differences, they put their feuds aside to face the common enemy.
“If we are now in a time when krakens erupt from the sea and mountains rise to cut us off from our home, perhaps we should reconsider whether it is the best time to prosecute a war. This might be a matter of our own survival. The French might well come to the same conclusion.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I would not presume to offer strategic advice, General. But if we are indeed facing . . . otherworldly forces, it might be time to take stock of the situation before planning any military campaigns. And in due course, it might be prudent to send an emissary to our French rivals to determine, under these circumstances, if they are indeed still our enemies.”
