“The chain is two feet thick and five hundred wide, though as the mouth of the bay is only three hundred across, we have excess on the far coast. It is too heavy to be taken off and then returned in a moment,” the Admiral said.
“Yet the foremost ship is a cruiser: its hull is not as deep as most. We have only to slacken the chain, letting it sink far enough for the ship to pass over before raising it against the pursuing ships.” Meredith grew excited. “The chain already rests in the Treeway, that it cannot be destroyed by land. If we can heave more chain up the tree for a moment, it is done.”
“Very well,” answered the Admiral, “But if time is lost, so is the ship.”
“We will have it done,” Meredith shouted, already in the longboat that rested at the ship’s side. The ropes were cast away and it fell into the water, launching for the shore. Meredith did not need to take men with him, for the platform was garrisoned, as was a small guard station on the ground below.
It was at this time an hour before high noon. The sky was scarred by only a few clouds, but a whole armada came in from the northeast. The ocean was beginning to tremble and the waves to overflow: a powerful storm approached. For an hour, the Admiral paced the deck, watching over the preparations in silence. The men and officers had their orders and he spent most of the time watching those on shore preparing to lower the chain, then quickly raise it again.
“Distance?” the Admiral asked Koon, who had replaced Meredith at the lookout.
“A quarter mile,” the other returned, laughing inexplicably. The sails puffed out as he did.
“Five minutes,” and the Admiral turned to the crew. “Koon, prepare to break formation,” and the other, still a hyena, leapt to the deck to ready the men.
The wind came on like Koon’s laugh, hitting the fleet just a point off the compass. By now, Lionel’s figure could be seen against the battling blues of the sea and sky: he stood on the yard-arms as did the Admiral, his hands grasping the crown above his head. The ship did not change course, but neither did the rebel fleet part to let them pass. Then, just as the ship passed within fifty feet of the chain, the silence died.
“Heave away!” the Admiral roared, “Heave away and break formation!”
The ships parted in the middle by turning sharply away from each other, creating a narrow space between them through which the Hibernian cruiser could scarcely pass. Koon only wheezed with laughter.
At the same instant, Meredith and his men lowered the chain. It was controlled by a platform built between three especially large trees, forming a triangle around the perimeter. In the center stood a massive pulley, with the chain on one side and a boulder on the other. They had drawn the chain up onto the platform, and when the time came lowered it on the opposite side. It was strung through several steel fasteners so it did not drag over the wood.
“Release the chain!” Meredith called out, and he threw himself against the piled chain, sending it over the edge. As it fell, the pressure lessened and the chain over the harbor sank a dozen feet.
As the chain sank, the ship passed over and into the rebel ranks. The rebels gave a hearty cheer to the incoming crew, and the latter returned it, hauling up the stolen crown as their colors. The effect was tremendous. Nothing could be heard over the roar.
Nothing, that is, but the roar of the Admiral.
“Quickly men, close ranks!” the Admiral cried, and the ships were put to work. The masts were unfastened in their cauldrons and swiveled to the right until they sat perpendicular to the wind. At the same instant the sails were turned and the ships juked sideways until they once more covered the entire bay. Then, with the same speed and agility, the masts were reset and the sails set against each other. The ships were once more dead in the water.
Still, Gylain’s fleet came on. The chain was too low to stop them.
“Release the boulder!” Meredith ordered, and it was dropped from its platform to counteract the weight of the chain. But the chain weighed more and the boulder lingered in the air.
“It is too light,” Meredith moaned. He turned his head to catch sight of the enemy fleet. “By Baal and the gods of Moab!” he yelled, “If the boulder does not fall, our fleet is lost, and so our freedom!”
They heaved back on the chain, pulling the boulder further up before releasing it again. But its momentum, while lowering it more, did not make it fall to the ground; and if it did not fall the chain would not be raised. The leading ships were but fifty yards from the chain.
“Look!” cried the lookout, “Look to the forest: a whole regiment emerges, charging with the devil in their eyes! They have run through the forest with their heavy mail and look ready to run us through as well.”
“Then we must hold,” another moaned, “For the others must leave the ramparts to meet them.”
The ships drew nearer.
“Fools, do not curse defeat before it comes!” Meredith rebuked in a passion. “Our comrades are closer to death than ourselves! Heave the boulder once more and I will make sure it falls to the ground!”
The boulder was hoisted again, further than before, and let go without ceremony. It hit the weight of the chain with a bounce, then tottered for a moment, hesitant to fall. Meredith made up its mind for it: he charged to the end of the platform and leapt across the void. He landed firmly on the boulder, his hands grasping a smaller chain that attached it to the larger. It reeled once more, then shot to the ground. Meredith fell with it.
The chain scraped against its fasteners as the pulley brought it upward, until – with a resounding snap – it jumped above the waterline and was taunt. By this time, the enemy ships could not stop or turn aside; they dashed against the chain as if it were a rocky shore. The ships were severed in two as they passed it, the decapitated hulls left to sink into the bay, blocking the passage even more.
Meredith lost his grip in the fall. Because of his narrower form he fell faster than the boulder. He struck the ground an instant before it, then was lost beneath it. The boulder rocked sideways three times, as if landing in a hole, then finally tumbled in. Meredith was entombed beneath it.
Chapter 87
“What the devil are they doing?” Gylain asked, seeing the foremost ships chasing after Lionel and de Garcia. “Why do they attack without orders?”
“They are bad soldiers who do not act without orders,” replied Lyndon.
“But they are worse soldiers who act foolishly. The harbor is chained, or at least blockaded.”
“Lionel passed safely.”
“Perhaps; we will see.”
As Gylain spoke, the fleet came to a sudden halt. As if by magic – for in the distance the cause could not be seen – the ships were torn apart and buried beneath the waves.
“So it is,” Gylain said coldly, “The fools! They cannot be punished now; yet can you ever punish a fool?”
“How is this?” and Lyndon joined Gylain at the bow, looking over the scene. “This is devilry indeed, as I have heard about William Stuart.”
“De Casanova, your telescope,” and Gylain eyed the situation for a moment, following the chain along its length. “There is indeed a chain, but its ends are held far from the ground with pulleys. Thus, it can be raised or lowered. I had forgotten William in his absence, but I am pleased by his return. For the rebels are no longer mere woodsman and I enjoy the chase. Montague, bring me a dozen men and the longboat. As for the siege, it is yours, Lyndon.”
“And the land is yours. You cannot desert in the battle’s preface, Gylain, for we need your strong will to break them.”
“You will have it: they have made the chain adjustable, and so we will adjust it. When it is lowered beyond danger, take the bay and rendezvous with the ground troops. I will flash my blade in the sun three times in swift succession when the deed is done.” As he finished, Montague returned with a dozen of the Elite Guard and a load of equipment and supplies. He began loading the longboat; before Gylain finished speaking he was at its side. He waved to Lyndon, and was
off.
The longboat was built in proportion to the ship it served, large: it was thirty feet long, though it had nothing below deck. A mast stood near either end, but they folded on two steel bars: one as an axis, the second as a lock. The masts were then down and the sails with them. The boat was powered only by oars and thus made discreet amidst the fleet. By this time the fleet had seen the chain and fallen back to formation. Thus, the longboat was near the coast, and in a moment they beached themselves on the far side of Thunder Bay.
“Do not be afraid, men,” Gylain said as he disembarked, “For if death comes, it is predestined; and if life goes, it is foreordained. Therefore, courage.”
With that, Gylain started forward, with Montague beside him and the men following two abreast. The beach was of a fine, white sand, and stretched twenty feet before the trees. Yet the canopy overhead covered the sand and left it in a twilight shade; it also blocked the rain. The short, innocent grass of the forest began where the sand ended. With it came the air of the forest. Within a moment they reached the guard post: a short platform built only high enough to suspend it from the wild animals. It was covered by a log roof but its sides were left open. The men within saw nothing but the gathering fleets and growing storm.
“Montague, take six men and circle to the far side. I will attack, and when they turn their attentions to us, you will take their rear. Hurry, there is little time.”
“Of course,” and Montague, gesturing to the men, went around to the other side.
Gylain waited a moment, then drew his sword and rushed the platform. He did not yell and the rebels in the guard post were soaked in surprise. Gylain did not allow them to recover. The first – a tall, lank man – jumped up, but had no sword. Gylain ran him through, then left him to his wound. The others were treated in the same manner, and by the time Montague arrived there were no survivors.
“They fight like peasants,” Montague said.
“Perhaps, but their commander is not to be found. He must have left for the fleet, but that is just as well; for it is easier to die on sea than on land.”
They walked as they spoke. The forest opened into the clearing in which the boulder had fallen, the chain still attached. The platform was less than fifty feet from the ground, but those above did not notice them, as they did not need a watch.
“We will unfasten the chain, but first we must move this boulder,” and Gylain pointed to where the boulder had rolled over onto the chain it held down.
He began to cradle it back and forth, using its added momentum to push it forward. The others joined him, but still it took a moment: a deep hole was dug into the ground for the boulder to rest in and they had to force it out. At last, it rolled clear. But the chain is not all that was freed: in the deep hole beneath the boulder, a mysterious figure growled at them.
“I have you now!” the darkness cried.
“By the blades of the Titans!” and Montague leapt back.
There, stooped in the hole, was Erwin Meredith. He was on his feet in an instant and flew from the hole like his sword from its sheath.
“Step back there, Gylain, or I will strike you down!”
Meredith lifted his sword and dropped it on Gylain with a powerful side stroke. The latter could not riposte, but partially blocked it and partially fell back.
“A worthy adversary,” Gylain laughed, “And one whom I have long desired to meet again. We enjoyed each other in our youth. May old age find us as willing comrades.” Gylain drove forward with a circling thrust at his opponent’s midsection. The monk turned it away with the cross-handle of his sword, then brought the long portion down and pushed Gylain’s blade to the ground.
“Our friendship ended with your treachery, but you are unworthy of my hate if you do not jest. I meet you only with the sword, and where you once felt my affections you will now only feel my wrath!” He thrust at Gylain, but the other batted his sword to the side with his powerful wrist.
“Montague,” Gylain said, “Step back, for this fight is my own. Unfasten the chain, if you must do something, but leave Meredith to me.”
Gylain gave Meredith a sharp stroke. His old enemy parried it. He struck again from the left, and again it was parried. Gylain came forward with a succession of blows. Each was turned aside. The sun, happening to pass through the darkness for an instant, hit on his sword as he did. It flashed three times. At length, Gylain slipped as he came and his right side was left undefended. Meredith jumped to the right and struck at Gylain as he passed. The latter, however, was too quick to be taken so easily. He dropped to his feet, letting the blade pass harmlessly overhead. They both reeled from their exertions and missed a beat to regain their footing.
“Look,” one of the soldiers cried, “The fleet begins the attack!”
There, not two hundred yards from them, the fleet chased the wind toward the rebel lines. But the chain remained. Montague was working hard to unfasten its latch, as it was no longer pinned beneath the boulder. The links were two feet wide: as a barrier to ships it was unbreakable. But its strength was only valid if it was secured to the land. The latch, itself, was composed of several screws and four bolts that kept the final two links together.
As Montague worked, the soldiers above were aroused by the commotion and came to the edge. At first, they marveled at seeing Meredith alive; but their love of him reminded them of their duty. They could not shoot Gylain, as he was too near to Meredith; but Montague and the others were open targets. The arrows began to buzz about their heads and one of the guards fell at once with an arrow through his neck.
The fleet drew nearer to the chain.
“Hold your shields around me,” Montague ordered the guards.
They obeyed. Yet in protecting him, they left themselves vulnerable. One by one they were shot by the rangers in the tree; one by one they began to fall.
The foremost of the fleet reached the chain. It was dashed aside like the waves it rode.
Yet at that moment the chain was unfastened from the boulder. The weight of the chain beyond the fulcrum was a continuous pressure on it, and, when it was released, the chain dashed into the air. It shot over the platform, ripping out its fasteners and tearing away the foundations of the platform. It shook, then completely gave way and tumbled to the ground. The rangers were dead before they hit. Thus, with the pressure released, the chain sank harmlessly into the harbor.
Meanwhile, Gylain and Meredith still fought.
“You will not survive this fight, old friend,” Gylain spoke steadily.
“If I am damned, you are the devil,” and Meredith came at him with a slashing stroke.
Gylain parried, but was forced back: once on the rebound, Meredith kept at him in fury. He struck from the left, then let his sword swing to the right; there he caught its momentum with a small loop and came at Gylain again. As he pushed forward, though, a stone caught his foot and he fell, unable to balance in the midst of his swing. Gylain sprang forward and knocked his sword aside, leaving Meredith pinned on his back and unable to recover himself. Gylain stood over him.
His face was a placid sea, as if there were nothing taking place. His mouth bent upward slightly in his usual half-smile, but it was not evil in the sense of being. Rather, it was pathetic: the smile of a man who is lost to himself and who knows it better than any other, the smile of an atheist who knows God well.
“Slay me, fiend; for I will not yield and you will not prevail.”
“No, Meredith, I will not make you a martyr, to prove your ideas with the sanction of my violence.” Gylain had no emotion. He bashed Meredith upon the head, putting him out. “It would please you far too much.” He turned to Montague, “Come, for where there is Meredith there is William Stuart; and I will prove God a fool!”
Chapter 88
“Fire,” the Admiral cried through the waterfall that came from the sky. “Fire, and do not relent!” The arrows mix with the rain as it poured upon the advancing fleet.
As the foremost ships were sep
arated by the chain, the upper sections were thrown toward the rebels until they ran into the rebel line. Their crew prepared to board the rebel decks as they passed, to save themselves from the raging sea.
“To the railings!” the Admiral called out again, “To the railings and bar their passage – throw them off into the sea! Hold strong, men: this is but the first of a greater wave.”
The rebel ships had their sails turned inward and set against themselves, leaving them motionless. The crew was left to line the rails, repulsing the invaders with their arrows – for they were forest men first and sailors second.
The storm became a tempest, the swell waves, and the waves mountains. The decapitated decks of the enemy ships were lifted by the waves and raised to the height of the rebel ships for an instant. In desperation, the sinking mariners proffered their swords blade-first to the rebels. In turn, the rebels replied with a flock of arrows. A crashing boom sounded as the ships collided, and the rebels pulled their bows, waiting. Then, as the invaders came, they shot the arrows against their chests. Two, sometimes three men were taken down with every shot. The invaders kept on, but the swell subsided and their decks lowered to the sea. But, without a hull, they sunk. They disappeared into the sea, devoured.
“Well done, lads,” the Admiral out blew the storm, “Move the masts now, for they come again and we need not meet them.” He dashed to the wheel, and, as the sails were turned, the ship side-stepped to the left, avoiding another approaching ship. It passed by and sank to Atlantis.
Meanwhile, Barnes had control of the second Marin and prepared it for the battle. The command deck stretched across the central floor, with ends abutting both the inner and outer walls. Each wall was dressed by a ten by twenty foot window, secured by a system of steel bars that kept larger debris from reaching it, while smaller things, such as arrows, could not break the glass. A control desk was stationed before either one, while the lesser furniture was removed to the adjacent captain’s room while the war was on. In the center of the room – between the command decks – was a larger command area, bolted to the floor and equipped with a chart of the harbor, enclosed under a glass panel so that the actual chart could be exchanged.
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