“Transition, L1,” he said. “Two masts, square-rigged.”
“Mister Dobb, pipe All Hands, if you please,” Alexis said. “If they’re Hanoverese we may ha —”
“Transition … multiple transitions!” Leyman all but yelped. “L1, multiple transitions … L4 and L5, multiple transitions!”
“Calmly, Leyman,” Alexis said.
She rested her hands on the navigation plot and narrowed her eyes. So many ships, so whose fleet was it? Hanover or New London? The hands were rushing to respond to the bosun’s call, but Alexis was at a loss for what to do next. If the fleet, whoever it belonged to, was using those three Lagrangian points, then they’d surely be using L2 and L3 as well, or at least have ships there to stop her from escaping. They’d see L3, opposite the moon on the planet’s far side, when their orbit took them around — L2 was out behind the moon and they’d not see what might be transitioning there until it came around the moon.
Even if Belial could break orbit and escape, though, she had nowhere to go. Her masts were unstepped and her rudders were in a higher orbit. There was nowhere to run.
“Sir, I can’t keep up,” Leyman said. “They’re no sooner transitioning than they clear the Lagrangian point and more come.”
“Any signals at all, Chevis?”
“Nothing, sir. No signals and no colors.”
There were over thirty ships on the navigation plot, with more appearing every moment as the light from their transition reached Belial. Alexis tried to make sense of the plot. If they were Hanoverese, then Belial was well and truly caught. With multiple enemies at each Lagrangian point there was no way they could escape.
Thirty ships … how so many? Our fleet was no more than forty-five without the transports and Hanover’s was no larger … Is it another fleet of Hanoverese transports?
“Sir,” Leyman said, “there’s some’at odd about these …”
“What?” Alexis asked, studying the plot, looking for some way, any way, to retrieve her rudder and planes and then get her ship to a Lagrangian point if the incoming fleet proved hostile.
Leyman hesitated. “It’s … well, sir, there’s nary a frigate nor a ship of the line in the lot, sir. It’s all barques and sloops and smaller stuff, you see.”
Alexis ran her fingers over the plot, bringing up what details Belial’s computers could determine. Leyman was correct. There wasn’t a ship larger than a sloop-of-war in the lot and few of them. Most were pinnaces, cutters, and even smaller. Some were the size of pilot boats, so small they had no business sailing the Dark and should have been limited to intrasystem sails.
What on earth …
Alexis stared at the plot in awe, watching as the computer’s count of ships in-system grew. It was over a hundred already and more ships continued to stream in, each quickly engaging its drive to clear the Lagrangian point for the next.
“I’ve a transmission from that first one … it’s Mister Artley, sir!”
Alexis stared at the image on her plot for a moment in stunned silence. She wasn’t at all certain what was most astonishing. The sheer number of ships — over two hundred fifty filled the plot now — their small size, Artley’s presence, or the grinning face of Avrel Dansby behind Artley’s in the transmission.
“Heard you had a grand bunch of lads needing a ride, Carew,” Dansby said.
“How —”
“Your lad here.” Dansby rested a hand on Artley’s shoulder. “Pestered every captain of every bloody ship stopping at Alchiba with some utter rot about standing up and doing the right thing. Next thing we know, there’s a bloody fleet forming. Stripped everything with sails from a two dozen systems around Alchiba. Pilot boats, ferries, ore barges, the lot of them.”
Alexis watched the count of ships in system rise again as more transitioned. Her eyes burned at the sight of all those ships, so many captains and crews who’d left their safe, comfortable trade routes to put themselves in harm’s way for others.
She met Dansby’s eye on the screen.
“‘And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here,’” she whispered.
“Sir?” Artley asked.
Alexis smiled. “We’ll have to see about the entertainment options in the gunroom, Mister Artley. A bit of the classics never goes amiss, I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alexis had to smile more at the puzzled look on Artley’s face, which only grew more puzzled when she spoke again.
“I’ll see you back aboard Belial once you’ve got this lot herded into proper orbits, Mister Artley.”
“Me, sir?”
“It’s your bloody fleet, isn’t it? It’s upon you to see they’re squared away.”
The next few hours were both chaotic and a revelation.
Alexis watched with growing satisfaction as Artley began transmitting orders to the arriving ships, slotting them into orbit with ease.
“It’s a bit like stocking shelves, sir,” he said when she commented on it, then quickly, “A moment, sir … Guide of Dunkirk, your orbit is ten degrees following Sundowner, please fall back.”
Alexis hid a smile and put Artley’s transmissions to the side of the navigation plot, so that she could continue watching him. He’d certainly matured from the hesitant, unsure midshipman he’d been when Shrewsbury had arrived at Nouvelle Paris. Though they’d both, Artley and herself, had birthdays since then, so she should expect a bit of growing up from him.
She smiled again, caught Dansby’s eye where he still stood behind Artley on Marilyn’s quarterdeck, and set herself to contacting General Malicoat to tell him the situation might not be quite so hopeless any longer.
Fifty-Two
“I need seven days,” Malicoat said. He frowned as he examined the map board at the rear of his tent, tracing lines and plans on it. “In seven days of hard travel, with your ship pounding away at them as you have been, the army can be here.” He tapped the screen along a broad plain, then turned and nodded to Alexis. “It will be difficult, but we should be able to string the Hanoverese out chasing us so that they fail to notice the civilians and the bulk of the French recruits streaming off back to their homes.”
Alexis nodded in turn. She understood the need.
No matter the number of little ships Artley had managed to arrive with, there weren’t nearly enough of them to evacuate an entire planet’s population. There was room for the New London troops and many of the French recruits who might choose to leave with the intent of returning one day with a larger force, but there was no room for the civilians of Giron who’d rushed to the New London forces looking for protection from the Hanoverese.
“It galls me to abandon them,” Malicoat continued, “but with no sign of our own transports or fleet there’s little good we can do here. I can’t run forever, and if another fleet of Hanoverese transports arrives with more troops we’re finished. If I had the full forces I’d asked for it would be different, but as it is …” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “It is what it is.”
“I’ll do everything I can, sir,” Alexis said.
“Seven days,” Malicoat repeated.
In the end, they had three.
Belial was halfway through another orbit, gun crews resting and preparing to feed the guns in another dive into Giron’s mesosphere, repair crews on the hull replacing what had been burned away in the last pass.
The announcement of a ship’s transition into normal space surprised everyone on the quarterdeck, as the last of Artley’s parade of little ships had been slotted safely into orbit around Giron or its moon days before. The announcement that the ship was a New London frigate was met with first relief and then horror as the newcomer broadcast its message.
Both fleets, New London’s and Hanover’s, were on their way toward Giron, each maneuvering for position against the other, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, least of all Alexis’, what even a few Hanoverese warships could do to the unarmed civilian ships gathered
around Giron. Moreover, the Hanoverese fleet was far larger than they’d thought when Admiral Chipley had sailed off in search of it. Perhaps it has been all along or perhaps a second fleet had joined it, but the Hanoverese now outnumbered New London in darkspace as well as on Giron’s surface.
Malicoat agreed. The risk of the Hanoverese defeating New London’s fleet and turning their attention to Giron, or of even a few of their ships slipping around the ends of a fleet action and getting amongst the transports was too great. Far better to evacuate all they could immediately, rather than risk the New London army being trapped on Giron with no transports at all.
Malicoat drove his forces mercilessly toward a new location that would allow the ships’ boats to land and load troops.
Alexis drove Belial and her crew just as mercilessly to fire on the approaching Hanoverese troops and force them back from the New London columns.
Boats streamed down from the waiting ships and returned full of whatever mixture of troops, New London’s and French, were ready to board. Any plan for order in the evacuation was abandoned.
Artley, back aboard Belial, was at the signals console continuously throughout, ordering the captains of the civilian ships about as though he were a senior post captain himself and their obedience was nothing but his due.
“Captain Gardy, you’ll load when Belial orders it and not a moment sooner, sir,” Artley said calmly into his microphone. “No, sir, I understand your concern, but your ship is a faster sailer and we’re loading the slowest first so they can be off.” He paused and sighed, turning from the console. “Sir? Captain Gardy of Randall's Wand wishes a word.”
Alexis glanced over from her place at the navigation plot to find Artley looking to her. His face showed the fatigue she felt, with dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. The actual loading of boats had gone on for well over twenty hours now and both she and Artley had been on the quarterdeck throughout.
This Gardy wasn’t the first captain to give him trouble over the order of loading, nor the first to demand to speak to Artley’s superior. She moved to the signals console where she’d be visible in Artley’s pick up.
“Mister Artley has full command of the loading order, Captain Gardy,” she said, not bothering to hear what Gardy had to say. “Send down your boats when he orders or break orbit and leave Giron empty. It’s entirely your choice, sir.”
She turned her back and walked back to the navigation plot. She could understand Gardy’s worry, with the Hanoverese fleet growing ever nearer and no guarantee that Admiral Chipley’s fleet could bring them to action. She’d expected, in fact, some of the little ships to flee, but none had — and neither would Gardy’s, she suspected. The mettle that would drive a man to sail so far for others might be tested by the approaching enemy, but she doubted it would break.
“No, sir,” she heard Artley say, “that’s Captain Carew.” She was called captain as a courtesy by virtue of commanding Belial and they’d decided that was how she should be named to the civilian captains. “She’s the senior Naval officer in-system, sir … I suppose you could go in search of Admiral Chipley, if you like.” There was a long pause. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see that it’s your turn to load as soon as possible, I assure you.”
Artley sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Alexis returned to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Do you need a rest, Sterlyn?” she asked.
Artley shook himself and sat up.
“No, sir, we’re nearly done — only a few hours more.” He took a deep breath and scanned his console, lists of ships ordered by their sailing speed and capacity. “Azure Rose,” he said, keying his console, “proceed to L5 and transition. Sewall’s Folly, release your boats for the southwest section of the landing field — blue lights mark it.”
Fifty-Three
The makeshift landing field was a scene of utter chaos. Boats streamed down out of the sky, landing in any open space as soon as another had lifted, despite any instructions they’d been given. Beside the field, clumps of soldiers were lined up, waiting to embark. Others lined the edges of the field, facing the milling crowds of civilians. Far in the distance there was the occasional sound of an explosion. The last of the little ships were loading and there’d been no word from Malicoat about getting him and his staff off of Giron. Alexis assumed he’d wish to travel on Belial, as it was the only Naval vessel in-system. Another frigate had appeared and left again, simply passing along the message that the two fleets were only hours away.
Alexis paused at the foot of her boat’s steps and took in the scene.
“Dobb, leave two men with the pilot and have them keep the boat well-closed until we return. I don’t like the look of that crowd.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And open the arms locker — stunsticks and batons for the lads, if you please.”
Alexis waited while he complied and returned with the armed men. He handed her a holstered flechette pistol and belt.
“Thought you’d like some’at yerself, sir.”
“Thank you, Dobb, yes.” Another boat landed and a column of soldiers started for it. Shouts and calls rose from the crowd of civilians. “No, I don’t like the look of this at all.”
They made their way to the edge of the field and through the encampment to General Malicoat’s headquarters, a larger, temporary building amidst the camp.
“I’m here to see General Malicoat if he has a moment,” she said to the guard out front. Or even if he hasn’t.
“Que?”
“Malicoat,” Alexis said again. “Le général, s'il vous plaît?”
“Oui. Attendez un moment.”
The guard nodded and motioned for them to wait while he stepped inside.
“Dobb?” Alexis asked. “Do you find it at all odd that the guard speaks French, yet wears a New London uniform?”
Dobb shrugged. “Out o’ their own, y’think, sir?”
Alexis frowned. “Come to that, I’ve seen not a single French uniform since we landed.”
A moment later the guard returned and gestured for them to enter. They followed him through the building which, if it were possible, was a scene of more chaos than the field itself. Men and women rushed about, calling to each other in French yet all wearing New London uniforms, apparently bent on destroying every bit of equipment in the place.
The exception to this was Malicoat, an island of relative calm, seated at a desk and applying his thumb to a tablet over and over again. He looked up as they approached.
“Ah, Carew. What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I’ve sent several messages regarding the evacuation of you and your staff. There are only a dozen or so ships left loading, the fleets are only hours away, and once the last of the soldiers at the landing field board I fear you’ll not be able to make your way through the civilian crowds.”
Malicoat applied his thumb to his tablet again. “Yes, that.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology for not replying to your earlier messages. Wanting to put off a difficult conversation, you see?”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry to put you in this position, Carew, I truly am. You’ve shown yourself a good officer and I hate to be the cause of your experiencing your admiral’s displeasure, but I’m afraid you’ll have to tell Chipley that you’ve gone and lost me.”
“Sir?” She realized she was repeating herself, but the man had thoroughly confused her. What did he mean to be lost when he was sitting right there?
“My staff, most of them, have already gone aboard other ships, but I’m not leaving, Carew. Be staying here. You should run along now.”
Alexis blinked. Was the man insane? Spacers often claimed that those in the army were bloody lunatics, and she’d seen much on Giron to support that thought, but Malicoat seemed perfectly serious.
“Sir, the Hanoverese are closing. They’ll overrun this position within an hour of the last boat lifting. You have to leave now.”
Malicoat applied his th
umb to his tablet once more, then set it aside. “Look here, Carew, I’ll explain as quickly as I can, but I have a great deal to do and you have a short time to get back to your ship.”
“Sir, I —”
“Just listen so that you can explain to Chipley and the others that you saw I’m set in my decision and there was nothing you could do. Those ships up there are a marvel. A bloody miracle that we’d no cause to hope for, but we’re still having to leave behind half the French troops raised on this world. There’s space for New London’s forces and an equal number of French, then we’re filling in the corners with civilians as best we can.
“Bonnin and I have sent as many of the remaining French troops as we could to melt away back to their homes, but the rest are our rear guard for this evacuation. Most of them come from towns that don’t exist any more thanks to the Hanoverese, and they don’t plan to survive the day.”
He rubbed his eyes and looked at her, and Alexis saw just how tired he was. More so than she herself was or even her crew.
“Those lads deserve better than that and I intend to be here to give the orders that ensure they don’t throw their lives away. Once the last boat is away, there’s no reason for the fighting to go on, nor for any of these lads to die needlessly. Oh, there’ll be reprisals from the Hanoverese, but I have something of a plan for that, as well.” He gestured toward his tablet. “I talked it over with Bonnin and we’ve agreed he can’t do it. The Republic’s not yet officially at war with Hanover, so far as we know, only New London is, so his staying would only make things worse. As of this morning, the local lads have enlisted in a new regiment. The 11th Penduli Foot, to be clear. I’m just finalizing their enlistment records here myself.” He took a deep breath. “It’s a shallow ruse, the Hanoverese will see right through it — not least because there’s not a one of the new lads who can speak a bloody word of the Queen’s English.”
“Sir, is this at all wise?”
Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3 Page 87
