The War of the Four Isles

by Andrew McGahan

  But even as Dow contemplated this, the first gust of crosswind struck the Snout, a buffeting blast of drier, hotter air. In the sky, the retreating edge of high cloud was overhead now, half the firmament swept clear behind it. The change was upon them, and with it came the west wind, stealing away the fleet’s last option for escape. They could no longer come left either, for that would mean sailing directly into a wind that was blowing east: an impossibility.

  ‘We are confounded by ill-fortune,’ moaned Agatha Harp, staring up at the bedevilled sails. ‘To have the weather turn, on a lee shore!’

  But Dow was gazing at the Ship Kings. The sun was out now, and all across the sea the haze was rolling back in the wind and the water was lighting to a dazzling blue, and the armada was spreading out eastwards in a great, gleeful line.

  Ill-fortune? No, he didn’t believe that. This was exactly what the Ship Kings had been waiting for, and intending, all along; the reason they had taken the sting of the Twin Islands’ attacks so patiently.

  For they had known. With their superior navigational skills, they had known that the War Master had turned north too close to the Claw. And more wise in the ways of the weather, they had read the sky and known – long before the Twin Islanders had realised it – that a westerly change was on its way.

  Now the trap was sprung.

  ‘A sign from the flagship!’ cried the signaller. ‘All ships to turn south!’

  ‘Idiots!’ uttered the captain.

  The War Master was playing his last hand; to turn the entire fleet about and run south. It might even have been possible, with ten or twenty ships. But one hundred and thirty ships, in three columns, all trying to come full about at once, in a rapidly changing wind?

  ‘Madness,’ decried Agatha Harp. ‘Better if we turn and run east in one mass – if we must fight in close, at least we should do so together!’

  But it was too late. Already the fleet was dissolving into chaos. Most of the ships were indeed trying to come about, but many were simply turning to run before the gusting wind. Vessels cut across others, and even as Dow watched, two battleships clashed ponderously together, their masts falling in a fatal tangle.

  And none of it mattered; whether ships were turning or running, the west wind was taking the entire fleet east, right into the waiting arms of the armada – and now it was the Ship Kings who were broadside on to their foe.

  In those last moments Dow could only stare, lost in admiration, as the Snout was swept towards the enemy line; at least ninety vessels were arrayed there, poised with deadly perfection about their well-prepared killing field. And then it came, the opening salvo: smoke from five thousand cannon mouths erupted in a three-mile-long detonation.

  To Dow it seemed that an instant storm cloud had risen from the sea. A blackness swarmed in the air between the fleets, then all about the Twin Islands ships water was suddenly rising in plumes, and on the high deck of the Snout timber was shattering and splinters were flying and sailors were screaming as they died.

  And so the Battle of the Headlands – for thus would it be called, taking place as it did within sight of East and West Heads – began in earnest.

  *

  If there had been a certain brutal impartiality in Dow up until that point – an indifference to the greater stakes of the engagement, as long as the death of Diego was achieved – it evaporated in that first broadside. Suddenly he saw just how utter could be the Twin Isles’ defeat, and how complete the Ship Kings’ victory. He’d never intended to be part of a rout – nor that the Snout should be blown from the water. Wrath must wait; there was battle to be fought!

  He picked himself up – he didn’t remember even throwing himself down – and gazed about at the blasted high deck. Blood was flowing on the timbers; by the wheel lay the corpses of both helmsmen, one headless. No one else was nearby and the wheel spun free, so he dashed to take the dead men’s place. Just in time. A Ship Kings battleship loomed over the bow. They were among the armada!

  ‘Come left!’ the captain cried.

  Dow heaved on the wheel. The Snout’s guns fired off a salvo – Jake Tooth’s shouted command audible over the roar, his tone lazy even now – and then the enemy ship was sliding down their side, returning fire, and more shot was flying across the decks. The hail passed, the ships drew apart, and then smoke descended thick upon the field.

  Now it was every ship for itself.

  For Dow, time became a blur, a minute or an hour of no real difference in all the thunder and flame.

  No new helmsmen came to replace the dead ones, so he stayed at the wheel, peering through the choking smoke for a course to steer, sometimes heeding the captain’s orders, at other times, when her voice was lost in the relentless din, picking his own path as everywhere ships loomed and fell away, and cannon boomed incessantly, and dying men screamed and begged for water.

  He had little concept of how the battle fared for the rest of the Twin Isles fleet. But at length there came a sudden swirl of clearer air about the Snout, and he was granted sight of something all too terrible. It was the Twin Islands flagship, the Black Sands, and it was on fire. Great flames were roaring up from its forecastle, spiralling in a tornado wind of the fire’s own making; the blaze sucking in air so fast that the sternward sails were full, as if the ship rode in a storm gale – though in fact it was merely adrift as the Snout slid by, not fifty yards away.

  Boats were already putting off from the doomed vessel, the crew bustling down ladders or leaping into the sea. Dow’s gaze fell upon a distinctive figure among those descending the ladders, a stately, well-dressed woman with a laundress’s nest of hair. It was Constance Reed, the Mistress Superior, abandoning ship.

  But where was the War Master? Dow looked to the high deck. There. It seemed that Damien Tender had chosen not to desert his flagship. He was with a clutch of officers and soldiers by the wheel, some shouting orders, some darting this way and that in near panic. The War Master cut a calmer figure. Breaking free of the others, he strode to the rail and peered forward, trying to see beyond the flames and smoke in the bow.

  He appeared every inch still the man who had changed that world and challenged the Ship Kings, his great square head held erect, his gaze level and infused with that earnest strength and self-belief that defined him. But to Dow it all seemed false now, a mask laid over something rotten. He could only think of Cassandra, and the lies this man had so casually planted in her willing heart, to blossom later into death.

  Then, as the Snout and the Black Sands drew exactly level, Damien Tender happened to look down and across to the smaller ship, straight at Dow, who had long since discarded his disguising hood. Despite all the pressing dangers of fire and war, the recognition in the War Master’s eyes was instant. He straightened in amazement, and flung an accusing arm at Dow, calling to the soldiers behind him. One came running, musket at the ready. Dow stood frozen, even as the man raised the weapon and aimed, and the War Master screamed at him to shoot—

  Then the flagship blew up.

  It was a staggered detonation, starting with an explosion that blew the bow apart, echoed moments later by an eruption amidships, and then a third beneath the stern castle; the vessel’s three magazines, no doubt, going up one by one. Damien Tender had time only to turn in despairing rage to the bow, before he and the soldier and the musket were lifted up bodily as the deck rose; then a great gout of flame swallowed them whole.

  Dow ducked away from the hail of debris that lashed the Snout – and by the time he rose again, the Black Sands was only a blazing, sinking mass, receding away once more into the battle smoke.

  Time blurred again. An enemy frigate approached through the haze, and for an age it and the Snout fought broadside to broadside. Around Dow sails were tumbling and shrapnel was whirring and wounded were crying out. And yet when the enemy finally drew off, the Snout was afloat and underway still.

  Then came a second telling vision. The ship broke free once more of the smoke, and a wide swathe
of ocean opened to Dow’s view; in the distance rose East and West Heads, getting closer now, but in the foreground rode a proud line of some six Ship Kings battleships and frigates. They were vessels of the old style, golden and glorious, perhaps the last such that the Ship Kings possessed. Clearly they had been holding back from the fray, leaving the slaughter to lesser craft. But now a wave of Twin Islands attack boats was advancing towards them.

  Dow’s heart lifted. So some of the Twin Islander ships had managed to launch their boats, and here was their chance to strike in force!

  The Ship Kings were firing in frenzied salvos at the oncoming attackers. Dow noticed at last the banners that flew from the battleships’ masts, and recognised the devices; they were Castille flags. Why, this must be the command squadron of the king of Castille himself, Ferdinand of the Scale. A lively hatred stirred in Dow; he had not forgotten his trial before the devious old man, or the lies the king had told.

  Well, this time he’d stuck his stiff neck out too far. For now the attack boats were ramming home, and mines detonated all along the Ship Kings line. In cold satisfaction Dow watched as four of the great ships went up in flames, men diving from their decks, before smoke once again hid the tableau.

  The battle raged on. Amid the chaos, the Snout now managed to launch the Franklin. It charged off into the holocaust, and somehow even found its way home, Nicky and the crew bloody but triumphant, an enemy frigate sunk. But moments later the Snout itself was under attack again, and when that assault was beaten off, it was time to launch the Franklin away once more . . .

  It grew wearying. The mind could absorb only so much tumult and violence before it became exhausted, and ceased to take it in. Everywhere in the murk, ships were burning or sinking. The crew of the Snout began to shamble numbly, faces grey and unseeing even as shot flew around them. Eventually the Franklin could launch no more, as there were no more mines to attach to its bow. And word from below warned that the magazines were almost out of shot and powder to feed the guns.

  On the main deck, the wounded lay in rows, too many for sick bay. Dow could see Nell at work there with the doctor, both of them all but swimming in blood. Dow himself had received no worse than a deep shrapnel slash to his leg – he’d barely noticed it at the time – but even so he was spent and sore now, his arms aching as they heaved at the heavy wheel. The heat of battle had turned cold in him. There appeared to be a lull in the fighting; it was time to retreat, surely, to withdraw while they could. The engagement must have been won or lost by now.

  Then for the third and final time the smoke around the Snout cleared, a curtain pulling back, and Dow instantly forgot all pain and war weariness. He forgot everything, other than the reason he’d chosen to do battle in the first place. For there, not two hundred yards off the Snout’s bow, quite alone, was the one ship amid so many hundreds for which he had been searching.

  It wasn’t named the Chloe. The words emblazoned on the high deck rail read Pride of Valdez. And it had new paintwork on its hull, and new masts and rigging and sails. But it was the Chloe all the same, Dow could not be mistaken, even after three years.

  And it was on fire.

  No flames were visible, but black smoke was billowing from its lower gun decks. The ship had dropped sail – one of its masts had been shot away in any case – and was adrift, the crew intent on battling the blaze. But no – some were already abandoning ship. Boats had been lowered, and men were climbing down to them.

  At another time Dow would have been stricken to see the Chloe in such straits, enemy ship or not. But all he could think of now was Diego. His wrath ignited in him, not freezing anymore, but a fire as hot and terrible as that which had burned his family. Diego was on that ship, and Diego must die.

  A sailor was hurrying past; Dow apprehended him and pressed the startled man to the wheel, then turned in search of the captain. There; she was by the stairs, in conference with Jake and Johannes, who had each come to the high deck in the lull to make reports.

  ‘Captain,’ Dow called, striding over. They all looked at him, and he pointed over the bow as he came up. ‘There. It’s the Chloe. They’re disabled. We can come alongside and take them prize!’

  The three officers studied the stricken ship a moment, but then Agatha Harp shook her head firmly. ‘They’re on fire. I won’t come alongside a burning ship – you’re too late, it’s lost, leave it to sink!’

  ‘There’s time yet!’ Dow insisted. ‘The Ship Kings are abandoning it, but we can use our pumps and flood the fire with hoses through the Chloe’s gun ports. We can capture it, if we move fast!’

  ‘And you can kill your enemy,’ said the captain. ‘I know your true reasoning in this matter. It is his death you desire, not the ship.’

  Dow stared in frustration. He wanted both, he suddenly realised. Yes, Diego primarily – but the Chloe truly could be saved, and should be. A ship of such beauty and grace was never meant to merely burn!

  It was Johannes who came to his aid. ‘It is a fine vessel, Captain; I should know, I served on it for ten years. And maybe we can save it indeed – they’ve given up trying, by the looks, but our pumps can push out ten times the water their own can!’

  Jake Tooth gave an equivocal shrug. ‘One thing is sure, Agatha. We’ll need ships to make good our losses from this disaster. They’ll have to come from somewhere, and there’s one for the taking. If it gives Dow his man too, what’s the harm?’

  The captain stared at the Chloe a hard moment longer, before turning to Dow, fist clenched in vain. ‘Didn’t I say not to test my authority a third time? Woe to you then, Dow Amber, if this goes wrong! Jake, you shall lead the attack.’ She raised her voice, cried the command. ‘Prepare the hoses and pumps! Ready boarding planks and parties! We’ll come alongside!’

  Dow dashed to the rail, scanning the Chloe once more. Was there still time? Yes! The fire had not yet spread beyond the bow section, as far as he could tell. Even better, the officers on the high deck had not yet abandoned ship. Diego would still be there. Coward though Dow knew him to be, he was a captain now, and would not dare abandon his ship before his juniors.

  At the Snout’s rail some hundred armed sailors were mustering for the assault under Jake Tooth’s direction, boarding planks upraised. Someone thrust a musket into Dow’s hand, loaded, and with a bayonet fixed at its tip. Dow hadn’t even given thought to arming himself until then, his pistol left forgotten in his cabin. But no matter, the musket would do.

  ‘Steady!’ was Jake’s command.

  They were almost alongside the Chloe. In the ocean below, boats and swimmers were hurrying out of the way, lest they be crushed between the two hulls. And from the Snout’s lower decks, water began to jet from the hoses, the spray passing directly through the Chloe’s gun ports and onto the fire.

  Suddenly shot was peppering the deck around Dow and he looked up in astonishment; marines were still posted on the Chloe’s musket decks and were sniping away at the Snout. But there was no time now to shelter. With a grinding clash the two ships came together, and Jake Tooth cried, ‘Boarding parties forward!’

  With a bang, the planks dropped to the Chloe’s rail, and the invaders swarmed across.

  Dow was with them, his musket held ready. But in those first moments it seemed that the capture of the Chloe would be almost bloodless. There was hardly anyone left on the main deck, only a few scorched and shocked seamen who quickly threw themselves to their knees in surrender. The marine snipers on the musket decks were pinned down now or dead under fire from the Snout, and towards the bow Johannes was already leading a party down through the hatches to seek out the fire. Dow and Jake Tooth and some fifty others with them dashed for the high deck to secure the wheel.

  But then there came a fusillade from above; marines were at the top of the stairs, sweeping the approaches. Jake and most of the Twin Islanders took cover and returned fire – but Dow, waving a dozen or so men to follow him, slipped beneath the stairs and into the stern castle. He was no str
anger to the Chloe; he remembered exactly the alternative route to the high deck.

  They stormed through the lower corridors, all deserted, and then up a level to the Great Cabin. It was empty too; from here a flight of stairs led directly to the high deck overhead. But even as Dow and his men burst in, the hatch atop the stairs was thrown back and a band of marines leapt down, as if they had only just remembered to defend this approach.

  A melee erupted between the two parties, indescribably brutal in the enclosed space, Twin Islanders and Ship Kings in an awful scrum of grappling and cursing and dying. But there were more Twin Islanders than Ship Kings, and the result was in no doubt. Dow, having fired off his musket, lingered only long enough to be sure Diego was not there, then he slipped through the fighting, gained the stairs, and climbed to the high deck.

  It was all but unoccupied, a wide wilderness of planking, bloodstained, and littered with bodies. The ship’s remaining officers and marines were all forward on the stairs, desperately engaged with Jake’s men. But one figure still stood there, alone before the wheel, poised in indecision as he watched his men battle and die. The Chloe’s captain.

  ‘Diego,’ Dow cried.

  The figure spun in surprise, perhaps simply because Diego – for it was indeed he – had not expected that a Twin Islands attacker would know his name. He was fumbling for his sword as he turned, but then he froze in deeper shock, recognising his challenger.

  ‘You,’ Diego mouthed.

  Even in those few burning instants, Dow had time to notice the changes in his enemy’s appearance. Diego was no longer the thin, haughty lieutenant of three years ago. He had become stout since, his uniform too tight; and his once thick, dark hair was thinning and receding, as if captaincy had taken away all his youth.

  ‘Yes, me,’ agreed Dow, advancing. He had no charge left in his musket, he knew, but he had the bayonet, and that would be enough.

  Diego raised his sword in threat. ‘Stay back!’ But at the same time he retreated a step.