by David Weber
Of course, even with their superior weapons, four schooners might find themselves just a bit hard-pressed to stop six raiders from getting past them.
Or perhaps not.
Cred Cies watched in disbelief as the side of the nearest enemy vessel disappeared behind a billowing cloud of dirty-white smoke. Those short, silly-looking bombards obviously threw far heavier shot than he had believed possible. The quantity of smoke alone would have made that obvious, but the hurricane of iron slamming into his vessel made it even more obvious. Painfully obvious, one might almost have said.
Those low-slung, infernally fast ships slashed down into the Lemmaran formation, and as they did, they showed him exactly why they’d adopted the approach they had. The raiders’ bombards might have gotten off three or four unanswered shots each as the strangers drove in across their effective range, but the accuracy of those shots had left much to be desired. One of the enemy vessels had been crippled, and had clearly taken casualties, as well, but the others were unscathed.
Now they swept into the intervals in his own formation, and his teeth ground together in frustration as he realized that even as they did, they were actually reducing sail. They were slowing down, sacrificing their impossible speed advantage, and the shriek and crash of shot—the dreadful, splintering smash as round shot slammed into and through his own ship’s timbers—was like a hammer blow squarely between the horns as he realized why.
“All right!” someone shrieked, and it took Roger a moment to realize that it had been him. Not that he was alone in his jubilation.
The endless hours of drill inflicted upon the K’Vaernian gunners had been worth it. The range to target was little more than fifty meters, and at that range, every shot went home. Jagged holes magically appeared in the stout planking of the raider ships. Grapeshot and splinters of their own hulls went through the massed troops, drawn up on the pirates’ decks in obvious anticipation of a boarding action, like scythes. Bodies and pieces of bodies flew in grisly profusion, and the agonized shrieks of the wounded cut through even the thunder of the guns.
Roger wanted to leap to the rail to help serve one of the guns personally. The strength of the fierce, sudden temptation took him by surprise. It was as if the screams of his enemies, the sudden spray pattern of blood splashed across the lower edges of the square sails as wooden “splinters” two meters and more in length went smashing through the raider crews like ungainly buzz saws, closed some circuit deep inside him. It wasn’t hunger . . . not precisely. But it was a need. It was something all too much like a compulsion, and deep inside him a silent, observing corner of his brain realized that Nimashet had been right to worry about him.
But there was no time for such thoughts, and it wasn’t fear of his own inner demons which kept him standing by Hooker’s wheel as the artillery thundered and the enemy shrieked. It was responsibility. The awareness that he had accepted command for the duration of this battle and that he could no more abandon or evade that responsibility than Armand Pahner could have. And so he stayed where he was, with Julian poised at one shoulder and D’Nal Cord at the other, while someone else did the killing.
Hooker’s carronades bellowed again and again. Not in the single, senses-shattering blast of the perfectly synchronized opening broadside but in ones and twos as the faster crews got off their follow-up shots. There was more thunder from overhead as sharpshooters—Marines with their big bolt-action rifles, and Mardukans, with their even bigger breech-loaders—claimed their own toll from the enemy.
The main “broadside” armament of the Lemmaran ships was composed of “swivel guns,” which weren’t much more than built-up arquebuses. They were about fifty millimeters in caliber, and they had the range to carry to the K’Vaernian schooners slicing through the Lemmaran formation, but without rifling, they were grossly inaccurate. On the other hand, the already short range was going to fall to zero when the flotilla finally closed to board the raider ships, and the swivels could still wreak havoc among the infantry who would be doing the boarding. So the sharpshooters were tasked with taking out the gun crews, as well as any obvious officers they could spot.
Even with the much more accurate rifles, the shots weren’t easy to make. The ships were tossing in the long swells of the Mardukan ocean and simultaneously moving on reciprocal headings, so the targets were moving in three dimensions. Since the sharpshooters were perched on the fighting tops at the topmast crosstrees or lashed into the ratlines with safety harnesses, they were not only moving in three dimensions, they were moving very broadly in three dimensions, swaying back and forth, up and down, in a manner which, had they not become inured to it already, would have guaranteed seasickness. There were enough Mardukans on the raiders’ decks to give each rifle shot an excellent chance of hitting someone, but despite all of their endless hours of practice, the odds against that someone being the target they’d aimed at were much higher. The sharpshooters claimed their own share of victims, but their best efforts were only a sideshow compared to the carnage wreaked by the carronades.
Each of the four undamaged schooners was engaged on both sides as they drove down between the Lemmaran vessels. The thundering guns pounded viciously at the stunned and disbelieving raiders, and Roger shook his head grimly as the first Lemmaran foremast went crashing over the side. A moment later, the hapless ship’s mainmast followed.
“That’s done for that one, Captain,” he observed to Pahner, and the Marine nodded.
“What about supporting Prince John?” the captain asked, and Roger glanced at him. The Marine’s tone made it clear that his question was just that—a question, and not a veiled suggestion. But it was a reasonable one, the prince thought, as he looked astern at the cloud of powder smoke rising above the crippled schooner. From the sound of her guns, though, the Johnny was firing with steady deliberation, not with the sort of desperation which might have indicated a close action.
“We’ve got time to settle these bastards first,” Roger said, nodding at the incipient melee, and Pahner nodded again.
“You’re in command,” he agreed, and Roger took time to give him a quick, savage smile before he turned his attention back to T’Sool.
“Put your helm alee, Captain!” he ordered, and T’Sool waved two arms at his helmsman.
“Hands to sheets!” the Mardukan captain bellowed through the bedlam. “Off sheets!” Seamen who had learned their duties the hard way during the voyage scampered through the smoke and fury to obey his orders even as the gunners continued to fire, and T’Sool watched as the line-handlers raced to their stations, then waved at the helmsman again.
“Helm alee! Let go the sheets—handsomely there!” he thundered, and the helmsman spun the wheel.
Hooker turned on her heel like the lady she was, coming around to port in a thunder of canvas, with a speed and precision none of the raiders would have believed possible.
“Haul in and make fast!” T’Sool shouted, and the schooner settled onto her new heading, with the wind once more broad on her port beam. The sail-handlers made the sheets fast on the big fore-and-aft foresail, and her broadside spat fresh thunder as she charged back across her enemies’ sterns.
There were no guns—bombards or swivels—to protect the raiders’ sterns, and the carnage aboard the Lemmaran ships redoubled as the lethal grapeshot went crashing the entire length of the vessels. A single one of the iron spheres might kill or maim as many as a dozen—or even two dozen—of the raiders, and then the anti-coll bead cannon mounted on Hooker’s after rail opened fire, as well.
For the first time since the Marines landed on Marduk, their high-tech weapons were almost superfluous. The ten-millimeter, hypervelocity beads were incredibly lethal, but the storm of grapeshot and the flying splinters of the ships themselves spread a stormfront of destruction broader than anything the bead cannon could have produced. The beads were simply icing on the cake.
“Bring us back up close-hauled on the port tack, Captain T’Sool!” Roger snapped, and Hoo
ker swung even further to port, riding back along a reciprocal of her original course that took her back up between the battered raider ships towards Prince John’s position. Both broadsides’ carronades continued to belch flame with deadly efficiency, and Roger could clearly see the thick ropes of blood oozing from the Mardukan ships’ scuppers.
The flotilla flagship broke back through the enemy’s shattered formation with smoke streaming from her gun ports in a thick fog bank shot through with flame and fury. Another raider’s masts went crashing over the side, and Roger sucked in a deep, relieved breath of lung-searing smoke, despite his earlier confident words to Pahner, as he saw Prince John.
The broken foremast had been cut entirely away; he could see it bobbing astern of her as she got back underway under her mainsail and gaff main topsail alone. It was scarcely an efficient sail combination, but it was enough under the circumstances. Or it should be, anyway. She wasn’t moving very quickly yet, and her rigging damage had cost her her headsails, which meant the best she could do was limp along on the wind. But her speed was increasing, and at least she was under command and moving. Which was a good thing, since raider Number Four had somehow managed to claw her way through the melee.
The Johnny had seen her coming, and her carronades were already pounding at her opponent. The bigger, more heavily built raider vessel’s topsides were badly shattered, and her sails seemed to have almost more holes in them than they had intact canvas, but she was still underway, still closing on the damaged schooner, and the big, slow-firing bombard protected by the massive timber “armor” of her forecastle was still in action. Even as Roger watched, it slammed another massive round shot into the much more lightly built schooner, and he swore viciously as splintered planking flew.
“It would be the Johnny,” he heard Pahner say almost philosophically. He looked at the Marine, and the captain shrugged. “Never seems to fail, Your Highness. The place you least want to get hit, is the one you can count on the enemy finding.” He shook his head. “She’s got quite a few of the Carnan aboard, and they already took a hammering when we lost Sea Skimmer.”
“Don’t count your money when it’s still sitting on the table,” Roger replied, then turned to Julian. “All ships,” he said. “Close with the pirates to leeward and board. We’ll go to Johnny’s assistance ourselves.”
“Your Highness,” Pahner began, “considering that our entire mission is to get you home alive, don’t you think that perhaps it might be a bit wiser to let someone else go—”
Roger had just turned back to the Marine to argue the point when Pahner’s helmet visor automatically darkened to protect the captain’s vision. Roger didn’t know whether or not Prince John’s Marine detachment had originally set up a plasma cannon for their anti-coll defense system. If they had, he thought with a strange detachment, they were probably going to hear about it—at length—from Pahner and the sergeant major. But it was also possible that they’d switched out the bead cannon at the last minute while the rest of the crew worked on repairs to the schooner’s crippled rigging. Not that it mattered. Raider Number Four had managed to get around behind Johnny’s stern, where her deadly carronade broadside wouldn’t bear. And in achieving that position of advantage, the pirate vessel had put itself exactly where the schooner’s crew wanted it.
The Marines’ plasma cannons could take out modern main battle tanks, and if Hooker’s bead cannon hadn’t seemed to add much to her carronades’ carnage, no one would ever say that about Prince John’s after armament. The round ripped straight down the center of the target ship, just above main deck level. It sliced away masts, rigging, bulwarks, and the majority of the pirates who had assembled on deck in anticipation of boarding. What was worse, in a way, was the thermal bloom that preceded the round. The searing heat touched the entire surface of the ship to flame in a tiny slice of a second, and the roaring furnace became an instant sliver of Hell, an inferno afloat on an endless sea that offered no succor to its victims. Those unfortunate souls below decks, “shielded” from the instant incineration of the boarding party, had a few, eternal minutes longer to shriek before the bombard’s powder magazine exploded and sent the shattered, flaming wreck mercifully into the obliterating depths.
“I thought we wanted to capture the ships intact,” Roger said almost mildly.
“What would you have done, Your Highness?” Pahner asked. “Yeah, we want to capture the ships, and recapture the convoy, if we can. But Prince John, obviously, would prefer to avoid being boarded herself.”
“And apparently the Lemmar agree with that preference,” D’Nal Cord observed. “Look at that.”
He raised an upper arm and pointed. One of the six raider vessels drifted helplessly, completely dismasted while the blood oozing down her side dyed the water around her. Her deck was piled and heaped with the bodies of her crew, and it was obvious that no more than a handful of them could still be alive. Three more raiders each had one of the flotilla’s other schooners alongside, and now that Hooker’s carronades were no longer bellowing, Roger could hear the crackle of small arms fire as the K’Vaernian boarders stormed up and over them. Prince John’s plasma cannon had accounted for a fifth raider, but the sixth and final pirate vessel had somehow managed to come through the brutal melee with its rigging more or less intact, and it was making off downwind just as fast as its shredded canvas would allow.
“Do we let them go, or close with them?” the prince asked.
“Close,” Pahner said. “We want to capture the ships, and I’m not a great believer in giving a fleeing enemy an even break. They either surrender, or they die.”
“They’re not letting us go,” Vunet said.
“Would you?” Cies shot back with a grunt of bitter laughter as he looked around the deck.
The crew was hastily trying to repair some of the damage, but it was a futile task. There was just too much of it. Those damned bombards of theirs were hellishly accurate. Unbelievably accurate. They’d smashed Rage of Lemmar from stem to stern and cut away over half her running rigging, in the process. Coupled with the way they’d shredded the sails themselves, the damage to the ship’s lines—and line-handlers—had slowed their escape to a crawl.
The bombards had done nearly as much damage to the crew, as well. The quarterdeck was awash in blood and bodies, and the crew had put a gang of slaves to work pitching the offal over the side. The enemy’s round shot had been bad enough, but the splinters it had ripped from the hull had been even worse. Some of them had been almost two-thirds as long as Cies himself, and one of them had gutted his original helmsman like a filleted fish. Nor was that the only crewman who’d been shredded by bits and pieces of his own ship. Some of that always happened when the bombards got a clear shot, but Cies had never imagined anything like this. Normal bombard balls were much slower than the Hell-forged missiles that had savaged his vessel. Worse, he’d never seen any ship that could pour out fire like water from a pump, and the combination of high-velocity shot and its sheer volume had been devastating beyond his worst nightmares of carnage.
Now the Rage was trying to limp to the south and away from the vengeful demons behind her. He’d hoped that with one of their own crippled (by what, for all intents and purposes, had been a single lucky shot) the other four might have let his own ship go. But it appeared they had other plans.
“We could . . .” Vunet said, then paused.
“You were about to suggest that we surrender,” Cies said harshly. “Never! No Lemmar ship has ever surrendered to anyone other than Lemmar. Ever. They may take our ship, but not one crewman, not one slave, will be theirs.”
“They’re not heaving to,” Roger said with a grunt. “Captain Pahner?”
“Yes, Your Highness?” the Marine replied formally.
“If we really want that ship intact, this is about to become a boarding action. I think it’s about time to let the ground commander take over.”
“You intend to take them on one-on-one?”
“I
think we have to, if we don’t want them to get away,” Roger replied. Pahner gazed at him, and the prince shrugged. “Pentzikis, Tor Coll, and Sea Foam already have their hands full. Prince John can probably take the fourth pirate—I doubt there’s more than a couple dozen of these Lemmar still alive aboard her, and she sure as hell can’t get away with no masts at all. But this guy in front of us isn’t just lucky. He’s smart . . . and good. If he weren’t, he’d be drifting around back there with his buddies. So if you want him caught, we’re the only one with a real shot at him.”
“I see. And when we catch up with him, you’ll be where, precisely, Your Highness?” Pahner asked politely.
“Like I say, Sir,” Roger said, “it’s time to let the ground commander take over.”
“I see.” Pahner gazed at him speculatively for several moments, considering what the prince hadn’t said, then nodded with an unseen smile.
“Very well, Your Highness. Since boarding actions are my job, I’ll just go and get the parties for this one assembled.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Come off the guns and rig the mortars!” Despreaux ordered, pulling gunners off the carronades as she trotted down the line of the starboard battery. “We’re going to be boarding from port!”
The Ima Hooker was slicing through the water once more, rapidly overhauling the fleeing pirate vessel. It would have been difficult to guess, looking at the sergeant’s expression, just how unhappy about that she was. Not that she was any more eager than Captain Pahner to see the raiders escape, if not for exactly the same reasons. Nimashet Despreaux had a serious attitude problem where pirates—any pirates—were concerned, but she would have been much happier if at least one of the other schooners had been in position to support Hooker. There were still an awful lot of scummies aboard that ship, however badly shaken they must be from the effects of the carronades. And as good as the K’Vaernians and their Diaspran veterans were, hand-to-hand combat on a heaving deck was what the Lemmar did for a living. There were going to be casualties—probably quite a lot of them—if the raiders ever got within arms’ reach, and a Mardukan’s arms were very, very long.
