Ison of the Isles

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

  “Pont City is about five miles south of us, across a strait and down the coast. It lies on a bay open to the west.” He cupped his left hand to show them. “The bay is almost closed off by a long sand spit that comes down from the north, here where my thumb is. Dorn’s fleet is hiding inside the bay, and the townspeople have stretched a log boom across the ship channel in the bay mouth. The Inning fleet is anchored outside the bay, in a line along the sand spit. They can’t shell the harbour or the city from where they are; they’re probably just waiting for daylight to demolish the boom and move into the bay. We’ve got to make sure they don’t get that far.”

  He looked around at their faces, all grave and intent. So far so good. “They’ve got nine ships anchored about 150 yards apart in a line stretching north-south. On the north they’re sheltered by a little sand point. They’ve put their biggest ships at the south end of the line, nearest the bay mouth.”

  “What kind of firepower do they have?” one of the Torna captains asked.

  “That’s the bad news. We’re probably outgunned.” He glanced at Jearl. In reality, there was no “probably” about it. One of the enemy mounted sixty-four guns; the islanders had no ordnance to match that.

  It was ten days since they had set out from Harbourdown to cut off the Inning squadron, and this was the first they had seen of it. They had sailed first to Torbert, Holby Dorn’s last known location, on the assumption that the Inning fleet would stop there; but there had been no sign of them. The terrorized citizens of Torbert, after an initial panic at the arrival of an armed fleet, had begged them to stay and defend the town; but Harg had no ships to spare. The Inner Chain was awash in panicky rumours, but at last some solid news had arrived: Dorn’s pirates had attacked a merchant convoy on the Middle Sea. True to his new style, he had bloodily slain all the Tornas aboard, then fled with his booty toward Pont. And so Harg’s fleet had stood out to sea while the citizens of Torbert lined the wharves, frantic to see their defenders go.

  Earlier that summer, the rebellious town of Pont, inspired by Harbourdown’s example, had overrun a small Inning garrison and declared its independence. It was not clear to Harg whether they actually supported Dorn, or just had no way to expel him from their harbour once he took refuge there. The consequences would be the same for them either way, since the Innings would not make fine distinctions: Pont would share Dorn’s fate, unless something prevented it.

  Last evening, while his warships hid behind Mariveg Head, Harg had watched from the hill as the Innings sailed by. Nine vast floating fortresses, wall upon wall of iron and oak. The low, pink sunlight had made the tiered sails look like thunderclouds sweeping across the water. Now he understood better the seeming recklessness with which Talley had split his forces. The single squadron anchored for the night outside Pont Bay was more than a match for the rebels’ whole fleet.

  Harg glanced around. The deck of Smoke was cleared for action; the gun tackles were unlashed, the rammers and sponges laid out, the crews assembled at their stations. Tubs of water and sand stood about, the one ready to put out fires, the other for scattering on the deck if it should become slippery with blood. Above, the topsails stirred restlessly in a waking wind. Harg felt its breath on his cheek; the wind was north. The plan that had been a vague hunch in his mind as he had peered across the water at the Inning squadron suddenly crystallized.

  He scanned the circle of faces. His captains looked tense and grim. He would need a different mood for his plan. He grinned at them craftily.

  “We’re going to give them a little surprise,” he said. “If I know my Innings, they won’t slip anchor when they spot us. They’ll expect us to take them on in line of battle, one ship apiece, and duel it out like gentlemen, because that’s what Rothurs would do. We’re not going to act like Rothurs; we’re going to mob the windward end of their line and leave the lee ships to watch the show. Their biggest ships won’t be able to beat upwind to help their friends—at least, not until too late.”

  One of the Torna captains protested, “There won’t be space alongside their line for more than one of us per ship.”

  “We’re going to attack them from both sides.”

  Now he really had their attention. He went on quickly: “They’ve got to be moored far enough from shoal water to swing round on their anchors; so there has to be room enough for a ship to cut between them and moor to their inshore side.”

  “Inside point-blank range,” one of the captains said faintly.

  “Right. We can unnerve them that way, and do some real damage.” He didn’t need to mention that the reverse was also true.

  Another said, “Our ships will be trapped between the Inning line and land. It won’t be easy to withdraw.”

  “We’re not going to withdraw,” Harg said.

  He glanced around the circle. He could anticipate a hundred other objections: What if the wind changed? What if they struck each other? “We’ll have to aim low and carefully. I’ll lead the inshore squad in Windemon; Jearl will take the seaward side in Smoke. Who will join me? Barko?”

  The lean pirate was grinning with glee. “I’m with you, Harg. They’ll never expect this. It’s completely mad. They won’t even have loaded their inshore guns.”

  Not about to be outdone by Barko, Dev said, “I’ll go, too.”

  “All right,” Harg said. That would put the biggest risks on the Adaina ships, but that didn’t surprise him. He turned to the Tornas. “Now, I want your ships on the outside to moor no more than 200 yards from the enemy.”

  Jearl was frowning at him. It was closer than any of the Torna officers had been trained to go. A few of them exchanged glances.

  “We’re going to make them think they fell into a nest of firesnakes,” Harg said, voice low and fierce. “They will never have seen anything like this.”

  They had begun to catch his drift, even some of his fire. He said, “All right, go back and warn your people we’re going to be striking quick and hard. They’re going to have to fight like the Ashwin. If we win, we’ll have revenge for Sandhaven.” He got seven tense smiles.

  He touched hands with each of them as they turned to descend the gangway and return to their ships. He could almost feel their emotions transmitted through their palms. Once, when he felt the slightest faintness he said quietly, “I’m trusting you, Gall; the rest of us are dead if anyone fails.” Gall’s grip tightened in his hand.

  Last of all, he touched Jearl’s hand. “If anything happens to me, you’re in charge,” he said. Jearl nodded gravely. Then Harg turned to Jonci, whom he had promoted to temporarily replace Katri aboard the Windemon. “Let’s go.”

  When they arrived at Jonci’s ship, he asked, “Has everyone had breakfast?”

  “Everyone but you, Harg,” Jonci said.

  “Right.” Food was the last thing he wanted. He felt impossibly keyed up. The world around him seemed unnaturally distinct. The decisions were made, everything was ready.

  And then the wind died. Harg paced the deck in an agony, glancing up every few seconds as if he could will the wind back into being. Jonci stood stoically by the wheel; the crew had all settled back to wait. In the breathless quiet a thousand details were occurring to Harg; he had to force himself not to pester Jonci with questions.

  “The sea teaches you patience,” Jonci observed to Gill as Harg passed them. “It’s got its own time for everything. It’s no use thinking we can choose.”

  Harg forced himself to stop moving, though staying still took more effort. Jonci was right; he was acting like an Inning, thinking time was at his command.

  Ten minutes later the sails stirred. The fog was lifting; the masts now cast faint shadows across the deck. Still Harg didn’t move. Another gust came, and the crew began to look up and stir. Harg forced himself to wait, impassive, until he was sure there was a steady breeze. At last he said, “All right, let’
s weigh.”

  The Windemon was third in line as they came in sight of Pont Bay. Dev’s Spinneret was in the lead. The Inning ships were still anchored where Harg had left them at dawn, noses pointed north into the wind.

  “They’ve seen us by now,” Jonci said at his side. “Are they moving?” If the Innings headed out to sea to fight where they could manoeuvre, it would be a very different battle.

  “They won’t,” Harg said. “They’ll think they’re safer where they are.”

  He was right. All along the Inning line the gunports were opening like rows of black teeth, but they made no move toward their sails. Ahead, the Spinneret was rounding the small spit of land that protected the Innings on the north, Wavedancer in her wake. As the second ship cut a few yards inland from Spinneret’s course, she shuddered; her masts bent forward and the sails belled out as she was brought to a sudden halt. She was aground on an unseen shoal.

  “Ashes!” Harg said, wincing as he watched the Wavedancer pivot around on her bow, driven broadside on the shoal.

  “Well, now we know where the shallows are,” Jonci said.

  “That’s an expensive buoy,” Harg muttered.

  Dev’s crew were whooping like the wild pirates they were as they swept down on the Inning line. One of the Inning ships let loose a broadside while the Spinneret was still out of range, wasting their shot. Harg smiled grimly; it was exactly the kind of move he’d been haranguing his own officers about. He knew how these Inning ships were going to fight.

  Spinneret headed straight for the gap between the first and second ships; seeing where Dev was bound, Jonci set course toward the second and third. As they passed the second ship, there was a puff of smoke, then a booming report; Harg felt Windemon shudder underfoot as a ball crashed into her side. A shower of splinters went up where another one had hit the gunwale just abreast of the line of gunners.

  “Hold your fire!” Jonci’s voice came calmly. Harg felt a surge of elation. Gods, but his captains were good.

  They were in between the two ships, passing barely fifty yards from the carved and gilded stern of the ship that had fired on them when the Windemon let loose her port batteries. There was a deafening concussion, and the guns recoiled inboard. Instantly the gun crews were swarming around the cannons. A few moments later the starboard battery thundered a volley on the ship that would be their main opponent; with a grim amusement Harg noted that the name Discipline, painted on her bow, had been defaced with shot. As they emerged on the other side, barely inching into the unknown waters, he was pleased to see that Barko had been right; the Discipline’s crew was still scrambling to load the inshore batteries. He could imagine the consternation on their decks.

  “Now’s our chance!” Harg shouted out. “Let’s fry the bastards!”

  The stern anchor cable roared overside, and when the wind swung the Windemon parallel to her opponent, the bow anchor followed. Harg went to the taffrail to see where the rest of the fleet was. There was another roar, and he was momentarily blinded by a cloud of eye-stinging, throat-burning smoke from the quarterdeck guns. Blinking away his tears, he saw that the rest of the fleet, slowed by having to skirt the foundering Wavedancer, was still out in the bay, bearing down on the Inning line. “Can they see our signals?” Harg said to Gill, who stood at his side. Then, “Never mind, send one up anyway. Say, ‘200 yards.’”

  “They won’t need to see that one,” Gill said, turning to summon the signal lieutenant.

  The next moment the Discipline fired the 22 cannons of her starboard battery. There was a whistling rain of iron, a swift, deadly tattoo of hits, and a scream. For an instant a stunned silence fell over Windemon, broken only by a sobbing moan from the main deck. They had never been fired on before, Harg thought; they didn’t know what it felt like. Then Jonci’s calm, capable voice was ordering the wounded taken below. Harg forced himself to the quarterdeck rail to look at the legless man being carried down the companionway, a trail of blood following. His only thought was that the rhythm couldn’t be broken; the crew couldn’t be allowed to think, or they would all be dead. Their only hope was to fire faster and fiercer than the enemy.

  “Pay them back for that one!” Harg shouted. “We’ve got her to ourselves a few minutes; let’s win before the others come.”

  Someone gave a defiant pirate yell; Harg blessed him, whoever he was. The gunners jumped back to their tasks, their shock not over but put aside.

  Soon Windemon’s deck was an inferno. The line of cannons crouched black and angry all down the deck; they roared, bucking back on their breeching ropes, only to be tackled, tamed, and muzzled again. Their black smoke turned the day dark and the air acrid. Soon the Discipline was invisible past the sooty billows; the only evidence she was even there was the screaming hail of fire that tore up the rails and planking, sent cut rigging thumping to the deck, and showered deadly splinters through the unnatural gloom.

  Behind them, the Spinneret was stinging her opponent like a tenacious wasp, but Harg could see she was being badly mauled. As the broadsides kept coming, a jagged hole was torn in her side where two gunports were battered into one; a grisly trickle of blood ran out and down the hull. As Harg watched, her foremast shook, then twisted, splintered, and slowly fell, taking a tangle of rigging with it. Now Spinneret was crippled; there would be no escape for Dev.

  Harg motioned Gill to follow him, and set out for the foredeck to spy out the action ahead. As he walked the length of the deck he shouted out encouragement, though he couldn’t any longer hear his own voice. He knew that the gun crews were in a strange trance of routine motion: swab, load, ram, prime, run out, train, cock, fire, again. When he passed, their sooty faces grinned at him with a weird elation, like damned souls that didn’t yet know they were in hell.

  Ahead, he could see that the Ison Orin and Pimpernel had their opponent in a ship sandwich and were battering it mercilessly. The last five Inning ships were still riding at anchor, unopposed and useless. No, not quite useless—one was firing a mortar into the melee. “Idiots,” Harg said. In these close quarters they were as likely to hit their own ships as their enemy.

  When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jonci appeared at his side. “The Discipline’s fire has slowed a lot since Smoke came up on her larboard side,” she said. “We must be doing some damage.”

  “We’ve got them sweating in their pretty uniforms,” Harg said. He felt a surge of fierce glee. He clapped her on the back. “By the horns, we’re in the right place today, Jonci! This is where we were meant to be. Your crew—”

  His words were cut off by a hot blast of wind past his ear. The concussion knocked him sideways, and he staggered into Gill. Jonci was no longer beside him. He looked around for her, and finally saw her, writhing like a smashed bug, halfway across the deck. Her right arm and shoulder were missing.

  Gill was clutching his arm. “Harg, are you all right?”

  His skin was tingling strangely; he had to gasp for breath. Don’t think, he told himself. Don’t even try.

  “Get the captain below!” he ordered. “Who’s her lieutenant?”

  “Me, sir,” a white-faced young man said. Too young, Harg thought with a wild stab of remorse. For an instant he wanted to shout, Go home! Get out of here!

  “Have the gunners step up their fire. Tell them they’re turning the battle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look, Harg!” Gill pointed ahead. The next Inning ship in line had been dismasted. Now a stray shot had severed her anchor cable and she was floating downwind, trailing a mess of rigging in the water. For an instant it looked like she was going to foul Barko’s ship, but the wind carried her past it, toward shore.

  One enemy out of action. “We’ll finish her off later,” Harg said. “Signal our ships to move on to the next in line. No, wait.”

  Something was happening toward the downwind end of the In
ning line. The five ships, the big ones with no opponents, were raising sail. Harg squinted through the smoke-haze to see their course. Beneath his feet the deck vibrated with the redoubled effort of the gunners; his teeth felt like they were shaking out of their sockets. He guessed the Innings were going to try to tack upwind and come down on the line of fighting ships from the side. His mind was working ferociously, graphing out their course, the timing, the best way to meet the attack. Then the five ships veered downwind.

  “They’re running away!” Gill exclaimed in disbelief.

  “The bastards!” Harg said. He wished he could see the faces on the Discipline’s deck, when they saw their best ships abandoning them.

  Escaping. Harg cursed at how slowly his mind was working. He couldn’t let them get away. They would still be a danger to be tracked down and attacked, perhaps under less favourable circumstances. But the battle he had started was not yet won.

  For an instant Harg weighed a near-sure, but incomplete, victory against the chance of winning or losing it all. He glanced at the Windemon’s rigging to evaluate the damage, then roared, “Lieutenant!”

  Jonci’s first lieutenant came up. “What’s the state of your ship?” Harg asked.

  “We’ve got some holes below water line. She’s taking on water. The lower gun deck is bad; three guns out of commission . . .”

  “The rigging, man. Can she sail?” Harg asked impatiently.

  “Give me ten minutes to repair—”

  “No. Get her under whatever sail you can, and repair as we go. We’re following those ships.” Harg turned to Gill. “Hoist a signal for Ison Orin and Pimpernel to pursue the enemy. The rest can finish up here under Jearl’s command.”

  “We can’t catch them,” Gill said.

  “We can’t if we don’t try!”

  When the Windemon pulled ahead through the gap in the line left by the grounded Inning vessel, and her guns fell silent, Harg felt he must surely have gone deaf, so quiet it seemed. He was astonished to note it was almost noon; they had been pounding the Discipline for two hours. For the life of him he couldn’t account for the time.