With the fore and mizzen sails set, there was a momentary lull in activity on deck. Harg picked his way across the wreckage. The planking was grooved and pocked where shot had glanced, and littered with smashed wood and fallen rope. One gun whose barrel had burst was still smoking, having blown up its own gunport. Here and there exhausted gunners sprawled against the gun trucks. Harg paused by one who sat, knees drawn up and head buried in his arms as if to block out all the world. The sight reminded Harg of himself, once. How many years ago had it been, that first battle when he had thought his senses permanently unhinged? Only six years. It seemed much longer.
The wounded and dead had not yet been taken below, merely dragged aside in the rush and piled like lumber between the gangways. Harg skirted the area, wishing his deafness had lasted so he would not have to hear the voices.
“Go see how Jonci is,” he said to Gill.
Gill looked at him oddly. “She’s dead.”
“Oh,” Harg said.
When he mounted the quarterdeck again he could see the line of battle behind them. The northernmost ship in the Inning line still lay anchored, unopposed since the start, but trapped between the battle and the sandbar, her broadsides useless, unable to move without running onto her own allies. Spinneret, Smoke, and Lark were still duelling it out with their opponents. The departure of three rebel ships seemed to have heartened the defenders, and the lagging pace of the salvos had picked up again. Harg guessed it would not last long, if Jearl kept pressing them. It was something in the body language of the Inning ships; it spoke to some sixth sense of their hopelessness at being trapped, abandoned by their friends, in the storm of a ferocious attack.
“Harg, look,” Gill said. “Wavedancer got free.”
He was right; the rising tide had evidently lifted her from the shoal, and now she was sailing in to join the fight. “Quick, signal her to join us,” Harg said. It was a godsend—a fresh ship, as if dropped from the sky. The odds were still long against them, but it helped.
Then he noticed activity at the harbour’s mouth. Two rowboats were out there, pulling aside the boom, and a cluster of sails was billowing out behind.
“Ha! Dorn’s coming out to join the fun,” Harg said.
“It’s about time,” Gill scowled.
Harg trained his spyglass on the leading ships of Dorn’s fleet, to see which way they would turn—to help Jearl polish off the ships already under attack, or, as he hoped, to join him in pursuit of the others. But as he watched in disbelief, they set course due west.
“The rotting cowards!” Harg said. The pirates had seen their chance, and were fleeing the scene of the engagement.
The hopes of every man on deck had risen at the prospect of reinforcement, and now they were staring after the pirate fleet with betrayal in their faces. Harg collapsed his spyglass with a click. “So much for solidarity,” he said in disgust.
He turned to scan the sea ahead. The Inning ships had a formidable head start. Under normal circumstances, Harg’s ships would have been faster; but with damaged rigging and hulls their small advantage was gone. For an instant he thought of calling off the chase and turning back to finish off the battle he could win.
“Sir,” the lookout called, “they’re only under topsails.”
Harg frowned and squinted into the distance to confirm this inexplicable news. To escape pursuit, they ought to be crowding on sail for dear life.
“Do you suppose they haven’t seen us?” Gill said.
Harg suspected something grimmer. They weren’t fleeing at all; it was only a ruse to draw away part of the islander fleet to a distance where they could turn and overwhelm it. And Harg had taken the bait.
“I wonder how they knew what I’d do,” Harg said.
“What do you mean?” Gill hadn’t yet figured it out. Harg glanced at the four ships with him. The Ison Orin was strongest, but looked badly damaged; the Pimpernel was just barely a warship; the Wavedancer, far behind them, was only a frigate. They would be outgunned, facing undamaged ships and fresh crews. The Innings must be laughing up their sleeves.
“Lieutenant!” Harg called. The Windemon’s new commander—Harg still couldn’t remember his name—had emerged from the companionway, looking grim and harried.
“We’ve got to get Windemon in shape,” Harg told him. “We’re going to be in battle again soon.”
The man’s voice had a shrill, overstressed edge. “I’ve got forty wounded in the cockpit, and thirteen dead. We’re leaking like a sieve; there’s four feet of water in the well, and making fast. The lower gun deck’s like a knacker’s yard—”
“Stop whining at me!” Harg exploded. “I don’t want your complaints, I want something done” He realized his own voice was edging up the scale, and forced his jaw shut. This wasn’t good; they sounded like fishwives.
But his outburst had actually calmed the young officer, given him a focus for his anger. “Aye aye, sir,” he said icily, and turned away.
For an instant Harg felt his weariness. His nerves were tight as stays. He sank down on the signal chest rather faster than he’d intended. He took out his pipe to steady himself. “Have that youngster over there fetch us something to eat,” he said to Gill, trying to sound unconcerned.
When he had eaten and smoked, he looked out again over the deck, and it seemed like a different ship. The Windemon’s weary crew had gotten all her sails up and pulling, and the rhythmic thump of the pumps sounded from below, at work reducing the water in her bilge. The ship was straining forward before the north wind, wounded but game, as if eager to meet the almost certain death ahead.
Gill lowered his spyglass with a low whistle. He had been studying the enemy. “Are we going to take on that three-decker?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Harg said with a false lightness; “it’s not how many guns they have, it’s how many hits they get.”
“You’ve got a plan, don’t you?”
He said it with perfect trust. In his tone there was not a shade of doubt that somehow Harg would pull them through. That trust was everywhere, in the glances the crew cast in Harg’s direction as they worked. They could see that he was leading them into a bloodbath, and they still trusted him.
Harg glanced upward to hide his thoughts. Clouds had rolled in from the north, and the sky was overcast and angry. Above their main top a seagull was gliding, an escort from the Ashwin. Looking at it, Harg suddenly had a rock-sure premonition that he was going to die.
Oddly, the foreknowledge had a settling effect on his mind. The anguish of others’ deaths faded before the fact of his own. Seized with a mad serenity, he smiled down on the main deck bustling with his loyal, doomed crew, and felt already the bond of death drawing him tight to them. He had to be cruel; there was no choice. It was necessary to betray the individuals in order to bring to life the greater being they formed collectively. Now Harg could feel that being, almost as if his nerves were tied into it. Every eye in the squadron was his eye, every ear his ear. Its sails were his limbs. It was his instrument, subsuming his individuality till even his own death made no difference.
“Yes,” he said to Gill, at last answering his question. “I’ve got a plan. Fight like devils.”
He had entered a new state of complete concentration. “Signal the other ships to fall back within hailing distance,” he said. Soon they would be drawing within firing range; being upwind, it was the rebels’ choice when and how to attack.
When the Ison Orin was close, he leaned over the gunwale, hands cupped around his mouth, and shouted, “Time for a reel! Pick a partner and dance! We get the big one.”
The people who lined Ison Orin’s gunwales shouted comments and eager catcalls; the Windemon’s gunners, roused to the occasion, hooted back raucously. Soon an epidemic of high spirits, fuelled by an unacknowledged panic, had spread to all four ships.
“Harg,” Gill said quietly, “Jonci’s lieutenant. He’s already in a panic, and we haven’t fired a shot. He’s demoralizing the crew. You’ve got to do something.”
The man was clearly in line to take over; if Harg put someone else in his place, it would be a crushing slight. But this was no time to be thinking of hurt feelings.
“Lieutenant!” Harg said. The young man came up. “You’ve done a good job getting the ship ready. I’m going to need you in charge of the main battery below. I’ll take over Jonci’s duties here.”
No explanation, no excuse; it was just a fact. The lieutenant flushed, saluted without a word, and turned to go below.
“Well, that was easy,” Gill said.
Easy for him to say. Harg clasped his hands behind his back to keep from fidgeting. He had never intended to command the ship himself. He squinted out over Windemon, trying to think of some strategic advantage.
“Hoff!” he shouted at the marine sergeant, who hurried forward. “Station some men in the tops with rifles to shoot down on their decks. Take along some baskets of grenades as well. Line all the yards with men.”
“Yes, sir.” Soon there was a flurry of activity.
The Innings were making no attempt to manoeuvre round and seize the advantage of the windward position. They just kept on course to the southwest, as if waiting to see if the rebels would be foolish enough to attack.
The wind had picked up, and the bow was crashing into the waves. “That’s right,” Harg looked up to where the Ashwin watched. “Send us some sea.”
“You want to fight in a storm?” Gill asked.
“They won’t be able to open their bottom gunports if the sea’s high,” he pointed out. “We’ll be more evenly matched.”
They were coming into firing range. “Ready your guns,” Harg told the gun master, and quickly there came the thunder of cannons rolling back on their wheels to be loaded. Windemon was swooping down on the Innings like a white-winged bird of prey. The ropes were singing, the spray leaping from their path. “Gods, what a beautiful way to die,” Harg said.
Soon, Windemon had matched pace with the Conqueror, the big warship that Harg had picked for a partner. As they glided in tandem over the waves, Windemon’s guns erupted; seconds later, Conqueror answered. The air shrieked with shot and the sound of wood cracking and splitting. This time there was no shocked pause; the crews were serving the guns in a demoniacal fury, laughing and yelling through the sulphurous murk. Windemon’s deck heaved as the next salvo went off. Then the answering grape was buzzing through the air like a cloud of hornets. Fountains of water leaped over the gunwales from cannonballs that landed short.
Harg knew it could not go on long like this. Gun for gun, the Windemon could not hold up. He glanced aft. The rebel attack had begun to break up the Inning line. It was time to try an old pirate trick on them. “Back the topsails,” he ordered. “Ready, starboard battery.”
The hands seized the braces and swung the yards round till the sails, instead of pulling forward, pressed back against the masts, checking the Windemon’s forward movement. She dropped astern of the Conqueror. Harg watched till the perfect moment, then shouted, “Now! Come about!” The quartermaster spun the helm to port. Again the yards swung, catching the wind. Windemon veered across Conqueror’s wake, and as they passed the big ship’s unprotected stern the starboard battery roared into it. The windows of the captain’s luxurious cabin shattered inward.
“He’ll be eating glass tonight!” someone shouted.
The Conqueror, reacting belatedly, was wearing round to match the Windemon’s new course and bring her port batteries to bear. Or what should have been her port batteries. As the big ship lumbered round, Harg could see the gunports popping up raggedly, the men scrambling to load. For the second time that day the Innings had assumed their foe would stay predictably on one side. “Get another round into them before they’re ready!” Harg implored his gunners. They were already sponging and ramming like madmen.
The Windemon was on the lee side now, which gave her an advantage; with both ships heeled over, the Conqueror’s guns were angled downward, and her lower battery useless, while the Windemon’s guns were perfectly angled. Soon the deck was a crowded maze of smoking, red-hot cannons recoiling back on their haunches. The firing was a constant roar. Harg saw one of the powder monkeys take a shot as she was measuring a cannon charge into its flannel bag; the explosion etched the sight of her flying limbs on his retina, bright with a grisly beauty. For a few moments, the whole scene was orange with the belching breath of the guns. Then a rending crash and a horrible chorus of screams rose from the deck below.
A messenger lad appeared out of the main hatch. “Sir,” he said shrilly, “Lieutenant Garret says to tell you half his starboard guns are gone and there’s a nasty fire below.”
Harg nodded, more stunned than calm, though it looked the same. “Tell Garret I’m sure he’s doing a good job.” The lad raced off, and Harg turned to Gill. “Go see if he needs help.”
The Windemon couldn’t take much more of this. If Harg didn’t think of something else soon, the rigging would be so shot away there would be no manoeuvring her. To buy some time and confusion, he gave the order to back the topsails, then to fill; but the Innings were catching on to him now, and soon matched Windemon’s erratic speed. “Rot them!” Harg muttered. All they wanted was to stand back and blast his ship into scantlings. He had to keep them reacting, he had to keep the initiative.
Again he ordered the quartermaster to come about across the bigger ship’s stern. At first it seemed the Innings wouldn’t react until too late. The Windemon was crossing only yards from the Conqueror’s stern when the big ship slowed, her tall aftercastle looming close. Harg saw they were going to collide. Ranks of uniformed marines lined Conqueror’s taffrail, bayonets set and muskets levelled.
“Prepare to fend off boarders!” he shouted.
All along Windemon’s deck the gunners and seamen seized up cutlasses, pikes, and pistols. They were only an exhausted rabble facing those drilled troopers. Harg knew what the first musket volley would do to them.
With a lurch and a squeal of rubbing timbers, the Conqueror’s stern hit Windemon’s larboard quarter. Grapnels flew out to hook the gunwales together. For an instant the soldiers held their fire as an Inning officer’s voice called out, “Windemon, do you surrender?”
Later, the stories said that Harg’s reply was stirring and heroic. What he actually yelled back was, “Up your ass!”
On the last word a volley of muskets exploded. Harg ducked, expecting a whir of bullets around his ears; but the soldiers on the Conqueror were falling back, breaking ranks in confusion. Only then did he realize the volley had come from above him. The men he had stationed on the yards, forgotten, had taken the troopers by surprise.
With a banshee howl, the Windemon’s crew surged forward. At last the Innings’ troopers got off a ragged volley. Then a rain of grenades landed on the Conqueror’s deck, and the soldiers’ line broke apart. The pirates were ready to surge forward over the bulwarks, but Harg shouted, “Not yet! Get back to your guns!”
The two ships were still caught at the stern like the blades of a giant scissors. If left, the wind would pivot them together, the blades closing in a death lock.
A boy was hacking at the grapnel ropes with an axe. “Leave those!” Harg ordered. “Run, get some of our grapnels. Now we’ve got them, we’re not going to let them go!” He turned to the quarterdeck gunners nearby. “Aim at the masts. Use chain shot. Bring them down.” Then he was shouting down to the main deck gun master, “Clear their deck. Use grape and canister. Don’t leave anyone alive to board us.” He waved his hat to the men in the yards. “Keep up your fire! Take their yards if you can!”
With infinite pleasure he felt
the concussion as the lower deck guns began to fire. He blessed Garret, or Gill, or whoever was down there rallying the crew amid the carnage and fire. Then the Conqueror’s guns answered with a furious bellow, so close their tongues of flame licked Windemon’s sides.
Slowly, the scissor blades closed. The riggings meshed, the hulls jarred up against one another.
The messenger from the lower deck appeared at Harg’s side, his eyebrows singed. “They’re muzzle to muzzle down there,” he shouted. “Our guns are poking into their gunports.” Black smoke was billowing from the hatches.
“Keep firing,” Harg said. “Don’t let them board.”
On the weather deck, a gap had opened where Conqueror’s shots had disabled three of the main deck guns. Harg vaulted down into the confusion, spreading a flurry of orders around him. He set one gun crew to clearing away the debris, and led another group starboard to haul one of the unemployed cannons across the deck. “Clear a path, there!” he shouted, noticing only in a detached way that the obstructions in their way were bodies—some dead, some still living. The men leaned into their task, heaving at the heavy carriage while their feet slipped on blood. The deck timbers groaned and sagged under the weight. Bits of burning sail dropped on their shoulders.
At last they manoeuvred the cannon into the gap and hooked it to the ring-bolts of the old, shattered one. A sleet of grape showered around them, and they all ducked for the deck. One shot knocked Harg’s hat from his head. He picked it up; for an instant the situation seemed unaccountably funny. He fanned his face and said, “Hot weather we’re having.” His companions laughed with an edge of hysteria.
Just then a shout and a despairing wail went up; the whack and splinter of a new salvo sounded, this time from the unengaged side. Harg leaped up to see an Inning frigate on their starboard quarter, guns grinning blackly. Desperately he looked around for his other ships, trying to see who had let this one loose, who might come to Windemon’s rescue. The next instant he knew there was nothing he could do about it, not even return their fire. He didn’t have enough crew left to man both batteries. “Ignore them!” he shouted. “Fry our own fish!”
Ison of the Isles Page 9
