Opening Atlantis

by Harry Turtledove

  And it worked, damn them. One of the Dutch ships of the line burst into flame, and a horrible beauty was born. The sails caught first, the sails and the rigging and then the yards and the mast. Flaming canvas and tarred rope fell to the upper deck, starting fresh fire there. The Dutchmen forgot their gunnery in the frantic quest to save themselves.

  They might forget, but their foes didn’t. Pirate ships, tenacious as terriers, went right on shooting at them. Before long, despairing sailors started jumping into the sea. Some struck out for the closest friendly ships. Others simply sank. Not all men who went to sea could swim—far from it. The ones who couldn’t decided drowning made an easier, faster death than roasting. If that choice came to him, William Radcliff decided he would make it the same way.

  Crash! Another cannon ball thudded into and through the Royal Sovereign’s planking. The man-of-war’s gunnery had fallen off, while the pirates fought harder than ever. And, with the ship of the line doing all she could to escape the freebooters’ fireships, the enemy vessels could position themselves as they pleased and give her broadsides she couldn’t answer.

  “What do we do, Admiral?” Elijah Walton asked hoarsely. “What can we do?”

  Before, he’d always sounded sardonic when he used William’s title. No longer. Radcliff was the man who had the authority to save the fleet…if he could.

  He opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, a thunderous blast staggered him. Sure as hell, one of the fireships had blown up alongside a British man-of-war. William was amazed the explosion didn’t take the British ship straight to the bottom. It did take down two of the man-of-war’s three masts, set her afire, and leave her helpless in the water. Maybe some men would get off her, but she was ruined.

  “What do we do?” Walton asked again, desperation in his voice.

  William Radcliff looked at the fight. He looked at the sun, which almost kissed the smoke-stained horizon. Whatever they did, they would have to do it soon. “We pull back,” he said, and shouted for a midshipman to relay the message to the signal officer.

  “Sail for Stuart?” Walton sounded as if that was exactly what he hoped to hear.

  But William shook his head. “No, by God. They’ve slowed us up. They did something we didn’t look for, and they caught us flatfooted. They hurt us. But we aren’t beaten unless we own ourselves beaten. We’ll fix ourselves up as best we can and get on with the fight.”

  “Upon my soul,” Elijah Walton said.

  Bodies wrapped in sailcloth slid into the sea, a round shot or two at the feet making sure they would sink. Fresh blood stained the Black Hand’s deck and splashed the masts and rigging. Soon enough, it would go dark. The stains would seem inoffensive enough then…unless you knew the story behind them.

  The corsairs aboard—those who lived—were in a festive mood. After the fireships did their fearsome work, the men had watched the fleet that seemed invincible turn away and say it had done all the fighting it cared to do. Some of the pirates even wanted to go after their retreating foes.

  Red Rodney Radcliffe said, “No.” Something in the way he said it persuaded even his crew of cutthroats not to press him any further. He wasn’t sure whether he would have reached for his cutlass or for his pistol if the pirates had pushed, but he was ready to kill to keep from fighting any more today.

  With a creak and a groan, the pumps started up again. A stream of water poured over the side. As far as he knew, the Black Hand had taken only one hit at the waterline, and that one was patched now…after a fashion. All the same, the leak continued. It didn’t seem to be getting any worse. He was no praying man, but he thanked God for that.

  “Well, we beat ’em back,” Ben Jackson said. The mate had a new bandage on his left calf, and walked with a limp.

  “Damned if we didn’t.” Red Rodney wished he didn’t sound so surprised. He tried to hide it with gruff kindness: “How are you doing, Ben?”

  “It’s a fucking scratch, that’s all. Nothing but a fucking scratch.” Jackson spat scornfully. “I got tickled by a flying toothpick. Higgins cut it out of me. I would’ve taken care of it myself, but it always hurts worse when you do your own.”

  Rodney Radcliffe nodded; he’d seen that, too. Wounds were accidents. You were always startled when you got hurt. Repairing them sometimes required deliberate damage to your own precious flesh. He’d known many otherwise ferocious men who couldn’t face that.

  “What do we do now?” the mate asked.

  “I think all the great captains had better hash that out.” Red Rodney shouted to the signalman: “Send up repair aboard the admiral’s ship while there’s still light enough for the rest to read it.”

  “Repair aboard the admiral’s ship,” the Royal Navy renegade echoed. “Aye aye, skipper.”

  How many of the great captains still lived? As far as Radcliffe knew, all their ships but one still floated. But the number of dead and wounded on the battered Black Hand warned that not all of them would have dodged bad luck.

  Splash! Another body swathed in bloody canvas went into the drink. Red Rodney scowled. “If we win another fight like this, we’re bloody well ruined.”

  Ben Jackson shrugged broad shoulders. “Well, skipper, we’re bloody well buggered if we lose, too. So where does that leave us?”

  In trouble, Radcliffe thought. You didn’t want to believe what a man-of-war’s broadside could do to a ship. And the Black Hand was lucky. That leak wasn’t…too bad. She still had both masts and most of her yards and rigging. Men were aloft, patching the sails. She could go where she needed to go. She could fight again…if she had to.

  The boat ride over to Michel de Grammont’s ship was a relief. While his men rowed him from one brigantine to the other, Radcliffe didn’t have to think about anything. The Aigle d’Argent had taken less damage than the Black Hand. Rodney Radcliffe supposed that was because de Grammont hadn’t wanted to close with the enemy, and so fewer cannon balls had come her way. At another time, he would have something to say to the Frenchman. For now, it could wait.

  He clambered up over the side. “Is it that we are victorious?” de Grammont asked in accented English.

  “For now, anyway,” Red Rodney said. “Let’s go back to your cabin. What have you got to drink?”

  “Wine,” the admiral answered. Rodney Radcliffe hid a sigh. He wanted whiskey or rum. But wine would do if he drank enough of it.

  It was red and sweet and strong—strong for wine, anyhow. A couple of mugs began to build a wall between him and what had happened earlier in the afternoon. One by one, the other leading captains came aboard. Bertrand Caradeuc’s earring was missing. So was his right ear; a marksman on one of William Radcliff’s armed merchantmen had shot it off. Had the ball flown a couple of inches to the left, Caradeuc wouldn’t have been there. Goldbeard Walter Kennedy wasn’t. He’d lost a leg above the knee, and probably wouldn’t live out the night. His younger brother, a massive man who carried the nickname Brickyard, came in his place.

  “We beat ’em,” Brickyard said. He’d brought his own jug of something strong, and swigged from it now.

  “We did.” Red Rodney sounded so gloomy about it, he made everyone else stare at him. And he had reason for sounding gloomy, too: “What do we do if they come after us again tomorrow morning? We’re out of fireships, and we’d never surprise ’em twice anyhow.”

  Cutpurse Charlie Condent stared at him in horror. “They wouldn’t do that…would they?” He shook his head, answering his own question: “Nah. ’Course they wouldn’t. I lay they’re bound for Stuart now, tails between their legs.”

  “How much?” Radcliffe asked. “A gold sovereign? I’ll take your money. I’ll take it, all right…if my damned cousin and his dogs don’t take your life.”

  “You’re on, by God!” Condent said. “You’ll pay me when I see you in Avalon. Or if you turn out to be right, I’ll pay you when I see you there…or I’ll pay you when I see you in hell.”

  Red Rodney spat when he heard that, to
turn aside the evil omen. So did Brickyard Kennedy. “Watch your mouth, Charlie,” Radcliffe said.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” the other captain said.

  “Watch your mouth anyway,” Red Rodney told him. Cutpurse Charlie Condent glared back. At another time, they might have gone for swords or pistols. Radcliffe thought about it anyway. By the way that glare lingered, so did Cutpurse Charlie. But, until they knew what the enemy ships were doing, they had more important foes than each other.

  “We sank some of their ships of the line, and wrecked some others,” Bertrand Caradeuc said. “They may have decided they’ve had enough.”

  “If they have, we sail home and we fill up our forces again,” Red Rodney Radcliffe said. “I know I’m not the only one who lost more than he wished he did.”

  The other captains all nodded. He’d been sure they would. He’d never known—he’d never imagined—a cannonading like that. He counted the corsairs lucky that Goldbeard Kennedy was the only major skipper missing here. To Radcliffe’s surprise, de Grammont spoke up: “Can we fight them again on the sea?”

  “Is anybody aiming to try, if they come south again?” Red Rodney asked.

  No one said anything for a long time. At last, Brickyard Kennedy said, “We beat ’em. Cutpurse Charlie’s right about that. They won’t dare try to hit us again. They sailed away, after all. We didn’t.” He sounded like a man trying to convince himself as well as his comrades.

  “If they sail south in the morning, and we fly before ’em, we didn’t really win a damned thing today,” Condent added.

  “You’re right,” Red Rodney said. “And so?”

  Cutpurse Charlie glowered some more. “And so you led us up here to beat them and drive them away. And if we didn’t, why were we such a pack of damn fools as to follow you, eh? Answer me that, you sorry son of a dog!”

  Rodney Radcliffe resolved that he would kill the other captain first chance he got. But that chance was not now. He sighed. “We had a chance of doing it. We may have done it even yet. What other choice did we have? Let them land by Avalon? Let them into Avalon Bay?”

  “What are the forts for, if not to hold those bastards out?” Condent returned.

  “If we don’t do everything we want out here on the open sea, we can try something else later,” Radcliffe said. “If we don’t try anything out here and if the forts fail us, it’s over. We’ve lost. And even if they do come forward now and have at the forts, they’re weaker than they would have been if we didn’t fight ’em here.”

  Cutpurse Charlie Condent didn’t glare any more. He only rolled his eyes. “So are we,” he said, and Radcliffe found no quick comeback for that.

  William Radcliff did not order his captains—or even Piet Kieft, who had to rate as a commodore—to repair aboard the Royal Sovereign. He used signal lamps to order the fleet to stop, and arranged the smaller, faster ships in a circle around the surviving men-of-war and merchantmen. If the pirates came forward, the heart of the fleet would have warning.

  “Will you not discuss our next move with the officers who needs must make it?” Elijah Walton asked him.

  “I will not, or why am I admiral?” Radcliff returned. “Tomorrow, we fight again.”

  “And if the captains should refuse your order?” Walton persisted.

  “I shall construe that as making a mutiny, and fire upon any ships failing in obedience,” William said.

  “Dear God in heaven,” Walton said. “You are a man who will eat fire even if you must kindle it yourself.”

  “I am a man who will see the Hesperian Gulf cleared of pirates, Mr. Walton,” William said. “I am a man who will see Avalon razed, its present populace captured or scattered to the winds, and the place settled with men of civil disposition. It could be a jewel in the British crown of Atlantis rather than a boil on his Majesty’s arse.”

  “You show yourself a settler. No good Englishman would speak of his Majesty so.”

  “I am a settler,” Radcliff said proudly. “I am loyal to London across the sea…in however dilatory a fashion London may show its loyalty to me. But I am also loyal to Atlantis, and I believe I have earned the right to hold that loyalty as well. My forefathers settled here two centuries ago. When two more centuries have passed, I expect Radcliffs to dwell here yet. And in two centuries London had better look to its laurels, for Stuart will grow up to rival it.”

  Elijah Walton laughed. William angrily clapped a hand to his pistol. The laughter cut off, and the admiral’s hand fell away. “I do beg pardon for my show of mirth, but surely you must see the absurdity of your statement,” Walton said. “London is…well, London. Stuart makes a very tolerable town for a settlement on distant shores, but…my dear fellow! Have you ever seen London? Do you know how greatly it outshines your home?”

  “I took my baccalaureate at Cambridge—my father thought that would aid me, though we have colleges of our own on this side of the sea,” Radcliff said. “So yes, I have seen London, and I do not say Stuart compares now: not in size, not in riches, not in wickedness. But Stuart grows faster. Time is on our side.”

  But for moonlight and distant lamplight, Walton’s plump face was all shadows. “Even if you should prove right, I thank heaven I’ll not live to see the sorry day.”

  “Nor shall I,” William Radcliff said. “I work towards it nonetheless. Cleansing Avalon of its human wolves will move all Atlantis some distance in the desired direction.”

  “Amazing,” Walton murmured. “Truly amazing.”

  William didn’t know if that was compliment or objurgation. Nor did he care. He had other, more immediate worries. He called for a midshipman. One appeared like a genie from a bottle. “Tell the men at the lanterns to signal the Pride of Atlantis that I desire to speak to Marcus Radcliffe as soon as he may come to this ship.”

  “Marcus Radcliffe on the Pride of Atlantis. Aye aye, sir.” The youngster trotted off.

  William’s distant cousin came aboard about half an hour later, clambering up on the starboard side. William waited near the rail. “Is that you, coz?” Marcus asked. “Almost as dark as a copperskin’s heart here.”

  “It’s me,” William answered. “How are you and your men? Did you suffer badly in the fighting? Are you ready for more?”

  “We had one dead and three wounded,” Marcus answered. “One of the wounded can still fight. The other two are laid up, and we’ll see how they do. So you aim to go on with it, do you?”

  “I do,” William Radcliff said without the least hesitation. “What do you think of that?”

  “I think the pirates are praying you give it up and go home,” Marcus replied. “How are they supposed to beat a fleet like this two days running? They’ll be the ones running if you hit them again.”

  “You’re a Radcliffe, by God, even if our lines aren’t close,” William said, laughing. “My only worry is, the bastard leading the other side—he’s a Radcliffe, too.”

  Red Rodney Radcliffe was up before morning twilight grew very bright. He stood on the Black Hand’s deck in the wan dawn light and peered north. For the time being, he didn’t see anything. The longer he didn’t see anything, the happier he got. Maybe the fleet from Stuart really had had enough. Cutpurse Charlie could take his sovereign and be welcome to it, even if he gloated later.

  “Any sails?” Ben Jackson showed up on deck only a few minutes after his skipper.

  “Not yet.” Rodney sounded as hopeful as he could.

  The mate grunted. “Good.”

  But just as the sun slid up over the eastern horizon, a shout came from the crow’s nest: “Sails ho!”

  Jackson and Red Rodney swore together, a scatological counterpoint. Radcliffe was dismayed enough to turn loose a question he knew to be foolish: “Are you sure?”

  “No doubt, skipper.” The answer floated down. “Sails in the north, heading this way. You’ll see ’em yourself soon enough. Who else would they be but the buggers we fought yesterday?”

  “What do we do n
ow?” Jackson asked.

  “We signal the other ships, in case they haven’t seen ’em yet,” Rodney answered, evading the mate’s real meaning. “After that…Well, we have a little while to think.” He still couldn’t see the sails himself, though he knew he’d be able to before long.

  Quint sent signal flags fluttering up the lines. Most of the other freebooters would already know the enemy was coming. Well, so what? You did what you could for everyone on your side. To Red Rodney the idea was new, and worth exploring further. That his cousin took it for granted never crossed his mind.

  Some of the pirate ships returned acknowledgments. Others went on with what they were doing. They wouldn’t be able to ignore him and the enemy much longer. Maybe they realized that. If they didn’t, it wasn’t his fault. He’d done what he could.

  “There they are, skipper.” Ben Jackson pointed to the northern horizon.

  “I see ’em,” Radcliffe said grimly. “One thing, anyway—we can always outsail ’em.”

  “The big ones, yes,” the mate said. “But if they send their brigs and suchlike after us, maybe they can bring us to battle and delay us till the bloody, stinking, shit-eating men-of-war catch up.”

  Red Rodney swore. That hadn’t occurred to him. Jackson was right—no doubt about it. No doubt they couldn’t take another day’s hard fighting, either. That meant their best hope—maybe their only hope—was making a stand at Avalon. If they drove the enemy fleet back from their base, they were still in business.

  “South!” Radcliffe shouted, his mind made up. “Our course is south down the coast till we’re home again. Send up the flags, Quint! We’ll still make the foe sorry he ever came against us.”

  At his bellowed orders, men swarmed aloft to swing the yards and set the sails to help the abrupt change of course the Black Hand was making. She could turn tightly—could and did. One of the enemy ships of the line fired a couple of bow chasers at her, but the balls fell far short. Then she was around, and picking up speed on her new course. The man-of-war fired again. Again, the shot fell short. Before long, the Black Hand showed the foe her heels.