At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  They weren’t very accurate weapons—not individually—but there were over three hundred of them. They couldn’t all miss … and they didn’t.

  * * *

  Gahryth Shumayt watched sickly from the open bridge wing as at least five and possibly six of those rockets came crashing down on HMS Eraystor. He couldn’t tell how many of them actually hit her and how many were “only” near misses—not through the smoke and the enormous columns of spray rising from the tortured sea as hundreds of other rockets plunged into it and exploded. He saw at least two fireballs, though, and the forward half of the ironclad’s funnel simply disappeared in a rolling wave of destruction.

  He could see Riverbend more clearly, and he swore vilely as Tobys Whytmyn’s ship staggered around, turning directly south-southeast, away from Wreckers’ Island. The flames which had been almost extinguished aft belched up in a fresh, towering inferno, and propellant charges for her 6-inch guns began exploding as they cooked off in the flames. She was clearly sinking, settling swiftly by the stern, and Shumayt found himself praying the inrushing water would quench the flames before they reached her magazine. She was fighting towards deeper water, trying to get clear, clawing her way towards the reserve bombsweepers who might be able to pick up her survivors when she finally sank.

  It was all she could do, and as the billowing clouds of smoke belched from the wounded, dying ship, he wondered if Whytmyn was still alive on that flame-enshrouded bridge, still trying to get at least some of his people out alive.

  He didn’t wonder about Eraystor.

  The last rockets slammed into the water and exploded a good thousand yards from Gairmyn, and Eraystor thrust through the smoke and spray. She was still making at least ten knots, but her entire forward superstructure—everything forward of her crumpled funnel—was a solid mass of flame. Her navigation bridge was simply gone, ripped away, leaving only a few twisted support girders to show where it once had been, and her conning tower had become a chimney, the flue of hell’s own furnace. Flames roaring ferociously up that chimney leapt masthead-high, and the ship was clearly out of control with no living hand upon her helm.

  She staggered around, still turning in response to Captain Cahnyrs’ final helm order, and as Shumayt watched, she steamed directly into the field of sea-bombs.

  She got three hundred yards before she hit the first one. Within three minutes’ time she struck two more.

  The fourth exploded directly under her forward magazine, and HMS Eraystor disintegrated in a massive ball of flame.

  .III.

  East Point Battery

  and

  Royal Palace,

  City of Gorath,

  Kingdom of Dohlar.

  The Earl of Thirsk stood alone at the observation tower’s front rail, watching the eastern horizon turn lavender and rose. Captain Stywyrt Baiket, who’d become his executive officer ashore when his longtime flagship was laid up to release her manpower for shore defense, stood several feet behind him, watching him a bit anxiously, and half a dozen aides and runners stood behind Baiket. For all that, Thirsk had been alone—alone with his thoughts, his worries … his responsibilities—as the black, moonless sky had slowly, slowly turned to gray. And now, as dawn crept timidly closer and he stared out across the Five Fathom Deep from the East Point Battery, his weary eyes strained to pierce the waning dark.

  There were eighteen 12-inch Fultyn Rifles in that battery, which ought to make short work of any attacker … if, of course, the attacker in question chose to face them, and it was far from certain he would. Indeed, the choice of invasion routes for the Kingdom of Dohlar’s capital came down to a guessing game—the deadliest Thirsk had ever played—with thousands of lives on the line.

  There were three avenues to choose between, now that the Charisians had forced the Zhulyet Channel and reduced Wreckers’ Island to churned, smoking wreckage.

  East Gate Channel, the passage between East Point and Fishnet Island, was twelve and a half miles wide. That water gap could be closed—barely—by rifled artillery, as long as the batteries on both sides remained in action, although striking power and accuracy would be less than stellar against a target sailing straight down the center of the passage. They could hit it, but accuracy would be poor and the ability to penetrate Charisian armor plate would be … questionable, at best. That was why he’d laid the densest sea-bomb field of all squarely across East Gate’s center. An attacker could choose to pass close to one of the batteries—East Point or Fishnet—and endure the worst its guns could do, or he could sail down the center of the channel, where those guns would be far less effective, and accept the sea-bomb threat. The sea-bomb fuses remained much less reliable than he could have wished, and about thirty percent of them leaked badly enough to become useless within a five-day or two, but his men had laid hundreds of the things. If anyone was foolish enough to sail into that field, he would never sail out of it again.

  The Middle Gate, between Fishnet Island and Alahnah Island, to its immediate west, was less than half that wide, which made it far easier to defend with artillery. But Tairayl’s Gate, the gap between Alahnah and Chelsee Point on the mainland, was over twenty miles across. No Dohlaran gun could hope to engage a target sailing down the middle of that broad expanse.

  Fortunately, the water was shallower in Tairayl’s Gate than in East Gate Channel. The Middle Gate was actually the deepest of the three channels, and tidal scour combined with the current of the Gorath River to keep it that way. All three of them were deep enough for even the largest galleons, at least at high tide, but the deepwater channel through Tairayl’s Gate was more tortuous than most. In fact, it curved and twisted so sharply it was seldom used by galleons, since a wind that was fair for one leg of the passage was almost always dead foul for the next one. Threading a way through it could be a tricky piece of piloting even for a galley—or a steamer—no matter how well it was marked … and just now, it wasn’t marked at all. If any navy could navigate that passage even after someone had removed every buoy and extinguished every lighthouse, it was undoubtedly the Charisian Navy, but their armored steamers were far too valuable to risk casually. That was especially true after what had happened to them off Wreckers’ Island, he thought grimly, and he’d done what he could to make the choice even less attractive by placing sea-bombs at the trickiest points along the channel.

  The Middle Gate had been harder to cover with sea-bombs because of the set of tide and current. The mooring cables kept breaking, and the Dohlaran merchant marine had discovered the hard way that a drifting sea-bomb had no friends. He’d persevered with the effort, but he couldn’t pretend he was satisfied with the result. On the other hand, its maximum width was under ten thousand yards. That was why the batteries on Alahnah and Fishnet accounted for well over a third of his total heavy rifles—including all six of the 15-inch rifles the Temple Lands foundries had managed to deliver—despite the islands’ small size. He had only twenty-five rounds for each of the 15-inchers, and the guns were actually shorter ranged than the 12-inch pieces, but they hit with devastating power and they were backed by twenty-four more 12-inchers and thirty 8-inch weapons. He rather doubted anyone who’d already experienced what the heavy Fultyns could do would choose to run that gauntlet at such a short range unless he had to.

  All of that was true, but it was also true that it had never occurred to him when he’d planned the capital’s defenses that the Charisians might be able to sweep the sea-bombs out of their way. His reports from the previous day’s fighting were less complete than he might wish, but almost all of them agreed that they’d demonstrated an ability to do just that, even under heavy fire, and that made all of his planning suspect. From the reports he’d received, he doubted their bombsweepers made Tairayl’s Gate any more attractive, since the technique they’d developed apparently required them to steam in straight lines. Tairayl’s Gate didn’t lend itself to those sorts of courses.

  The East Gate, unfortunately, did.

  That was wh
y he was standing atop this observation tower awaiting the dawn. If he’d been in Baron Sarmouth’s shoes, and if those fragmentary reports were accurate, his decision would have been simple. Assuming his converted barges truly could clear the sea-bombs, the East Gate’s simpler piloting, coupled with how much farther from the defensive batteries he could stay, made it his obvious choice. It was always possible he’d choose another route simply because it was less obvious. His tactics in the Trosan Channel and off Shipworm Shoal indicated how well he understood the advantages of surprise. But the Imperial Charisian Navy was equally well aware of the risk in being too clever, and East Gate’s attractions were simply too compelling to be ignored.

  If the sea-bombs could be cleared.

  That was why he’d committed the last fifteen screw-galleys of the Royal Dohlaran Navy last night.

  He hadn’t planned on using them at all, even though he’d drilled them in night attacks ever since the Battle of Shipworm Shoal. That battle had made it obvious daylight attacks were suicidal even against ironclad galleons, far less the ICN’s steam-powered monsters, but he’d hoped the darkness might allow them to finally employ their spar torpedoes … until yesterday, at least. He hadn’t truly allowed for how fast and maneuverable—and incredibly hard to kill—the steamers were. True, his men had sent two to the bottom and severely damaged a third. Numerically, that was almost half the attacking force. But given the difference between the smaller steamers and the one the Charisians had named for Gwyllym Manthyr, it represented barely a quarter—if that—of Sarmouth’s firepower. Against that sort of armored target, only the spar torpedoes could hope to have any effect, but he’d quickly realized that the chance of a screw-galley getting a torpedo into attack range of something that fast and heavily armed, even in the dark, had been so slim as to be nonexistent.

  But the bombsweepers were much smaller, unarmored, unarmed, and—if the reports were accurate—slower than the screw-galleys. They’d be easy meat for the screw-galleys’ massive forward batteries, most of which now mounted 8-inch rifles, and they represented the Charisians’ only path through the sea-bombs. So if the screw-galleys could get through to them, destroy or cripple enough of them to prevent the survivors from clearing the East Gate.…

  There’d never been much chance of accomplishing anything more than a temporary delay, even if the attack succeeded, but the Navy’s honor—and the increasingly evident agents inquisitor patrolling Gorath’s streets—had demanded they try. And so he’d sent them out, knowing the Charisians had to be on the lookout for exactly that sort of attack, and their officers and men had never flinched. The black-painted screw-galleys, stripped of masts and sails to make them even harder to see, had slipped silently out of the harbor in the very last of the fading sunset, with scarcely a ripple to mark their passing, and Thirsk had planted himself atop this very tower to await their return.

  He was still waiting.

  You know what happened, he told himself grimly. They’d’ve been back by now if they were coming. The only real question is how many more hundred men you just sent to their deaths, Lywys.

  His jaw tightened, but he refused to lie to himself. Those hadn’t been lightning flashes last night. They’d been too distant for him to hear anything over the steady, rhythmic wash of waves against the East Point beaches, but he’d known they were the savage flashes of artillery and the glare of Charisian star shells. The firing hadn’t gone on very long, and if any of his screw-galleys had survived it, there’d been plenty of time for them to return by now.

  I am so tired of sending young men out to die for those bastards in Zion, he thought bitterly. But at least I—

  A rim of blinding sunlight heaved itself over the eastern horizon, and Lywys Gardynyr’s jaw clenched painfully as the rich golden light raced out across the sixty-mile-wide stretch of water called Five Fathom Deep.

  * * *

  Had Thirsk only realized it, he was less alone than he thought he was. Sir Dunkyn Yairley might be standing beside Halcom Bahrns on Bahrns’ navigation bridge, but that didn’t prevent him from looking out over Five Fathom Deep with the Dohlaran earl through the eyes of the tiny remote on Thirsk’s shoulder, and his expression was grimly satisfied at the view they shared.

  HMS Gwylym Manthyr steamed straight for the center of East Gate Channel, gliding across the smooth, sun-gilded water under the vigilant white eye of her kite balloon while a banner of coal smoke trailed astern. A double trio of bombsweepers swept the waters ahead of her; HMS Bayport, HMS Cherayth, and HMS Tanjyr followed her; and four more bombsweepers flanked the slow-moving column of armored warships. The badly damaged Gairmyn, half her guns out of action, her casemate blackened by fire, her funnel bleeding smoke from dozens of splinter holes, listing four degrees to starboard, and riding well over a foot deeper than her design waterline, brought up the rear with the ammunition colliers … and the three crippled Dohlaran screw-galleys which had survived long enough to surrender.

  Those screw-galleys had been Sarmouth’s greatest anxiety after the savagery of the Zhulyet Channel. They’d been slower, less maneuverable, and far more vulnerable than Manthyr or his remaining Cities, but if they’d been able to creep in close enough in the darkness.…

  Fortunately, the ICN had evolved a doctrine to deal with them, and it had worked well. The combination of star shells and rockets had stripped away the darkness, and Manthyr’s 4-inch breechloaders had been absolutely lethal, far deadlier than the Cities’ slower firing 6-inch guns. Only three of the screw-galleys had gotten in close enough to engage with their own guns; none had managed a torpedo attack; and all their efforts had managed to sink only one bombsweeper.

  He’d felt more like a murderer than an admiral, in many ways. Not one of the screw-galleys had tried to run. Every one of them had been sunk or crippled trying to close with their enemies with an unswerving gallantry which deserved far better than it had achieved. Their courage had won his ungrudging respect, but that hadn’t prevented him from crushing the attack, and if he’d regretted their deaths, at least it had been gratifying to find something working as planned.

  He’d be a long time forgiving himself for what had happened to Eraystor and Riverbend, even though he still knew intellectually that Zhaztro had been right about which ships could be risked. The consequences if Mahntayl’s rockets had hit Manthyr instead of the Cities would almost certainly have been far worse, even just in terms of absolute casualties. No one could argue with that, but.…

  But if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying hard enough, he thought. You forgot that one, Dunkyn, and now Hainz and all those other men are gone. His eyes hardened. Avoiding any appearance of “demonic intervention” had damned well better be worth it in the end.

  That remained to be seen, but there was one thing he could do this morning, “demonic intervention” or not, and he really didn’t care if it compromised that political objective. He was through seeing his men die if it could be avoided.

  Better get out from under, My Lord, he thought in Thirsk’s direction. You’re not supposed to be part of the body count today, but if it happens, it happens.

  “I believe it’s about time, Halcom,” he said.

  “Of course, My Lord,” Bahrns said after the slightest of hesitations, and Sarmouth hid a bittersweet smile. His flag captain had seemed a bit … bemused when he issued his instructions this morning. But whatever he might have thought, he hadn’t argued, and now he bent over the bridge pelorus and took a careful bearing on the observation tower upon which the Earl of Thirsk stood. Then he swung the pelorus and took a cross bearing on the flagstaff of Fishnet Island’s East Battery.

  “All stop,” he said, still gazing across the pelorus.

  “All stop, aye, Sir,” the telegraphsman acknowledged. He rocked the engine room repeaters’ big brass handles, moving the pointer in the engine room. “All stop,” he confirmed, and the pulse of Gwylym Manthyr’s engines stilled, as if some great sea creature’s heart had suddenly stopped beating. />
  “Prepare to anchor,” Bahrns said.

  “Prepare to anchor, aye, Sir,” Lieutenant Bestyr acknowledged.

  “Very good,” the captain murmured, still bent over the pelorus, as Manthyr’s momentum carried her silently onward, like some fourteen-thousand-ton ghost. He stayed that way for several more minutes, then raised his head as Manthyr reached exactly the correct bearing from East Point.

  “Let go the stern anchor!” he said crisply, and Gwylym Manthyr’s stern anchor plunged into the water with a massive roar of anchor chain. Bahrns straightened and crossed to the forward edge of the bridge, then stood patiently, fingers of his right hand drumming against his thigh while Manthyr’s momentum sailed out the anchor chain and her speed bled away. Then—

  “Let go the bow anchor!” he said, and Manthyr’s starboard bow anchor plunged. “Power on the after capstan,” he continued. “Veer cable forward.”

  Gwylym Manthyr edged slowly backwards for two or three minutes as the after capstan sucked in anchor chain and the forward capstan paid it out. Bahrns watched critically, balancing her between the two anchors with finicky precision until, at last, she came to rest, the current of the outgoing tide raising a tiny ripple around her stem, exactly equidistant from the batteries on Fishnet and East Point.

  “Secure the capstans,” he said then, and waited while the order was carried out. Then he turned to Sarmouth once more.

  “Prepared to engage, My Lord,” he said simply.

  * * *

  The Earl of Thirsk stared in disbelief.

  The Charisian ironclad’s captain had handled his enormous command with impressive skill, almost as if she’d been one of the ICN’s nimble schooners. That had been his first thought. He’d been a bit puzzled by how slowly she’d moved, but it had been obvious she meant to split the difference between East Point and Fishnet. That had suggested a lot more trust in the bombsweepers’ ability to protect her than he’d expected out of someone as experienced as Sarmouth.