Off Armageddon Reef

by David Weber

  It was impossible to estimate how much that hot food was going to mean to men who'd already had an exhausting day and faced an even more exhausting night. But Manthyr had also managed to give each man at least two hours in his hammock, as well. Dreadnought's seamen and Marines would be going back into combat as well fed and rested as they could possibly be, and the captain had even managed to rig canvas scoops to gather rainwater to replenish their water tanks, then ordered the cooks to prepare gallons of hot tea before they doused the galley fires once more.

  The men aboard Dreadnought recognized all of that, and word had gotten around that the prince had deliberately given them the time for it. That was the sort of consideration—and preparation—they weren't going to forget.

  Those of them who survived the night, at least.

  VII

  Crag Reach,

  Armageddon Reef

  "Thank Langhorne we're not out in that," Lieutenant Rozhyr Blaidyn observed, listening to the storm.

  It was blacker than the inside of a boot, but the regular, savage pounding of the heavy surf on the far side of Crag Hook and Opal Island could be heard even through the wind and rain. Of course, the wind—like the waves—was far weaker here, inside the sheltered waters of Crag Reach. Not that those waters were precisely what Blaidyn would have called "calm."

  The anchorage was deep, with its walls rising sheer-sided out of the water, especially on its eastern side, where deep water ran to the very foot of the hundred-foot cliff which formed Crag Hook's western face. On the western side, the shore was less vertical and the water shoaled much more sharply. There were actually some smallish rocky beaches in pockets scalloped out of the feet of the steep hills on that side. But the shallower water was also rougher, and most of the fleet's captains had opted to anchor further out, in deeper water which gave them more safety room if their ships should happen to drag their anchors.

  Blaidyn's ship, the Royal Bédard, had been one of the last galleys to reach safety. Visibility had been worse than bad by the time she arrived, and she'd collided with her consort, Royal Champion, on their way into the reach, losing one of her bow anchors in the process. Given her late arrival and the gathering darkness, she'd been forced to find the best spot to anchor she could, effectively on her own, and her captain had felt his cautious way as far into the reach as he'd dared, then dropped his remaining bow anchor. As a result, she was one of the southernmost of the huddled fleet's ships, and also one of the furthest east, separated from Paladin, the next nearest galley, by about a hundred and twenty yards. She was well into the lee of Crag Hook, but more exposed than many of the other ships, and even now she seemed to jerk nervously, as if frightened by the fury of the weather outside the anchorage, as she snubbed and rolled to her single anchor.

  "I didn't realize you were so devout, Rozhyr," Nevyl Mairydyth said in response to his remark.

  He and Blaidyn stood sheltering from the wind and rain in the lee of the forecastle, at the foot of the starboard forecastle ladder. Mairydyth was Royal Bédard's first lieutenant, while Blaidyn—who'd just completed a personal check of the anchor watch—was the galley's second lieutenant. The first lieutenant was due to relieve him as officer of the watch in another ten minutes or so. After which Blaidyn would finally be able to stumble below, find something to eat, and get at least a few hours of desperately needed sleep.

  "After a day like today?" Blaidyn grimaced at his superior. "Every damned man aboard is a hell of a lot more devout tonight than he was this morning!"

  "Summed up like Grand Vicar Erayk himself," Mairydyth said sardonically.

  "Well, would you rather be out there, or safe and sound in here?" Blaidyn demanded, waving one arm in the general direction of the seething white surf invisible through the thick, rainy night.

  "That wasn't exactly my point," Mairydyth replied. "My point was—"

  He never completed the sentence.

  * * *

  The three-man anchor watch saw it first.

  They weren't stationed in Royal Bédard's bows as lookouts. They were there solely to keep an eye on the anchor cable, to be sure the galley wasn't dragging and that the cable wasn't chafing—a point which had assumed more than usual importance, given that it was now the only anchor she had. There was a lookout stationed in the galley's crow's-nest, but not because anyone—including him—really thought there'd be anything for him to spot. He was there solely because Earl Thirsk had ordered every ship to post lookouts, and the unfortunate seaman in Royal Bédard's crow's-nest deeply resented the orders that put him up on that cold, vibrating, rain and wind swept perch for absolutely no good reason.

  He was as wet, chilled to the bone, miserable, and exhausted as anyone else, and his body's need for rest was an anguished craving. He huddled in the crow's-nest, his oilskin draped to protect him as much as possible, and concentrated upon simply enduring until he was relieved and could finally collapse into his own hammock.

  In fairness, even if he'd been fresh and alert, it was unlikely, given the visibility conditions, that he would have seen anything, despite the low range, more than a handful of seconds before the anchor watch did. But that was because HMS Dreadnought had extinguished all of her lanterns and running lights except for a single shaded poop lantern whose light was directed dead astern.

  Unfortunately for Royal Bédard, she—like every other vessel anchored with her, and unlike Cayleb's flagship—was illuminated by anchor lights, poop lanterns, and lanterns at entry ports. More lights burned below deck, spilling illumination out of stern and quarter windows, out of oarports, deck hatches, and opened scuttles. Despite the darkness, and the rain, she wasn't at all hard to see.

  One of the anchor watch straightened up suddenly, peering into the night as a shadow seemed to intrude between him and Paladin's stern windows, almost due north of his own ship.

  "What's that?" he demanded of his fellows.

  "What's what?" one of them retorted irritably. He was no fonder of the weather, or any more rested, then any of them, and his temper was short.

  "That!" the first man said sharply as the vague shadow became suddenly much clearer. "It looks like—"

  * * *

  Captain Gwylym Manthyr stood very still by the quarterdeck bulwark. Not a voice spoke as Dreadnought's entire crew waited, poised statue-still at its action stations. The captain was aware of the crown prince, his Marine guards, and Lieutenant Athrawes standing behind him, but every ounce of his attention was focused on the lanterns, windows, and scuttles gleaming through the rain.

  Even now, Manthyr could scarcely believe Prince Cayleb had brought them unerringly into Crag Reach with the flood tide behind them. The combination of tide, current, and wind had created a wicked turbulence, but the channel between Crag Hook and Opal Island was as broad as their charts had indicated. It was a good thing it was, too. The sudden blanketing effect of Crag Hook's towering height had robbed Dreadnought's sails of power for several minutes before the in-rushing tide and her momentum carried her out of its wind shadow.

  In more cramped waters, that might well have proved fatal, but Cayleb had put them in what was, as nearly as Manthyr could tell, the exact center of the deepwater channel. And now they were about to reap the rewards of the crown prince's daring.

  The captain discovered he was holding his breath, and snorted. Did he he expect the enemy to hear him breathing, despite the tumult of the storm outside the reach? He grimaced in wry self-amusement, but the thought was only surface deep as his ship crept between the galley so far to the south of the main enemy fleet and the next closest one, a hundred or so yards north of her. The gleam of the southern ship's anchor light stood out sharply at her bow, marking her out for his port gunners. Her consort to the north was even more visible, for her stern windows glowed like a brilliant beacon for Manthyr's starboard gunners.

  Another few seconds, he thought, raising his right arm slowly, aware of the gun captains crouching behind their weapons in both broadsides. Another . . . few .
. .

  "Fire!"

  His right arm went downward, and the darkness came apart in the thunderbolt fury of a double broadside.

  * * *

  "It looks like—"

  The alert seaman never had the chance to finish his observation. A thirty-eight-pound round shot came howling out of the sudden gush of smoky flame directly ahead of Royal Bédard and struck him just above the waist.

  His legs and hips stood upright for an instant, thick blood splashing through the rain. Then they thumped to the deck as the screams began.

  * * *

  "Port your helm!" Manthyr barked as the smoke-streaming guns recoiled and their crews hurled themselves upon them with swabs and rammers. "Bring her two points to starboard!"

  "Aye, aye. Two points to starboard it is, Cap'n!"

  "Stand by the stern anchor!"

  * * *

  Lieutenant Blaidyn recoiled in horror as a screaming round shot ripped into the bows, punched through the break of the forecastle in a cyclone of lethal splinters, and struck Lieutenant Mairydyth like a demon. The first lieutenant literally flew apart, drenching Blaidyn in an explosion of hot, steaming blood so shocking he scarcely even felt the sudden flare of agony in the calf of his own right leg.

  Dreadnought's guns had been double-shotted. The gun crews had prepared with exquisite care, taking the time to be certain everything was done right. Each gun had been loaded with not one round shot, but two, with a charge of grape on top for good measure. It decreased accuracy and put a potentially dangerous strain on the gun tubes, but the range was short, every one of her guns was new, cast to withstand exactly this sort of pressure, and the consequences for their target were devastating.

  The range was little more than forty yards, and Dreadnought's gunners might as well have been at target practice. It wasn't physically impossible for them to miss, but it would have been very, very difficult.

  Twenty-seven guns hammered their hate into Royal Bédard with absolutely no warning, no time for the galley to prepare. Her own guns were secured. Her off-duty crew were in their hammocks. Her captain was asleep in his cabin. Her Marines were neither armed nor armored. That dreadful avalanche of cast-iron shot came howling out of the heart of the storm like an outrider of Hell, almost directly down the centerline of the ship, and the carnage it inflicted was unspeakable.

  Paladin, thirty yards farther away, might have expected to fare better at the greater range, but her lighted stern windows offered an even better target . . . and far less protection than Royal Bédard's stoutly planked bows. The devastating broadside ripped into her, rending and killing, and the shrieks of the maimed and dying followed on its heels.

  * * *

  Lywys Gahrdaner, the Earl of Thirsk, stirred in his sleep at the sudden rumble. He grimaced, not quite waking, his sleeping mind identifying the sound of thunder which might have accompanied any storm, far less one as strong as the one pounding at Armageddon Reef this night.

  But then it came again. And again.

  His eyes popped open . . . and it came again.

  * * *

  Dreadnought answered to her helm. She swung to starboard under topsails and headsails alone, streaming smoke from both broadsides, as she turned away from Royal Bédard and deeper into the main anchorage. Her long bowsprit thrust into the Dohlaran formation like a lance, and her starboard battery roared again as she swept around Paladin's port quarter. She pushed between her target and Archangel Schueler, lying almost directly west of her. The two of them, like every other ship in the Dohlaran force, had been carefully anchored far enough apart to allow them to swing to their anchors without risk of collision, and that left ample room for Dreadnought to slide between them.

  Captain Manthyr stood behind his helmsmen, one hand resting on each seaman's shoulder, almost crooning his orders into their ears. He conned his ship with exquisite care, and smoke and thunder jetted from either broadside, blasting into the anchored ships whose crewmen were only just beginning to rouse from exhausted slumber.

  Behind her, HMS Destroyer followed her as she threaded her way deeper and deeper into the mass of anchored galleys. And behind Destroyer came Danger, and Defense, and Dragon.

  "All hands, stand by to anchor!" Manthyr shouted.

  "Stand by to reduce sail!" Lieutenant Sahdlyr barked through his speaking trumpet, while Midshipman Kohrby crouched beside the anchor party in the stern.

  "Let go the stern anchor!" Manthyr commanded, and Kohrby echoed the order. The anchor disappeared into the whitecaps, and the cable led aft down the center of her berthdeck smoked as it burned across the sill of one of her after gunports.

  "Clew down!" Sahdlyr shouted.

  The officers in charge of each mast repeated the order, and the seamen at the pinrails eased the halyards, lowering the topsails' yards into their lifts and spilling their wind. Other seamen tended the buntlines and leechlines as the yard came down, and Sahdlyr watched closely.

  "Round in the lee brace! Clew up the topsails!"

  The canvas disappeared as the hands on the clewlines hauled it up to the yards and belayed. More men on the foredeck took in the jibs while the anchor hawser ran out, and the ship came to a stop as the flukes of her anchor dug into the bottom of Crag Reach.

  "Clamp on the spring!" Manthyr ordered, and Kohrby's seamen made the already prepared bitter end of the spring cable fast to the anchor hawser just outside the gunport.

  "Hands to the after capstan!" the captain shouted, and the seamen previously detailed went running to the capstan to take tension on the spring.

  * * *

  Earl Thirsk stumbled out of his cabin into the rain, barefoot, wearing nothing but his breeches, as still more cannon began to thunder. He hurled himself up the ladder to the top of the aftercastle, ignoring the icy water sluicing over his naked torso as he stared in horrified disbelief at the savage flashes lighting up the rain.

  It was a sight such as no Safeholdian had ever seen before. The Charisian cannon rumbled and roared, the muzzle flashes impossibly long and brilliant in the darkness. Smoke gouted, fuming up in sulfurous clouds reeking of Shan-wei's own brimstone. Each muzzle flash etched every plunging raindrop against the night, like rubies, or diamonds of blood, and the banks of smoke towered up, lit from below, like the fumes above erupting volcanoes.

  And there was nothing at all the Earl of Thirsk could do about it.

  * * *

  Royal Bédard lurched as yet another galleon—the sixth, Lieutenant Blaidyn's cringing mind thought—swept slowly past her bow, cannon thundering. The lieutenant stood at the top of the port forecastle ladder—the starboard ladder was a shattered ruin, like the mast whose broken stump stood ten feet off the deck—clinging to the forecastle rail for support, and the calf of his right leg had been laid open by a splinter as if by a sword. He felt hot blood sheeting down his leg but ignored it as he ignored the rain while he shouted encouragement to the seamen trying to get two of the galley's bow chasers loaded despite the round shot howling around their ears.

  But then he smelled the smoke. Not powder smoke, rolling on the rain-slashed wind from the enemy guns, but a far more terrifying smoke. The smoke of burning wood.

  His head snapped around, and he blanched in fresh horror. The severed mast had fallen across the decks at an angle, draping the broken yard and its burden of sodden canvas across the midships hatch. But now smoke billowed up out of the half-blocked hatch, funneling through the fallen rigging and wreckage, thickening into a dense, flame-lit pillar as it streamed up around the yard and mast.

  He didn't know what had happened. Most likely, one of those lighted lanterns below decks had been shattered, spilling flaming oil across the decks. Or it could have been an accident by one of the powder monkeys trying to carry ammunition to the guns. It might even have been a flaming wad, hurled out of one of the Charisian cannon.

  But it didn't really matter how it had started. Wooden ships' worst enemy wasn't the sea; it was fire. Built of seasoned timbers, painted in
side and out, caulked with pitch, rigged with tarred cordage, they were tinderboxes awaiting a spark, even in this sort of weather, and Royal Bédard's spark had been supplied.

  Under other circumstances, the fire might have been fought, might have been contained and extinguished. But not under these circumstances. Not while round shot continued to crash through the ship's hull, mangling and disemboweling terrified crewmen whose exhausted brains were still clawing their way out of sleep and into nightmare.

  "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

  Blaidyn didn't know who'd shouted it first, but there was no fighting the panic it induced. For that matter, there was no point fighting it, and he dragged himself the rest of the way up the ladder and across to the port bulwark. He peered down over it, and his jaw clenched. The galley's boats had been lowered when she anchored, and men were flinging themselves over the side, struggling through the water, trying to reach that at least temporary sanctuary.

  Blaidyn turned at the bulwark. One of the gun crews was still fighting to get its weapon loaded, and he limped back over to grab the closest man by the arm.