The Ryngians had built the barracks against the north and south walls respectively. The central building cut the compound in half. Nathaniel reckoned the Prince could explain the math they used for designing the layout, but no matter the numbers; it made things awkward for the Rangers. Already Ryngians had knocked loopholes in the barracks walls and were shooting back. Nathaniel also figured they'd be forming up on the other side of the headquarters for a charge that would sweep the Rangers right out into the lake.
Nathaniel's heart pounded. The Ryngians would come running around that building, bayonets gleaming. They'd fire maybe one volley. Maybe they'd not even bother. Twenty-five yards and they'd be on the Mystrians like cats on mice.
What am I going to do? If the Rangers stayed, the Ryngians would slaughter them. If they ran, they'd die. He glanced at Caleb, not seeing the soldier the man had become, but the boy he'd been. Damned foolish thing, war.
Nathaniel drew his tomahawk and laid it on the ground by his knee. "Fix bayonets, boys. Give 'em one volley on my order. Shoot low."
Muskets clanked with the haunting sound of bayonets being slid over the barrel and locked down. From the compound's far side, a whistle shrilled. A Ryngian voice shouted orders. Booted feet stamped in unison, the crisp sound smothering the occasional crack of a musket. The whistle blasted again.
From twenty-five yards away, the Second Company of the Silicium Regiment streamed around their headquarters, sharp steel forward, shrieking with outrage and fury.
Nathaniel stood. "Hold it, boys. Hold it! Fire!"
The Rangers fired, but thirty muskets against sixty men didn't matter much. Here and there a Ryngian went down, but their fellows just galloped over them. A couple Rangers stared, frozen. A couple more ran. Others looked around, defiance melting into fear as uniformed soldiers drove at them.
Nathaniel fired quickly, smashing the whistle and the face of the man blowing it. He stood there, loading as quickly as he could, but he knew there wasn't time. The rolling thunder of the Ryngians' pounding feet confirmed it. He fumbled with his bullet, but caught it before it hit the ground. He drove it home and levered the breech shut.
Too late!
The Ryngians had closed to where he could see their wide eyes and glinting bayonets.
Then hands yanked him backward as Makepeace Bone yelled, "Get down!"
Makepeace swung one of the swivel-guns around and slapped his palm over the egg-sized firestone. White teeth showed in a smoke-stained grimace. A heartbeat later, the small cannon erupted.
Compared to the sloop's cannon, swivel-guns hardly presented a threat. They could fire a small, two-pound cannonball, which would have bounced off the sloop's hull. But men do not have oaken flesh, and these swivel-guns had been loaded with grape shot: twelve balls to the pound, two pounds to the load.
The Ryngians had crossed all but the last ten yards to the dock when Makepeace fired.
Hot metal balls blasted out in a volcano of brimstone. They shredded the front rank. Flying metal instantly transformed running soldiers into screaming piles of bleeding meat, broken bone, and smoldering uniforms. Men flew backward, impaling themselves on Ryngian bayonets. The balls blew through the leading soldiers and hit others, taking legs off at the knee and perforating bowels. High shots blasted skulls into shrapnel, piercing men with bits of their comrades.
And still Ryngians came on. Some slipped in blood. Others tripped over screaming compatriots. Their comrades dripped from their uniforms, but they closed with the Rangers, thrusting bayonets, howling at the top of their lungs.
Nathaniel fired, dropping one man, then parried a thrust with his rifle. The Ryngian, insensate with fury, still rushed forward. He caught Nathaniel with a shoulder and knocked him back.
The Mystrian smashed his head against the stone rampart. Stars exploded before his eyes. His rifle bounced away as he hit the ground. The Ryngian, straddling him, raised his rifle for a killing thrust.
Kamiskwa's warclub whistled. Bones cracked. Teeth scattered. The Ryngian whirled away, flopping into a loose pile of flesh. Kamiskwa dodged a second soldier's thrust, then crushed his shoulder with another blow. The Altashee shoved him back into a third man, then dropped him with a swing that spun him full around.
Nathaniel grabbed a musket and shoved the foot-and-a-half of spade-shaped steel through a man's chest. The soldier, who had already knocked Caleb down and stabbed him through the thigh, opened his mouth to say something, but blood replaced words.
The man slid off the bayonet with a shove.
Nathaniel dropped to a knee beside Caleb. He pulled a sash off the dead Ryngian. "Wrap it tight, Lieutenant Frost. I ain't losing you."
Nathaniel never head Caleb's reply.
The sloop's cannon thundered. Heavy iron balls ripped through the headquarters roof, shattering the main beam. The roof collapsed, but the balls carried on into the fort's eastern half. Hardly spent by blasting through shingles, they caromed through the courtyard. Men screamed and a half-dozen fell when a ball undercut a rampart support.
A volley of musketry echoed from the east. More Ryngians dropped, falling inside the compound. Recovering his rifle, Nathaniel ran forward. The Bone brothers advanced their squads along the ramparts. Kamiskwa darted ahead, warclub at the ready.
By the time they reached the headquarters building, the first of the Southern Rangers had gained the wall. Using scaling ladders they'd hacked out of logs, they came through the embrasures. The Ryngians, trapped between two forces, quickly laid down their arms and threw open the gates for Major Forest.
The Tharyngian commander, Colonel Pierre Boucher, surrendered his sword to Major Forest. Forest, in keeping with Continental etiquette, returned the sword in exchange for a promise of parole and good conduct. The Colonel agreed and at Colonel Boucher's orders, with Major Forest's agreement, the Ryngians formed up details to collect their wounded and then bury their dead.
Nathaniel slid the deerskin sheath over his rifle. "I reckon, Major, we done surprised you a mite."
"I have learned not to be surprised by war, Captain Woods. Things never go as one plans and, alas, there is always a butcher's bill to be paid." The older man looked around, his eyes hardening. "Caleb?"
"Has himself a scar to go with any story he wants to tell." Nathaniel nodded. "Commanded his boys fine."
"Good. Thank you."
"And you, sir, for coming to the rescue." Nathaniel sighed, the back of his head aching. "I reckon it's time to figure that bill. Begging your leave, Major, I'll get at it."
The Summerland boys had two men killed and two seriously wounded in taking the sloop. One of the dead was a Lanatashee. The Northern Rangers lost a total of fifteen men; five more were wounded. A third of the dead had been Bookworms. There would have been a sixth, but a copy of A Continent's Calling stopped a ball at page two-fifty. The Southern Rangers had no one killed. Their only injury came from a man breaking his leg when he fell off a siege ladder.
Major Forest reunited the Ryngians with the captives, then had each man sign a parole document stating that he would not fight against Mystrians again. The Rangers helped them build rafts and canoes, then sent the survivors down the river to Kebeton.
Makepeace should have been counted among the injured, but he wouldn't hear of it. He'd never used a cannon before and assumed it was just like a big musket. He invoked the magick and the larger firestone pulled more out of him than he expected. He turned black and blue up to the elbow. He told everyone he was just fine, but he got more quiet than usual, and took to reading Bible verses to Ryngians his shot had wounded.
Nathaniel reported to Major Forest, meeting him on the wall over the east gate. "Caleb will be good. Packed the wound with mogiqua, bound it up tight. Blade got meat, not anything vital."
Forest nodded. "I will write letters to the families of the fallen."