“Me, too,” Achlee agreed.
There wasn’t much to choose between Serpent’s armament and that of a typical ICN schooner. The brig mounted twenty 25-pounder carronades, with a pair of 18-pounder long guns in her forward ports to serve as chasers. Depending upon its class, the schooner pursuing them might mount anywhere from sixteen to twenty guns, most probably 30-pounder carronades, although some of the larger schooners had reduced the number of their guns by as much as half in order to replace them with 57-pounders. A 57-pounder’s 7-inch explosive shell was devastating—well, so was its round shot, to be fair—but he could always hope this one had retained her 30-pounders. Both sides had now equipped their broadside weapons with shells, although the RDN had decided there was little point developing shells for anything lighter than a 25-pounder, given how small the explosive charge would be, and it didn’t make a lot of difference to something the size of a schooner or a brig if the shell that hit it was technically a 30-pounder or a 25-pounder. The effect on its frail timbers was pretty much the same.
In a fight like this one, however, it would probably come down to who hit whom first, and while Mahkluskee had enormous faith in the quality of his crew, the Charisian Navy had invented naval gunnery. They were still the best in the world at it, too, and no shame to admit it. But that meant a “dance-and-shoot type” was likely to stand off until he’d gotten that first hit or two, then close in only if he had to and settle it with cold steel.
“He’ll have to be at least a little careful,” Mahkluskee mused. “We’re a hell of a lot closer to home than he is. If he gets banged up, he’s likely to be easy meat for anybody else he runs into.”
“Here’s hoping he bears that in mind, Sir!” Achlee grinned.
“Couldn’t hurt,” Mahkluskee agreed, then drew a deep breath. “We’re coming up on lunch in about two hours. Tell the cook to bring that forward. Let’s get a good meal into the lads before it gets lively. And tell Fytsymyns I want a word. After they’re fed, I think we need to do a little rearranging.”
* * *
“I think it’s about time to clear for action, Zosh,” Lieutenant Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, known on social occasions as His Grace, the Duke of Darcos, said thoughtfully.
At eighteen, the duke was technically old enough—barely—to command an imperial Charisian warship. He was also the adopted son of Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan, and there were at least some who suspected that that lofty connection explained how he happened to be the commanding officer of HMS Fleet Wing at such a tender age. None of the people who thought that, however, had ever served with “the Duke,” as he was almost universally known in the fleet, as if there’d never been another Charisian duke. He’d been at sea since he was ten years old, his king had died in his arms when he was only eleven, and he’d earned a reputation for fearlessness second to none over the past half decade. Despite his youth and the crippled arm left by a near-fatal wedding day assassination attempt, any man in his crew would have followed him in an assault on the gates of hell themselves, and he’d learned his seamanship from Sir Dunkyn Yairley, Baron Sarmouth. There might—possibly—have been two ship handlers in the Imperial Charisian Navy who were better than Sarmouth; there damned well weren’t three. And unlike too many skilled seamen, the baron was one of the best teachers to ever walk a quarterdeck … which went quite some way towards explaining why Aplyn-Ahrmahk handled his fast, sleek command with the confident skill and judgment of a man twice his age.
He’d also served for over a year as Sarmouth’s flag lieutenant. That gave him an insight into the Navy’s strategic needs which was vanishingly rare in an officer of his youthfulness, which was how he’d ended up picked for the task of examining Chelmport on Trove Island.
Chelmport had served Admiral Gwylym Manthyr as a base during his ill-fated foray into the Gulf of Dohlar, and Trove—on the southwestern corner of the Dohlar Bank—was about equidistant between the ICN’s current forward base on Talisman Island and Gorath Bay, the maritime heart of the Kingdom of Dohlar. Five months had passed since the Battle of the Kaudzhu Narrows, and although Dohlar had unquestionably “won” the engagement, both navies had suffered heavily. At the moment, the RDN was as busy repairing, rebuilding, and commissioning new construction as Charis, and they’d had an advantage in the number of new galleons almost ready for launch at the time of the battle. Charis, on the other hand, had a much, much greater existing fleet, including some new construction of its own, from which to draw reinforcements. In Baron Sarmouth’s opinion, that meant quite a few of those reinforcements were undoubtedly en route to join Admiral Sharpfield at Claw Island. As soon as they did, Sharpfield would just as undoubtedly look for ways to use them as aggressively—and as far forward—as possible, and a base at Chelmport would be well placed to allow those galleons to dominate the Mahthyw Passage, the Hilda and Trosan Channels, and the Fern Narrows. That would effectively blockade the eastern end of the gulf, sealing the RDN—and all the kingdom’s carrying trade south of the Dohlar Bank—into Hankey Sound and Salthar Bay and threatening any coaster rash enough to dare the Gulf of Tanshar, as well.
It seemed … unlikely that as canny a fox as the Earl of Thirsk would be less aware of those possibilities than any Charisian, especially since Manthyr had used Chelmport to do exactly that during his incursion. The question in Admiral Sarmouth’s mind was what Thirsk had done to preclude a repeat of the Manthyr treatment, and that was what Hektor had been sent to discover.
The answer, he’d found, was quite a lot, actually. It was clearly impossible for Thirsk to fortify every potential port along the sixteen thousand miles of the Gulf of Dohlar’s coastline, not to mention the scores of islands where a raiding squadron might temporarily drop anchor. He could eliminate quite a few of those potential ports on the basis of depth of harbor, availability of fresh water, exposure to prevailing winds, and all the other factors which would weigh in the mind of a professional mariner, but that still left far too many possibilities for him to have any hope of protecting all of them.
Chelmport, however, had received special attention. The harbor entrance was now covered by a powerful battery of 40-pounders. There were no more than twenty guns or so, but they were well sited and protected by heavy earthen ramparts, and new positions were being prepared. From their locations, it seemed likely they were intended for some of the new Fultyn Rifles, the banded, rifled cannon the Church’s foundries were rushing into production. Defenses on that scale were more than capable of dealing with any unarmored galleon. And that, since the Royal Dohlaran Navy currently possessed the only ironclad in the Gulf of Dohlar—HMS Dreadnought, which had retained her Charisian name after her capture—meant Chelmsport was useless as a forward base.
That was always subject to change, however, and Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk and Sir Dunkyn Yairley had certain advantages when it came to predicting the future.
“Do try to remember you have to get home to make your official report,” a voice said dryly in his ear, as if to remind him of those very advantages, and his lips twitched as he suppressed a smile he couldn’t very well have explained to Lieutenant Hahlbyrstaht. Suggesting to his executive officer that he “heard voices” probably wouldn’t be a good idea, even if the voice in question belonged to Admiral Sarmouth. And it would be an especially un-good idea since it happened to be true.
And it’s also entirely unfair that the Admiral can natter away at me when he knows damned well I can’t say a word back.