Not that Sarmouth didn’t have a point. The truth was that he and Hektor had known exactly what Hektor would see at Chelmsport long before his lookouts started calling reports down from aloft. The orbital SNARCs provided far more detailed information than he’d ever be able to include in his official report, but there was no way—or, at least, no non-demonic way—to explain how he might have come by that information. And if he was so careless as to get himself killed or his ship sunk so his written report never got back to Talisman Island, there’d still be no way Sarmouth could act on their knowledge when the reinforcements they both knew were already en route actually arrived.
On the other hand, I have no intention of getting myself killed, he thought dryly. Quite apart from not getting the Admiral’s report back to him, Irys would be really, really pissed.
“I think it behooves us to tread a bit cautiously, Zosh,” he told Hahlbyrstaht for the benefit of the SNARC he knew Sarmouth had focused upon Fleet Wing. “I’m not too concerned about our ability to take this fellow, but we’re a long way from home, and I imagine the Admiral would really prefer for us to report back.”
“Probably a safe bet, Sir,” Hahlbyrstaht acknowledged wryly. “Matter of fact, I’m sort of in favor of the idea myself, now that you mention it.”
“In that case, let’s pass the word for Master Zhowaltyr.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Hahlbyrstaht put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. It wasn’t exactly the official Navy technique, but a midshipman popped up out of the after hatch almost instantly, like a rabbit from its hole, with his index finger holding his place in the navigation text he’d been studying with the sailing master.
“Yes, Sir?”
Ahlbyrt Stefyns was the junior of Fleet Wing’s midshipmen. Two years younger than Lawrync Dekatyr, the only other midshipman the schooner boasted, he was actually two inches taller and quick-moving. But whereas Dekatyr was an athletic sort, Stefyns was never happier than when he was curled up with a good book. He was also a Tarotisian, which remained a rarity in the ICN, and, as authorized by regulations, he wore the traditional kercheef headgear of his homeland instead of the Navy’s standard three-cornered hat.
“I believe the Skipper would like a word with the Gunner,” Hahlbyrstaht told him, and waggled his fingers in the general direction of the foredeck.
“Aye, aye, Sir!” Stefyns acknowledged with a grin and went thundering off.
“You really could have used your speaking trumpet to get Bynyt’s attention, you know,” Hektor observed quietly.
“True, Sir,” Hahlbyrstaht acknowledged, forbearing to mention that Hektor could have done the same thing. “But it does a midshipman good to know he’s needed. Besides, it’ll keep the lad occupied instead of worrying.”
“Worrying? Ahlbyrt?” Hektor shook his head. “You’re sure we’re talking about the same young man?”
It struck neither him nor Hahlbyrstaht as odd that he should use the term “young man” for someone less than four years younger than himself. For that matter, Hahlbyrstaht, who was actually on the young side for his own rank, was three years older than his captain.
“Probably ‘worrying’ was a mite strong.” Hahlbyrstaht shrugged. “How about ‘thoughtful’?”
“That might be fair,” Hektor agreed, then looked up as Stefyns returned with Bynyt Zhowaltyr, Fleet Wing’s gunner, in tow.
At thirty-five, Zhowaltyr was one of the oldest members of the schooner’s company, and he’d learned his trade as a gun captain in then-Commodore Staynair’s first experimental galleon squadron. Fleet Wing was damned lucky to have him, and Hektor had wondered occasionally if that was more than simply a happy coincidence. Zhowaltyr had been transferred into the schooner about the same time Hektor assumed command, and it was entirely possible Admiral Sarmouth had had just a little something to do with that. He’d certainly insisted that Stywyrt Mahlyk, his personal coxswain, go along to “keep an eye on” Hektor!
“You wanted me, Sir?” the gunner said now, touching his chest in salute.
“Indeed I did, Master Zhowaltyr. You see that fellow over there?” Hektor pointed with his good hand at the Dohlaran brig Fleet Wing had pursued for the last five and a half hours. She was still doing her best to avoid Fleet Wing, but little more than three thousand yards now separated them, and the range was falling swiftly.
“Yes, Sir,” Zhowaltyr acknowledged.
“I’d like to make his closer acquaintance … on our terms, not his. And it occurs to me that you’re the man to make that happen.”
“Do my best, Sir.” Zhowaltyr grinned broadly. “The fourteen-pounder, I’m thinking?”
“That certainly seems like the best place to start,” Hektor agreed. “And I’m sure that the fact that you’ve been looking forward to playing with your new toy has nothing at all to do with your choice.”
“No, Sir! O’ course not!” Zhowaltyr’s grin got even broader.
“I thought not. So, now that we’ve cleared that up, what range would you like?”
The gunner glanced up at the sails, then cocked a thoughtful eye at the sea. The breeze had continued to freshen—enough that Hektor had been forced to take in a reef in the big foresail which was actually Fleet Wing’s primary working sail—and the waves were approaching eight feet in height. Bursting clouds of spray glittered around the schooner’s bow in the early afternoon sunlight as she drove through exuberantly through the sea, and the wind sang in the rigging.
“Bit lively underfoot, Sir,” Zhowaltyr said thoughtfully. “I’m thinking a thousand yards, maybe eight hundred.”
“He’ll probably have a pair of long eighteens forward,” Hektor pointed out. In fact, he knew exactly what Serpent carried, although he couldn’t exactly share that with Zhowaltyr.
“Aye, Sir, he will. An’ they’ll be smoothbores an’ he’s a Dohlaran.” Zhowaltyr didn’t spit, but that was only because the Navy frowned on people who spat on its spotless decks. “Won’t say they couldn’t hit a barn if one happened to float by, Sir. Not going to hit us at much over six hundred yards, though.”
“Fair enough,” Hektor said. He had a bit less contempt for Dohlaran gunnery than Zhowaltyr did, but the gunner still had a valid point … probably.
Under ideal conditions, both the Dohlarans’ 18-pounders and Fleet Wing’s long 14-pounder had a range of over two thousand yards. The carronades which constituted the primary broadside weapons for both ships were shorter ranged, although Fleet Wing’s had been rifled. It didn’t increase their maximum range, which was still about twenty perecent less than that of a long gun of equivalent bore, but the improved accuracy definitely increased their maximum effective range. So, in theory, both ships should have been easily capable of hitting the other at half that range.
Theory, however, had a sad way of failing in the face of reality, especially when one was trying to fire accurately from one vessel underway in a seaway at another vessel underway in a seaway. Moving targets were challenging enough even when the gun trying to hit them wasn’t moving simultaneously in at least three different directions itself—forward, up and down, and from side to side—at the moment it fired. Under present conditions, any gunner would be doing well to mark his target at anything much in excess of five hundred yards.