"ShahShar'it yewehkey'a-"
"They are the only strangers who tread that path, and they have dealt well with us. The Grandmothers will tell the Council of the Sacred Truce to listen to their words, and follow them if they find them good."
Captain Alston bowed where she sat. Ian felt Doreen jab an elbow in his ribs. They looked at each other in the nickering firelight; she was grinning like a cat. Solemnly, they shook hands.
Commander Sandy Rapczewicz smiled as she slipped down the night-sight goggles. Wouldn't the skipper be livid that she wasn't here, although she'd anticipated this might happen. It was the logical move, after all, and Walker had a high opinion of logic. I hope you're out there tonight, you son of a bitch, she thought vindictively. Break my jaw, will you? It still ached in cold wet weather. Hell of a thing for a sailor.
"Ready," she said aloud, and into the microphone.
"Ready," the earphones answered back.
The goggles turned everything greenish and flat. She could see an occasional whitecap out on the water, and the giant rowboats heading for the Nantucket flotilla, with the canoes following. More than enough to shatter the hulls and swarm over the Nantucketers left behind when the main expeditionary force moved inland, as the enemy's scouts had surely reported to Walker.
"Only we weren't idle over the winter either, Will-me-lad," she muttered. Louder: "Fire!"
The fruits of the ROATS program stood along the rail. Crews made their final adjustments, turning aiming screws. Then the master gunner stepped back from each and jerked the lanyard.
TUNNNGG. They were compact little engines, the throwing arms powered by a mass of coil springs from heavy trucks caught on the island by the Event. They were also more accurate than any counterweight system like a trebuchet, or catapults powered by twisted sinew. Four balls of fire soared out through the night from the Eagle , two from each of the schooners. Where they struck they splashed on the water, burning with a hot red ferocity. Searchlights stabbed out, actinic blue-white through the cloud-dark night.
"Fire at will!" Rapczewicz shouted.
"Reach Out and Touch Someone-fire!" a crew chief shouted.
Hands pumped at levers. Back on shore, within the earth walls of the Nantucketer fort, came a heavy chuff… chuff… sound. It built to a faster chufchufchufchuf and then into a racketing snarl.
"Demons!" Miskelefol screamed.
"Shut up!" Isketerol shouted, clouting him savagely across the side of his helmeted head.
More of the fireballs arched across the night. The whale oil burning on the surface of the water gave a ghastly semblance of daylight. One of them splashed onto the galley next to his. It was close enough to hear the glass shatter and the men scream as oil splashed them. Seconds later it caught with a whump, a sound somehow soft and large at the same time, like a giant catching his breath. Or a dragon. Men screamed again, louder, as flame ran down the length of the boat. They cast themselves overboard, diving if they could. Others thrashed in mindless agony, and the oars drooped limp into the water. After an instant, the Tartessian realized what was going to happen when the flames reached the barrel at the prow of the little galley.
"Right!" he screamed to the man at the tiller. "Hard right, Arucuttag eat you, quickly!"
The oars kept moving. Isketerol crouched down behind the scant shelter of the tiller and helmsman, counting the seconds and trying to control the pounding of his heart.
"Four… five…"
CRACK. A hot breath passed over his back, and the helmsman cried out. Isketerol grabbed the helm as the man collapsed, pawing at a wound in his neck. He braced his feet and clamped the timber between arm and ribs, struggling to keep the galley on course as a wave lifted its hull. Bits of burning timber scattered across the waters; a quick glance rearward showed nothing left of the stricken galley but fragments, and another sinking beyond it.
"Over to the canoes," he said, and called to his signaler. "Sound retreat and rally to me," he barked.
The man began swinging his lanterns; the signals had been Will's. The tribesmen in the canoes were sitting motionless, staring open-mouthed.
"Cowards!" Isketerol called through a speaking trumpet.
"You flee, southron!" one of them cried in response.
They looked over their shoulders, fearfully conscious of the fact that nothing waited out there but the River Ocean and ships under the Tartessian's command-unlikely to help them home if they defied him. If they beached their canoes away from the Eagle People fort, they'd still be in the middle of enemy country, and hunted like hares as they tried to run east to their homes.
"These rowing boats are too big-the Eagle People can pick them out." Isketerol said. "Your canoes and hide boats are small and many. Paddle in quickly, and most of you will get through-you can swarm over them, while we follow close behind. Are you warriors, or little girls who weep with fear?"
A few canoes broke away from the pack and headed for the land that bulked dark to the south. The rest stayed, as the men shouted among themselves. Then they fanned out, heading for the firelit shapes of the Eagle People ships.
His own remaining craft gathered around them. "Hang back," he said to them in his own tongue. "Let the savages clear the path for us. If they can put those catapults out of action or occupy their crews, we can attack behind them."
One of the boat captains looked puzzled. "But most of the tribesmen will die, if we attack with our torpedoes"- the word was English-"while they are trying to board."
"So?" Isketerol grinned. "Should I weep for them? Are they kindred, townsmen of ours?"
"It'll be dangerous," the man warned.
"A man lives as long as he lives, and not a day more," Isketerol said-a saying Will had told him, and a good one. "If I'd known you were a woman, Dekendol, we could have gotten more use out of you this last winter."
The crews laughed at that; it was a little ragged, but he judged their spirit was still unbroken. "Spread out again," he said. "Lie on your oars just outside of catapult range"- the farthest those balls of fire had gone was about a quarter mile-"and then dash in if the barbarians make headway."
They turned, their formation opening like a fan, and stroked carefully to the edge of safety. "Wait for it!" he called. "Wait, and then put out all your strength!"
"On the word of command," Sandy Rapczewicz said. Fuck it. Someone got clever out there.
There were dozens of the canoes, scores of them. Impossible to hit that many, and they were nimble enough to dodge most of the fireballs. Here and there one was struck, but even then the others could dart in and rescue most of their crews from the water. The others came steadily on to a wild pounding chant of voices.
"Here's where we could use a couple of cannon, loaded with grapeshot," she muttered to herself.
That wouldn't be possible for another year or so. Evidently Walker had found the raw materials for gunpowder in greater abundance; those spar-torpedo boats waiting off at the edge of sight showed how he'd used the sulfur and saltpeter and charcoal. They were silent, in contrast to the barbarian warriors in the canoes. Closer, closer…
"Now!" she shouted.
A crewman at the rail swung a long thin barrel, crouching behind it with hands on the grips. Behind him two more pumped frantically, a dark glistening stream arching out from it. Another stretched out a burning wad of rags on the end of a long pole, and the stream of whale oil caught. Whooosh-WHUMP, and it was a long arch of dripping flame, scything back and forth through the night. Men screamed as they turned to blazing torches and threw themselves into water that had turned to a lake of flame. The edges of it lapped up against Eagle's steel hull, and the canoes that had approached her were billows in the fiery sea. The air filled with the heavy nutty scent of burning whale oil, and the stink of burned flesh as well.