It seemed to be doing the trick.
A few seconds later he heard the concussions from below deck as the cannons fired. Four more rounds of heavy iron shot smashed into the Haurstaf warship on his port side. She was trying to reach now, which was fine by Granger. Evidently the warship’s captain did not know the state of his own gun deck.
Granger’s real target lay ahead of him. The Irillian Herald was turning about now, bringing her guns to bear on his bow. And Granger had every intention of letting her do so. He picked up one of the maps lying on the console and wrote across it in big bold letters:
THIS IS YOUR FATHER, IANTHE.
I’M TAKING YOU HOME.
‘Ethan Maskelyne wishes to speak to you, ma’am.’
Briana turned to find one of the men she’d left guarding Maske-lyne’s stateroom standing in the wheelhouse doorway. ‘What?’
‘He says it is extremely important.’
‘Not now.’ She dismissed the guard with a wave of her hand. Everything seemed to be happening at once. Howlish was bringing the ship into battle. The signal officer was flashing the Song, trying to ascertain the extent of her damage.
The guard glanced around him, then spoke in a low voice. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but he says the captain is an idiot and is doing exactly what Colonel Granger wants him to.’
‘How the hell does Maskelyne know what’s going on?’
The guard shrugged. ‘I don’t know, ma’am. He was the one who told me.’
‘And now you believe he knows how to get us out of this?’
‘He’s Ethan Maskelyne, ma’am.’
Briana sighed. She turned to Howlish. ‘How long till we’re in range?’
‘Minutes, ma’am.’
‘Then I don’t have time,’ she said to the guard. ‘If it’s so important, he can write me a note.’ She sent the guard away.
By now Howlish had turned the Haurstaf warship into the wind. The deck pitched as the Herald’s sails took up the strain. Rain lashed the wheelhouse glass. Spume burst against the bulwark and showered the Guild mariners fighting to control the boom. To starboard, Granger’s yacht bore down on them at tremendous speed, her funnels steaming, her bow rising and then crashing down through the dark and frothing waters.
‘Range shot,’ Howlish said.
First officer Lum rang the bell pipe, then waited for a heartbeat and rang it again. The comspool on the navigation console began to chatter in response. He scanned the tape. ‘Confirmed. Ranging to starboard now, sir.’
Moments later, one of the Herald’s cannon fired. A single shell flew out across the sea, but landed short of Granger’s yacht.
‘Range is good,’ Howlish said. ‘One through twenty, red stations.’
The first officer rang the bell pipe again, then paused before making three more rings in rapid succession. The comspool began chattering almost immediately. ‘Red stations one through twenty firing now, sir. Confirmed.’
This time twenty of the Herald’s cannons fired at once. The combined noise of the concussions rattled the duskglass panes. A great burst of smoke erupted from the side of the warship as twenty artillery shells arced across the space between the two ships. Most of the missiles flew wide, but two of them found their target. The uppermost section of the steam yacht’s bow imploded as the heavy shells tore through.
‘Strike confirmed,’ the first officer said. ‘Upper bow.’
The bell pipe rang twice.
‘Re-range for six knots and scatter,’ Howlish said. ‘Twenty through forty, red stations.’
‘Twenty through forty. Re-range and scatter. Aye, sir.’
The second barrage tore part of the roof off the steam yacht’s wheelhouse and blew a funnel cleat and cable away, but the Haurstaf gunners missed the bow entirely. The other ship came steaming straight towards them, faster than ever.
Howlish yawned. ‘Bear away,’ he said. ‘Ready chasers. Port guns one through twenty, red stations. Fire crews to stand by.’
‘She’s not deviating, sir,’ the first officer said.
‘She’ll deviate. Ring the commands, Officer Lum.’
Bells sounded outside. The helmsman spun the wheel. Out on the storm-blown deck Guild mariners began hauling in the mainsail. Slowly, the warship turned her stern towards the approaching yacht.
The first officer frowned. ‘She’s still not deviating, sir,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘She going to hit us.’
Howlish’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is the madman doing? He’ll sink us both. Fire the chasers.’
The first officer began madly ringing the bell pipe.
But Briana could see that it was too late. Granger’s ship was going to crash into them.
‘Broad reach,’ Howlish cried.
The comspool began to chatter out tape.
‘Chasers ready, sir.’
‘Leave the chasers. Put us on a broad reach now.’
The helmsman spun the wheel back.
Through the driving rain Briana saw the steam yacht bearing down on them, waves crashing against its thunderbolt-wielding figurehead. A solitary figure stood at the wheel amidst the shattered bridge. The Herald’s stern was now inching away, but not fast enough. Briana tensed for the impact.
‘He’s turning,’ Howlish said. ‘Too late, too late.’
At the last instant, the other vessel began to turn aside, but it was a futile manoeuvre.
The yacht struck the stern of the warship with an impact that almost knocked Briana off her feet. From the rear came a great crash of timbers and groan of metal. Men stumbled and fell across the rain-swept deck. The Haurstaf ship yawed wildly, her hull actually rising a few feet out of the water. The yacht kept coming, her vast momentum carrying her along as she scraped along the side of the warship with a juddering shriek. For an instant the two vessels were almost side by side. They began to part.
And then a second concussion thudded through the warship’s timbers. Granger’s yacht broke away, turning downwind as the man-o’-war rocked heavily and righted itself. In the Haurstaf wheelhouse, the helmsman fought against the wheel. The first officer steadied himself and rushed over to the comspool.
‘Port-side guns,’ Howlish said. ‘All of them.’
‘We’re still turning, sir.’
Howlish scowled at the helmsman. ‘Close haul.’
The helmsman was still struggling with the wheel. ‘I can’t… I think we’ve lost our rudder, captain.’
The captain snorted. ‘Then how can we possibly be turning into the wind?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
But it was true. The man-o’-war continued to pivot, as some unseen force pushed it into the very face of the gale, turning their broadside away from the departing yacht. The mainsail and jib began to luff. They were losing control.
The whole warship gave a sudden, violent jerk.
Captain Howlish fell against the navigation console. Briana grabbed the first officer’s arm to steady herself. From somewhere aft came a long, low groan.
The man-o’-war began to move backwards.
Shouts came from outside. Howlish threw open the wheel-house door to better hear his crewmen, admitting a blast of rain and wind. Briana lifted the hood of her whaleskin cloak and moved over beside him. ‘Trouble?’ she asked.
Three crewmen clung to the poop deck, leaning over the taffarell as they examined the wrecked stern by the light of a gem lantern. One of them was shouting something, but the wind stole his voice.
Howlish waved a fourth crewman over. ‘What is going on?’
The man looked up and said, ‘We’ve been harpooned, sir.’
‘What?’
‘A dragon harpoon, captain. Biggest one I’ve ever seen. It’s buried deep in the stern post, down at the waterline. She’s using it to tow us.’