He considered what he’d just thought for a moment, then smiled grimly.
Maybe young Thaidin would’ve had a point about my “defeatism.” But—any temptation to smile disappeared—in Raisahndo’s shoes, I’d really like to keep at least some of my men alive.
“Well, all we can do is see to it that he’s as well-informed as possible,” he said out loud, and looked at the signalman standing respectfully by the tower rail. “Signal to Admiral Raisahndo, General Cahstnyr, Captain Kharmahdy, and Baron Golden Grass.”
“Yes, Sir,” the signalman replied, pencil poised above his pad.
“‘Have confirmed five—repeat, five—heretic steam ironclads entering Saram Bay. Present position—’ be sure to insert the present time, Chyngdow ‘—approximately seven miles due south of Battery St. Thermyn. Estimated speed ten—repeat, ten—knots.’” He paused a moment, considering whether or not to add something more, then shrugged. “Read that back,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” the signalman said, and read it back word-for-word.
“Excellent. Get it off immediately.”
“Yes, Sir!”
The signalman bowed in salute and headed for the observation tower’s stairs and the signal mast at the far end of the long, narrow battery. Kaidahn watched him go, then drew a deep breath and turned back to the spyglass.
* * *
“I don’t suppose anyone’s come up with any brilliant ideas in the last couple of hours?” Caitahno Raisahndo asked, smiling with very little humor. Captain of Swords Kaidahn’s message, relayed by the semaphore stations on Basset and Shipworm Island, lay on the chart table aboard HMS Hurricane.
His 60-gun flagship was the lead ship of the most heavily armed class of galleons the Royal Dohlaran Navy had ever built, fitted with the new 6-inch shell-firing smoothbores. That made her one of the most powerful warships in the world … and meant absolutely nothing against the threat steaming towards them.
“I’m afraid not,” Admiral Pawal Hahlynd replied heavily. His armored screw-galleys had been the decisive factor in the Kaudzhu Narrows, but like Hurricane, they were utterly outclassed by the Charisian ships which had demolished the fortifications at Geyra. And these had to be the same ships.
Unless, of course, the bastards have managed to build even more of the Shan-wei-damned things, Raisahndo reminded himself grimly. Don’t forget that delightful possibility.
“Sir,” Commander Kahmelka said in a very careful tone, “the Squadron can’t fight them. I mean, it literally can’t.” He looked at the far more senior officers hiding their thoughts behind faces of stone. “If the Harchongians are right about their speed, not even Admiral Hahlynd’s screw-galleys could hope to maneuver with them. And according to the reports from Geyra, their guns have a range of at least ten thousand yards. With all the courage in the world, our ships would never live to get into our range of them.”
“We can’t just run away, Commander!” Captain Bryntyn Mykylhny said sharply. “And the bastards have to get into the bay in the first place before we start worrying about how we get at them!”
Mykylhny commanded HMS Cyclone, Hurricane’s sister ship, and he’d stepped into a dead man’s shoes to take command of one of Dahrand Rohsail’s divisions at the Kaudzhu Narrows. His promotion to acting commodore had been confirmed by Rohsail as one of his last actions before he went into hospital in Rhaigair, and he’d always been one of Rohsail’s favorites. Raisahndo tried not to hold that against him, reminding himself—again—that however big a pain in the arse Rohsail might be, the supercilious, arrogant, aristocratic son-of-a-bitch had always been one hell of a fighter. And the same was true of Mykylhny … including the arrogant, aristocratic attitude.
“I’m not advocating ‘running away,’ Sir,” Kahmelka said in an even more careful tone. “I’m simply pointing out that if we try to engage them ship-to-ship, we won’t be able to. We’ll be physically unable to, Sir. And, frankly, I don’t think the batteries will keep them out of the inner bay, either.” He shook his head, his expression grim. “I know they’ll give a good account of themselves, but based on the reports from Geyra—and even more on our own analysis of Dreadnought—I don’t think they can hope to get past the heretics’ armor before ships this fast sail right past their muzzles. If they had more elevation, if they could shoot down at their decks, where the armor’s almost certainly thinner, they might be able to inflict some serious damage. But firing directly into their thickest armor?”
He shook his head again.
“They’re coming through, Sir. One way or another, unless we want to assume they won’t have the guts to try, they’ll be off Rhaigair by this time tomorrow.”
He paused, looking around the cabin, but it was obvious no one cared to suggest anything that damned silly where Charisians were concerned. After a moment, he shrugged and continued.
“Under other circumstances, we might do some good by anchoring to help cover the channel exits.” That was, in fact, precisely what the Western Squadron had intended to do in the event of an attack by more conventional opponents. “In this case, I doubt we’d accomplish anything except bringing them into their range of us even sooner. And much as I hate saying this—and, believe me, I do—just one of those ships could easily destroy the entire Squadron … and they have five of them.” He shook his head a third time. “Captain, no one has more respect for the courage and the determination of our officers—and men—than I do. But this isn’t about courage or dedication, or even about devotion to God. It’s about the fact that the Squadron represents sixty percent of the Navy’s entire remaining strength … and that if we stand and fight—try to fight—against the ironclads that destroyed Geyra as a port, we’ll lose it in return for nothing.”
Mykylhny glared at him, and Raisahndo frowned. Kahmelka had been one of Ahlvyn Khapahr’s close friends, and Mykylhny, unfortunately, knew that. He wasn’t quite ready to accuse Kahmelka of guilt by association—Khapahr had had a lot of friends in the Navy, and they couldn’t all have been traitors—but the captain was undeniably … less confident of Khamelka’s fighting spirit than he’d been before Khapahr was unmasked as a Charisian spy.
Personally, Raisahndo wondered if Mykylhny suspected that his admiral’s chief of staff—and his admiral, for that matter—had never believed for a moment that Ahlvyn Khapahr, of all people, could have been a traitor to the flag officer he’d served so long and well. They’d never specifically discussed it, but Raisahndo was fairly positive Kahmelka shared his own suspicions about what Khapahr had really been doing—and the reason someone who’d supposedly been a hired assassin had shot Earl Thirsk in the shoulder, instead of the heart.
And a hell of a lot of good it did in the end, he thought harshly. That bastard Clyntahn still ordered the Earl’s daughters hauled off to Zion. And then the goddamned ship blew up! He shook his head mentally. God knows they—and the Earl—deserved better than that. In fact, I’m pretty damned sure God knows exactly that … whatever that fat fornicator in Zion thinks. And I’m not the only Dohlaran sea officer who thinks that!