Whoever the hell’s in command over there is one tough-minded bastard, Zhaztro thought with the grim admiration of one tough-minded bastard for another. Son-of-a-bitch must be determined to get us in as close as he possibly can before he opens up.
The admiral raised his double-glass, peering through the lenses—and the swirling clouds of smoke—and smiled bleakly as a solid line of explosions ripped into the fortifications. He could scarcely see it clearly in the current visibility—or lack thereof—but he’d be astonished if a single shot had missed. The range was down to barely a mile and a half, and even if the gunners’ vision was badly obscured by the torrents of gun and funnel smoke, their target was unmoving and they knew exactly where to find it. At such a short range, their shells drove even deeper into the earthworks protecting the Harchongese guns and the whirlwind of fire opened deep gouges in the battery’s battered berm. Zhaztro didn’t care how thick that berm was. Sooner or later, those guns had to open fire or simply find themselves buried in their ramparts’ collapse, and—
The entire face of Battery St. Charlz belched a rolling cloud of flame as thirty-four heavy rifled guns fired as one.
* * *
“Yessssssss!” Ahdem Kylpaitryc heard someone scream … and realized it was himself.
Every gun on St. Charlz’s southeastern front vomited fire and smoke. There were three dozen Fultyn Rifles on that face of the battery, although one of them had been dismounted by a direct hit and another was unable to fire because the rampart above its bay had collapsed across its embrasure.
Twelve of those guns were “only” 8-inch weapons, firing hundred-pound solid shot. Kylpaitryc hadn’t really expected very much out of the 8-inchers, given their target’s thick, armored hide … but he also hadn’t expected the heretics to come within twenty-five hundred yards before St. Charlz opened fire, either. At this range, even their shot might just penetrate, and their rate of fire was thirty percent higher than the 10-inch weapons could manage.
On the other hand, there were twenty-two of the 10-inch rifles. Their shot weighed over four hundred and fifty pounds apiece … and only three of them missed their target.
* * *
It was like being inside the world’s biggest bell, Sir Hainz Zhaztro thought. Or perhaps more like being inside one of Ehdwyrd Howsmyn’s boilers while a hundred maniacs with sledgehammers pounded on its surface.
Whatever else it might be like, it was nothing at all like the fire Eraystor had taken at Geyra. Even at the very end, when he’d closed to four hundred yards of the Geyra waterfront, the defenders had scored very few hits—largely because he’d completely shattered their defensive works before he ever came into their range. But even then, the heaviest shot to actually hit his flagship’s armor had come from one of the Desnairian 40-pounders. Now Eraystor rocked as just over four and a half tons of solid iron slammed into her in a single wave.
It wasn’t all concentrated in a single spot—and thank God for it! He and Captain Cahnyrs and the rest of the bridge crew had retreated into the conning tower’s protection when the range fell below two miles, which was just as well. Zhaztro was peering through one of the vision slits when a three-hundred-pound solid shot ripped into the open bridge at an angle almost exactly perpendicular to the hull’s centerline. Wood and steel shattered, spraying the face of the conning tower with fragments which would have shredded anyone still in the open, and the incredible cacophony as dozens of heavy projectiles slammed into the casemate armor was indescribable.
Three of Eraystor’s gunners who’d been in direct contact with that armor were bowled over, hurled effortlessly from their feet as one of those 10-inch shot sent a savage concussion straight through the tough, face-hardened steel. Two of them were simply stunned; the third drove headfirst into the breech of his own gun and the impact smashed his skull like an eggshell.
Two of St. Charlz’s shots went high, punching contemptuously through the ironclad’s funnel. She’d hoisted out her boats to tow astern to protect them from blast damage, but both larboard lifeboat davits and the steam-powered boat crane fitted to her mast were shattered in that tempest of screaming iron, and one of the 8-inch shot went home forward of the armor belt, punching through the relatively thin steel hull plating and into her cable tier.
None of Battery St. Charlz’s shot actually penetrated Eraystor’s armor, but the casemate face and her belt armor were dimpled and scarred. Here and there the outer face was actually broken, although the tough, flexible inner layers of the Howsmynized plate held, and Zhaztro’s face tightened. Charis’ spies had reported that Lieutenant Zhwaigair, the infernally inventive fellow who’d come up with the screw-galley concept for the Earl of Thirsk, had proposed a way to attack armor that couldn’t actually be penetrated. He called it “wracking,” and the idea was simple: get in as close as possible with the heaviest possible gun and pound that armor again and again and again until its securing bolts or even the supporting frames behind it shattered. Zhaztro hadn’t been particularly impressed when he first read those reports. Now, as his flagship heaved under that massive impact, he found himself wondering if Zhwaigair might not just have hit upon something.
* * *
Battery St. Charlz’s gun crews swarmed over their pieces with the urgent, disciplined speed Lord of Foot Kwaichee Bauzhyng had drilled so ruthlessly into them. There was more to it than simple training, though. That accursed ironclad had pounded their fortress for over half an hour, increasingly accurate, scoring ever more hits, killing and wounding men they knew—friends—and they’d been refused permission to reply. Now it was their turn, and they bent to their guns with a will.
The heretics fired again before the slower muzzleloaders were ready, and another of the 8-inch weapons disintegrated as a 6-inch shell screamed directly into its embrasure and reduced it—and its entire crew—to broken wreckage. Despite the wind, the dense gunsmoke—from St. Charlz, as well as the ironclad—welled up in an impenetrable veil. But the ship’s funnel and mast were visible above the rolling banks of smoke, and that was enough.
The guns were reloaded, with a speed that owed nothing at all to the threatened flogging awaiting the most tardy crew, and then St. Charlz belched smoke and fire again.
* * *
A three-hundred-pound shot smashed directly into the rotating shield of number three larboard 6-inch gun. The shield held, but the impact deformed it badly. It jammed in place, the gun no longer able to train, and its gun captain cursed in savage frustration as he realized what had happened.
More shot hammered home, carrying away ventilator mushrooms, cutting stanchions and chain railings, punching more holes in the smoke-spewing funnel. The exposed rangefinder atop Eraystor’s bridge vanished in a swirling cloud of wreckage, and the bridge signal locker disintegrated, sending signal flags flying like terrified wyverns. A four-foot section of the starboard leg of the ironclad’s tripod mast simply vanished, but that was another shot that went higher than intended.
The Harchongians were deliberately shooting low, trying to get their iron shot into the ship’s side … or to land just short of the side. Earl Thirsk’s people had carefully analyzed the placement of HMS Dreadnought’s armor. That was what had suggested the “wracking” tactic to Lieutenant Shwaigair, who’d paid special attention to how the armor plates were secured. But the lieutenant had also noted that while the ship’s armor extended below the waterline, it was by only about three feet at her normal load waterline, and Lord of Foot Bauzhyng had taken that analysis to heart. His primary purpose was, indeed, to “wrack” the heretic’s armor as Zwaigair had recommended, but if his gunners missed her armor, he wanted their fire to come in low, not high—at an angle which might just hole the ironclad’s thin hull plating below the protection of her armored belt.