He emerged onto the quarterdeck and Lathyk greeted him.
“They’re doing it, My Lord,” he said.
“Of course they are.” Sarmouth shook his head. “Once it was obvious they couldn’t take the weather gauge, it was really the only move open to them.”
“Oh, I know that, My Lord.” Lathyk smiled crookedly. “It’s just that you pegged when they’d make it almost to the minute. I was sure they’d hold on longer.”
“That’s because you underestimate Admiral Raisahndo. There’s nothing wrong with that man’s brain, Rhobair, and he’s just demonstrated he has the moral courage to do the right thing even if it risks getting him labeled ‘defeatist’ by the Inquisition.”
The baron crossed to the larboard rail and looked out across four miles or so of seawater. The head of the Dohlaran line had swung around, altering course from northeast-by-east to almost due southeast, curling around inside his own line. The rest of the enemy line followed, turning in succession as each galleon reached the same point, taking the wind on her larboard beam and shaking out more canvas.
Raisahndo had timed it reasonably well, Sarmouth thought, but he should have ordered a simultaneous turn. If he’d turned his entire squadron onto the wind simultaneously, he’d have bought his rearmost ships a much greater margin of safety. Sarmouth knew why he hadn’t done it, though. Maneuvering forty-odd galleons as a single, cohesive force was akin to driving a herd of wild dragons through the middle of Tellesberg at midday … only harder. Once an admiral had them in line ahead, he really didn’t want to break up that line any sooner than he had to, because as soon as he did, he’d lose control of it. Visibility-limited signals simply weren’t up to coordinating a line of ships ten miles long, especially with gunsmoke to obscure flag hoists, but trying to control the same number of ships maneuvering independently of one another was immeasurably more difficult. Maintaining a line-ahead formation made control far simpler; it became a huge, deadly serious game of follow-the-leader, where what really mattered was no longer the ability to communicate but simply the iron courage to hold to the ship ahead of yours while all the world dissolved in fire, smoke, terror, and death.
But if a line was easier to control, it was also far less flexible. Raisahndo wanted to maintain as tight a tactical control as he could because he recognized the danger of disintegrating into a disorganized mob. Yet in his place, Sarmouth would have ordered the simultaneous turn, accepting that it was likely to reduce his line to a confused mass, at least until his captains could sort things out, as the price of getting the biggest head start he could.
Of course, once they turned to run—and every one of those captain would know that was exactly what they were doing; running—getting them to stop running and reform might not be the very easiest thing in the world, either. They’re brave men, most of them—God knows there were no cowards in the Kaudzhu Narrows!—but every damned one of them knows their navy’s up shit creek. Preventing a withdrawal from turning into a rout…?
He shook his head, wondering how he’d react in their place. Easy to think about someone else losing his nerve, but what if he’d been the one in their shoes?
Fortunately, I’m not, he thought, and turned back to Lathyk.
“About another … fifteen minutes, I think, Rhobair. Let’s let them get properly committed first.”
“Aye, My Lord.” Lathyk nodded, then snapped his fingers at the twelve-year-old midshipman standing at the mizzen halyards with his part of signalmen.
“We’ll have that signal to Admiral Darys bent on, Master Rychtyr,” he said, and smiled thinly. “We’ll need it shortly.”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
* * *
Caitahno Raisahndo watched the Charisian line and fought against letting himself hope.
Maneuvering a fleet at sea in sight of its enemies was like a dance where everyone knew the steps. Both admirals knew precisely what the other admiral’s options were at any given moment, and assuming they’d accurately assessed one another’s intentions, surprises were hard to come by.
In Sarmouth’s position, Raisahndo would have realized the Western Squadron had no option but to break back south once it became evident the Charisians would take the weather gauge. The only real question in the Charisian admiral’s mind should have been when Raisahndo would make his break, since it was obvious the only smart thing for him to do was to avoid action. The only way he could hope to do that, now that it was clear he couldn’t get to windward of Sarmouth’s line, was to turn and take the wind broad on his beam while he ran as fast and as hard as he could to leeward. He could do that now, assuming Sarmouth allowed him to, because the two squadrons’ maneuvers for the weather gauge had carried them far enough east that a southeasterly heading would weather Broken Hawser Rock with at least a few miles to spare. That was the other reason he’d fought so hard for the windward position. Now if he was very, very lucky—and if Sarmouth suffered a sudden stupidity attack—he might get enough of a head start to squeak around the southern end of the Charisian line, between its rearmost galleons and Broken Hawser. And if he managed that, he might just manage to stay away from the Charisians until dark, too.
Some things were more likely than others, however.
Yet even as he thought that, the massive Charisian battle line—there were a couple more ships in it than he’d expected, but obviously at least half a dozen of them were, indeed, somewhere else—continued plowing towards the west-northwest. It was as if Sarmouth hadn’t even noticed his course change!
If he doesn’t alter pretty soon, he’ll lose his chance, Raisahndo thought almost incredulously. He can’t turn the entire line and overtake us, copper bottoms or not, if he doesn’t make his move in the next … ten minutes.
Of course, when he realized Raisahndo was slipping away he could always order a general chase. The chance of any Charisian admiral being brainless enough to do that, however, was about on a par with the chance that Langhorne would return in glory sometime in the next five minutes. A general chase—with every captain maneuvering independently as he raced to catch up with the enemy—would certainly let Sarmouth’s faster ships overhaul Raisahndo’s compact, mutually supporting line of battle. They’d be disordered and out of mutual support of one another when they did, however … at which point they would discover what happened to the hunting hound that caught the slash lizard. No. A flag officer of Sarmouth’s experience wouldn’t make that mistake, especially against a fleet which outnumbered him as substantially as the Western Squadron did. His ships, and especially the ironclads, might be far more powerful than any individual unit on the other side, but if he was stupid enough to feed them into Raisahndo’s well-organized, tightly controlled line in dribs and drabs, where discipline and numbers came into their own.…
* * *
“Now, I think, Rhobair.”
“Aye, aye, My Lord. Master Rychtyr!”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Trynt Rychtyr acknowledged, and the colorful bunting which had been bent on to the signal halyards a quarter of an hour earlier soared to the yardarm. A flick of the signalman’s wrist broke the signal and the flags streamed on the wind.