“And do you think you do understand what’s happened, my son?”
Of course I do, you idiot, Thirsk told him silently from behind a gravely thoughtful expression. Exactly what I just said happened.
The reports were still far from complete and conclusive, and he felt bitterly certain he was going to learn that far too many of the officers he’d groomed to command the navy he’d built were among the dead. At the moment, they had no casualty lists from the Western Squadron itself, only from the garrisons of Rhaigair and its protective batteries. But they did know not a single one of Caitahno Raisahndo’s galleons had escaped the debacle he supposed would be known officially as the Battle of Shipworm Shoal. Three of Raisahndo’s brigs had contrived to somehow elude their Charisian counterparts, and one of them—hotly pursued by a pair of Charisian schooners—had managed to reach Fairstock Bay and take cover under the city of Fairstock’s batteries. The dispatch from HMS Sea Dragon’s traumatized captain was less than complete—or fully coherent, for that matter. Of course the man was only a lieutenant, scarcely one of Raisahndo’s senior officers, and he’d been through a lot. For that matter, he’d performed a minor miracle in simply escaping the Charisians himself! It was understandable that his report might be less than perfect. It was, however, the closest thing to an account of the battle they were likely to get for quite some time, and they were damned lucky to have that much information.
And the fact that we got it demonstrates that at least their damned schooners can’t just wade into our defenses and pound them into garbage, he thought bitterly.
That clearly wasn’t the case for the armored steamers which had attacked Rhaigair. According to Lord of Horse Golden Grass, the channel batteries had stood their ground unflinchingly and given the Charisian ironclads the hardest fight they’d had yet. Golden Grass was a Harchongian, of course, and the reports of Harchongese authorities who’d gotten caught with their pants down were normally suspect, in Thirsk’s experience. It was amazing how persistently they and their forces had fought with desperate gallantry, despite any temporary tactical withdrawals … even if the “temporary withdrawals” in question had looked suspiciously like mad, panicked flight.
But in this case, General Cahstnyr, the commander of the Dohlaran naval base’s garrison and the Dohlaran-manned batteries defending the anchorage itself, fully supported Golden Grass’ assessment. It was possible Cahstnyr was trying to cover his own arse, but he had a reputation as an officer in the Fahstyr Rychtyr mold. Perhaps even more to the point, Captain Kharmahdy, who Thirsk knew personally as a solid, reliable, and trustworthy man, concurred.
If all three of them were correct, the lead Charisian ironclad had resembled nothing so much as a foundry scrapyard when it arrived off the Rhaigair breakwater with its consorts. The heavy guns protecting the main ship channel had battered it almost beyond recognition. Its smokestack had been completely demolished, as had every other unarmored portion of its superstructure, and there’d been signs, according to Kharmahdy, that the after portion of its armored carapace had suffered significant fire damage.
Of course, Kharmahdy had also pointed out with scrupulous honesty that the apparent fire damage might be just that—apparent. Soot from the ironclad’s truncated smokestack could have accounted for much or all of the blackening, and while Kharmahdy had personally seen evidence that the ship’s pumps were working steadily, it was obvious it had never been in any danger of sinking. For that matter, despite its battered and broken outer appearance, it had participated in the bombardment of Rhaigair’s outer batteries right along with its consorts.
“Your Eminence,” the earl said, “it’s going to take us a long time to fully understand what happened. Some points strike me as fairly evident, however.”
He sat straighter, raising his right hand with its fingers folded. His left hand remained resting in his lap. He’d recovered more of his left arm’s range of motion than he’d expected, but the residual pain in his shoulder discouraged its use.
“First,” he said, raising his index finger to count off his points, “the Harchongese batteries tried hard but couldn’t prevent the steam-powered ironclads from penetrating Rhaigair Bay effectively at will. From all reports—and I believe those reports are accurate, Your Eminence—” he paused ever so slightly, holding Lainyr’s eyes until the bishop executive nodded in recognition of the “this time” Thirsk had carefully not said out loud “—the Harchongians stood to their guns with enormous steadiness and courage. According to General Cahstnyr, the heretics had to close to within less than three hundred yards of Battery St. Thermyn to suppress its fire. We don’t have anything like a complete casualty list—for our people, far less the Harchongians—but apparently Lord of Foot Bauzhyng fought until his last gun was dismounted. In fact, according to Major Kylpaitryc, our liaison officer in the battery, the Lord of Foot was personally laying and firing his final gun when a heretic shell exploded directly inside the gun’s bay and killed him along with three-quarters of his gun crew.
“Second,” he raised his second finger, “and the reason I made a point of how determinedly the Harchongians stood to their guns, those guns don’t appear to have even come close to actually stopping the heretics. That’s significant because Battery St. Thermyn, in particular, had been given high priority for the new artillery and had been completely reequipped with Fultyn Rifles with bores as great as ten inches, and the ironclads’ close approach allowed them to attempt Lieutenant Zhwaigair’s proposed ‘wracking’ attack on their armor. From the scanty information available to us, they inflicted far more damage than the Desnairians did at Geyra. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Clearly, even well-served guns firing ten-inch solid shot at three hundred yards range—or less—were unable to penetrate the heretics’ armor.”
“Forgive me, my son,” Lainyr said, “but didn’t Baron Golden Grass’ message suggest the heretics’ armor had been penetrated?”
“It did, Your Eminence,” Thirsk acknowledged. “At least the lead ironclad’s hull must have been holed below the water line—or possibly the ‘wracking’ attack succeeded in producing at least some leaks—because it appeared to be pumping a constant, low-volume stream from its bilges. Perhaps what I should have said is that even ten-inch solid shot at three hundred yards was unable to inflict crippling damage.” He shrugged ever so slightly. “The distinction is probably real, but it really doesn’t affect my analysis. And that analysis is that the heretics could penetrate equivalent defenses any time they care to.”
He paused to let that sink in, then raised a third finger.
“Third, in the face of that level of threat, I fully endorse Admiral Raisahndo’s decision to take the Western Squadron to sea and attempt to fight his way through to Gorath. I realize some may feel the Admiral should have stayed at Rhaigair and used his galleons to defend his anchorage. That, however, would have been a serious mistake.”
Thorast shifted in his chair, his shoulders tight and his eyes hot, but Thirsk kept his own eyes focused on Lainyr’s face, refusing to look in the duke’s direction.
“Shellfire capable of silencing heavy guns protected by modern earthen berms would have made short work of any unarmored wooden vessel in the world. By the same token, armor capable of surviving the fire of heavy Fultyn Rifles at such short range would have been impenetrable by any gun we currently have afloat.” He twitched another tiny shrug. “I don’t like saying that, Your Eminence, but my likes or dislikes don’t affect whether or not it’s true. If Admiral Raisahndo had turned his ships into floating batteries in Rhaigair’s defense, they would simply have been destroyed at anchor.”