“Do we finish them?” asked an officer.
Alfonzo was once more a man, no longer a soldier. “These are brave men, though mistaken; and their bravery is used against them. These are men who have suffered for a man to whom suffering is a pleasure and have been through fire, foe, and fear for the sake of the fatherland. These are men who carry battle in their hearts and will fight until they can no longer animate their bodies. Should we slay them in their weakness? That is not the question, my friends, but this: should we return evil for evil?”
Silence mingled with the rain and smoke.
“No, we will not slay them,” Alfonzo continued, relieved and reassured by the return of his heart, “We will comfort them. Percival, take a hundred men and find those who still live. Take them to the shelter of the forest and see that they are cared for, then return to the battle. Clarence, take a hundred men with you and gather supplies for the wounded, that they may nourish themselves; then, return to the battle.” Alfonzo turned and whistled for his horse. It came sprinting across the plain. He mounted as it arrived.
As he began to ride away, Percival called out to him. “Sir, have we not spent ourselves to destroy these men, and they us? And by giving them mercy, do we not defile those who have fallen for freedom and peace?”
“What is our purpose?” Alfonzo returned. “If it is freedom and peace, as you say, how can we hope to gain our own by stealing that of another? For while they stood between us and liberty, they were our enemies; and while they bore arms to prevent our success, they were our foes. But now, in defeat, they have reverted to men, and we must treat them as such.” He paused. “Look about you: what have we gained and what have we lost? If we fight for freedom and war for peace, we have already been defeated.”
He turned his horse and galloped to the front. Yet as he arrived a shrill horn cut the air and pierced the thundering rain: the horn of the Admiral. The rebel fleet had fallen.
Chapter 86
“No, friends, the Marins are yours and under your command,” the Admiral told the Fardy brothers. “I am a man of ship and sea.”
“But we are three and the ships two,” the blond Fardy answered. “We are patient – no one would deny that – but it is too much for us to be separated in the cold water and the hot battle. So, if not you, then another must command the second Marin. We will sail and fight together.”
“Together and inseparable,” the brown Fardy added, “Like the sea, the ship, and the barnacles beneath!”
“The barnacles beneath? That is too much, my brown haired brother, for I fear that you demean yourself to be a barnacle. So I must stand and protect your honor and insist that I be considered the nefarious hanger-on.”
“It will not be so! By God above, I am the barnacle beneath!”
“So be it,” the Admiral interrupted, afraid lest the brothers grow boisterous. “Barnes, you will command the Marin.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said, dutiful more than pleased.
“Meredith,” the Admiral called to the monk, who was sitting atop the mast, examining the horizon for the expected fleets: friend and foe. “Meredith, what is it that I see at twelve mark one hundred and twelve degrees?”
“Let me look a moment, sir,” came back. A minute passed, then it was followed by, “The devil’s doorway, and Satan’s stair! Beelzebub’s back from who-knows-where!”
“Hold your tongue and tell us what it is about,” the Admiral rebuked.
A wine-skin scalp appeared over the sail. “What is it about? It is about the largest fleet I have ever seen.”
“Indeed?” and the Admiral leapt to the rail, holding himself up by the yard arms to gain a clearer view. “What fleet and what size?”
“As for size: over two hundreds ships,” answered the monk. “As for who: some fly the colors of Gylain, others of the Three Kingdoms. Yet the leading ship flies our own colors, those of the Atilta. In all, I can make nothing of it.”
The Admiral grabbed ahold of the yard arms and began climbing the ropes to the mast, reaching the top in a short time. Erwin Meredith was perched on the cross-trees. The Admiral stood beside him, taking the telescope and examining the approaching vessels.
“The enemy approaches with over two hundred ships of war. But the foremost ship is fleeing the others, and though it is of Hibernian build it flies our colors.” He paused. “Who is in it, I cannot tell by sight, though I may by mind. But this I know: if we do not draw the chain, they will perish on the threshold of safety. Yet if we remove the chain the fleet will outflank us and we will lose the wind gage. Still, it must be done.”
“But can we know that it is not a trick, a hoax to lower our defenses?” Meredith asked.
“Yes, for I know who it is.”
“Then, by dollar and denarius, do not force us into impatience!” chorused the Fardy brothers.
“It is Lionel and de Garmia, whom you left behind on account of business. This was the score of which they had to make accounts.”
“Then let the chain be raised,” said Meredith, “I, myself, will lead the effort. But how will we do it, Admiral? We have no more than an hour.”
“The chain is two feet thick and five hundred wide, though as the mouth of the bay is only three hundred across, we have excess on the far coast. It is too heavy to be taken off and then returned in a moment,” the Admiral said.
“Yet the foremost ship is a cruiser: its hull is not as deep as most. We have only to slacken the chain, letting it sink far enough for the ship to pass over before raising it against the pursuing ships.” Meredith grew excited. “The chain already rests in the Treeway, that it cannot be destroyed by land. If we can heave more chain up the tree for a moment, it is done.”
“Very well,” answered the Admiral, “But if time is lost, so is the ship.”
“We will have it done,” Meredith shouted, already in the longboat that rested at the ship’s side. The ropes were cast away and it fell into the water, launching for the shore. Meredith did not need to take men with him, for the platform was garrisoned, as was a small guard station on the ground below.
It was at this time an hour before high noon. The sky was scarred by only a few clouds, but a whole armada came in from the northeast. The ocean was beginning to tremble and the waves to overflow: a powerful storm approached. For an hour, the Admiral paced the deck, watching over the preparations in silence. The men and officers had their orders and he spent most of the time watching those on shore preparing to lower the chain, then quickly raise it again.
“Distance?” the Admiral asked Koon, who had replaced Meredith at the lookout.
“A quarter mile,” the other returned, laughing inexplicably. The sails puffed out as he did.
“Five minutes,” and the Admiral turned to the crew. “Koon, prepare to break formation,” and the other, still a hyena, leapt to the deck to ready the men.
The wind came on like Koon’s laugh, hitting the fleet just a point off the compass. By now, Lionel’s figure could be seen against the battling blues of the sea and sky: he stood on the yard-arms as did the Admiral, his hands grasping the crown above his head. The ship did not change course, but neither did the rebel fleet part to let them pass. Then, just as the ship passed within fifty feet of the chain, the silence died.
“Heave away!” the Admiral roared, “Heave away and break formation!”
The ships parted in the middle by turning sharply away from each other, creating a narrow space between them through which the Hibernian cruiser could scarcely pass. Koon only wheezed with laughter.
At the same instant, Meredith and his men lowered the chain. It was controlled by a platform built between three especially large trees, forming a triangle around the perimeter. In the center stood a massive pulley, with the chain on one side and a boulder on the other. They had drawn the chain up onto the platform, and when the time came lowered it on the opposite side. It was strung through several steel fasteners so it did not drag over the wood.