CHAPTER SEVEN
LEARNING THE ROPES
“Colonel, Major Baker’s here,” Bisso said, and Rick looked up from his desk with a stab of irritation. They were scheduled to meet with Publius’ fleetmaster tomorrow morning and they’d probably be sailing from Taranto by afternoon, or the next day, at latest. Finding a moment to write Tylara something longer than a semaphore message was always difficult, and he doubted he’d have another opportunity before they sailed.
“And did the Major say why he’s here?” he asked, laying down his pen.
“No, Sir. Just that he’d ‘appreciate a moment of your time.’” Bisso shrugged. “He was real polite, Sir, but I think he thinks whatever it’s about, it’s important.”
“I see. In that case, you’d better send him in.”
“Lieutenant Martins is with him.”
“In that case, you’d better send both of them in.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The sergeant disappeared. A moment later, he returned with Baker and Martins.
“Gentlemen,” Rick greeted them without rising, then pointed at a pair of backless Roman chairs. “Sit. Tell me what this is about.”
“Of course, Colonel,” Baker said. The Brits settled onto the chairs, and the major glanced at the writing desk.
“First, I apologize for interrupting you,” he said, “but there’s a point we haven’t had the opportunity yet to discuss.”
“What sort of point?” Rick asked. God, I hope he’s not coming up with some reservation about accepting my command at this late date! He seemed happy enough last night, but—
“Let me begin by spreading a few well-deserved compliments,” Baker said, smiling as if he’d read Rick’s mind. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation, and in the process, about how much you and your men have already accomplished here, Colonel. And you’ve done bloody well—even better than I’d thought. Better, if you’ll forgive me for saying this, than I would ever have anticipated out of a lad straight out of you Yanks’ college ROTC.” He shook his head, his eyes very level. “The situation you got thrown into, first in Angola and especially here on Tran, is mind-boggling. The fact that you’ve not only survived but created the support base you have, is . . . well, let’s just say that I doubt very many men in your position could have done either. Certainly your Andre Parsons didn’t!”
Rick’s eyes narrowed. But—
“I appreciate the testimonial, Major,” he said dryly. “How well deserved it is would be a judgment call, of course. I seem to sense a ‘but’ lurking in there somewhere, though.”
“Because there is one, Sir,” Baker said levelly. “I meant it when I said you’ve done bloody well, but it’s always possible to do better, and it seems to me that you’re a bit thin on what one might call the staff functions.”
“I see.”
Rick leaned back in his chair, regarding the two British officers, then shrugged.
“That depends in part on what you mean by ‘staff functions,’” he said. “Obviously, I had to build pretty much from scratch. I was the S-2 in Africa, but there weren’t a lot of intelligence sources here, initially. We didn’t have an operations officer, or a logistics officer, or a plans officer—Hell, Parsons and I were the only two officers who made it to Tran! I’ve filled most of those billets, functionally, at least, but I’ve had to play it by ear more than I would’ve liked. I would love to have some of the field manuals my ROTC classes had! In fact, I’ve requested them. But the Shalnuksis don’t seem to think about that sort of thing.”
It was Baker’s turn to sit back with an expression that looked a lot like relief, Rick thought.
“Colonel,” the major said after a moment, “I’m more reassured than I can say to hear what you’ve just said, for two reasons. First, it confirms my observation that while you may be a bloody amateur, if you’ll pardon the term, you’re an extraordinarily competent bloody amateur.” He smiled crookedly. “And, second, it suggests that you’ll take the suggestion I’m about to make in the spirit in which it’s offered.”
Rick said nothing, simply gazing at him steadily, and Baker nodded to Martins.
“Get out your little book, Richard,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
Martins reached into a pocket on the front of his field jacket and pulled out a small olive-green binder. The Velcro-fastened cover bore the stencil commanders battle book, and he leaned forward to place it on the corner of the desk.
Rick looked down at it, then raised his eyebrows as he looked back at Baker.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“I believe it might be called a step in that direction, Colonel,” Baker said with a slight smile. “It’s rather a fetish object for our junior officers, but a useful one.”
There was a tearing sound as Rick opened the cover and read the title page. tactical aide memoire, it said, and he flipped to the table of contents, ran his eyes down the neat column of subject listings, then turned through the clear-plastic-coated pages. Finally, he looked back up at Baker.
“I would have killed for this,” he said quietly, one hand resting on page 1-13-1, the template headed squadron/company group orders, breaching and obstacle crossing.
“As it happens, we have three copies of it,” Major Baker said, “and also as it happens, Leftenant Martins is very good with it.”
“I’ve been trying to develop a general staff from scratch ever since we got here,” Rick said. “With this as a model,” he tapped the binder with his forefinger, “we might just be able to develop a real one.”
“Colonel,” Baker’s tone was very serious, “I can’t begin to tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that.”
“Major, there’s a line from a Clint Eastwood movie that was released a few years before my adventures in Africa that I think applies here. He said, ‘A man has to know his limitations.’ Trust me”—he tapped the binder again—“more than a decade on Tran ensures that he does.”
* * *
Fleetmaster Gaius Junius wore armor and decorations like any other senior Roman army officer, but his boots had no hobnails, and he wore no spurs. Rick was told that Junius ranked as a legate, and while it wasn’t common, officers did go from naval to land commands, but Junius had spent his entire career as a naval commander.
The harbor headquarters building was called the Praetorium but it had a distinctly naval atmosphere, although Rick would have found it difficult to say why he had that impression. It was built of limestone on the typical Roman model, apparently replacing whatever had served when Taranto had been unambiguously a part of the Kingdom of Drantos. Many of the harbor buildings more closely resembled the gothic styles favored in Drantos, but the Praetorium was purely Roman, atrium surrounded by pillared open hallways and small rooms on two sides, leading to a grander building across the atrium from the gate.
A map of the Inner Sea had been painted on a large table in the meeting room of the Praetorium. Rick studied it with satisfaction.
“This is accurate?” he asked.
“As nearly so as we can make it,” Junius said. The admiral seemed pleased that Publius was attending the meeting and asking his advice. It was clear that Junius thought the Navy sadly neglected and looked forward to the opportunity to convince Caesar of the importance of maritime matters.
Rick traced the labyrinthine passages through the complex of small islands and marshes that guarded Nikeis.
“Not an easy place to get into.”
“Not if you have to fight your way in,” Fleetmaster Junius said. “Of course we’ve never had to do that. They remain allies, for the record.”
“For the record,” Rick said.
“They need our help,” Junius said. “If they had time they could put together enough force to resist this pirate alliance, but they don’t have time, Friend of Caesar. I believe there will be enough pirates to overwhelm the Nikeisian defenders.”
“We can’t allow that,” Rick said.
“Can we defeat the pirates?” Publius asked.
“Heir of Caesar, I don’t know,” the Roman admiral said. “With what I can take to Nikeis now, I think not, even with the favor of God. Unless Warlord Rick brings great power.”
“We have great power,” Rick said. “And we believe we can defeat any enemies, on land or on the sea, but we have little experience fighting on the sea. What I need is some enemies to practice on.”
Publius looked at him quizzically.
“It cannot be difficult to find enemies. I have seldom found it so, at least.”
“No, but what I need are enemy warships,” Rick said. He looked up to Junius. “Are there any nearby?”
“Some pirates here,” Junius said. He pointed to a small delta of swamp and islands some sixty miles to the north of the port. “They’re clever. If we send the fleet, they disperse among the swamps and hide. If we send a single ship, they come together in such strength that we dare not risk battle. They raid the coasts of Drantos and the Five Kingdoms.”
“They must be a small threat indeed,” Rick said. “I’ve heard nothing of them. As Warlord I would know of any real danger to the realm.”
The Roman officer shrugged.
“There are few of them in these southern waters, and the local villages have organized a defense, so perhaps they never become a concern of the Wanax. Our merchants avoid the area by crossing to the Roman shore before going north to Nikeis, so it’s been of little concern to us. But those will be the closest pirate ships I know of.”
“How many?” Rick asked.
“Never many.” Junius shook his head. “Perhaps five galleys remain. There had been more, but patrols report that some of them recently went northward. From the reports of the frumentarii, it may be that they’ve joined the pirate coalition.”
“Five,” Rick mused. “Sounds about right. If we send three merchant ships will they fight?”
“It is likely. They would expect to win.”
Rick nodded.
“That’s what I want them to expect. Fleetmaster, we’ll need three merchant ships. Each will carry an officer and twenty of my men with their weapons. They’ll sail past the swamp while we follow at a distance with the rest of the fleet. We’ll go clean out that pirate nest on our way to Nikeis. May as well do something useful while we learn how to fight at sea.”
* * *
There were twenty-two ships in the expedition. Five were merchant craft carrying cargo to Nikeis. The rest were Roman warships, all smaller than the flagship the Romans called a “quinquireme” and everyone else on the planet called a great galley. Several of them, which the Romans called “triremes,” were simply smaller quinquiremes with only two masts, not three. The remainder were “liburnians,” which were basically Martins’ and Warner’s “classic galleys,” lighter, with only a single rower on each oar and—for the most part—only one mast each.
Fleetmaster Junius chose three of the merchant ships as decoys. Their masters weren’t pleased to have their vessels commandeered, but they didn’t care to argue when they found they were negotiating with Publius Caesar.
“You will be paid,” Publius had told them flatly. His frown had shown that he was concerned about where he would find the money, but he didn’t say that.
Rick left the details to Major Baker and his officers. Each merchant ship would carry twenty Gurkhas, an officer, a few Roman marines, and one of their nine radios, while their base radio remained aboard the quinquireme, where it would be safest. The soldiers aboard the merchant ships would remain hidden until the pirates had committed to action. It was the best plan anyone could think of, and Rick approved.
“Risking a lot, here,” Baker said carefully. “Lose one of these decoy ships and you’ve lost a lot. Lose them all—”
“I know,” Rick said. “Which is why we’ll be just over the horizon behind you with the rest of the fleet. And why you’ll be bloody careful.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” Baker chuckled. “Well, we can sound like sailors, anyway.” His expression belied his tone. Baker was worried.
“Yeah. I’ll be glad enough to get this over with. You’re Jellicoe,” Rick said.
Baker looked puzzled.
“British admiral at the Battle of Jutland in World War I,” Rick said. “Churchill called him the only man who could lose the war in an afternoon.”
“Well, perhaps,” Baker said. “Of course, you’re not risking anything you had before you met me.”
“Should I? I can come along with you—”
“No, Sir, that wasn’t what I meant. Anyway, I don’t expect any problems. We outrange them by a lot. It should be a piece of cake.”
“Maybe I should come with you,” Rick said. “I have to learn how this naval warfare stuff works—”
“With respect, Colonel, you don’t,” Baker said. “Your man Warner was right. There isn’t likely to be more than one more major naval battle with the kinds of ships and weapons that exist now. Once we defeat this pirate coalition and the secret about gunpowder and cannon gets out throughout the planet, the whole nature of war at sea—land too!—is going to change. We’ll have a hell of a job keeping up!
“Colonel, you have enough to worry about without having to learn naval tactics that will be obsolete in a couple of years. Leave that nonsense to me and the Romans. What you’d best be worrying about is what happens after we finish off these pirates.”
* * *
They set out at dawn. The three merchant ships went northward along the shore, and when they were barely in sight over the horizon, Rick followed with the Roman fleet, standing just out of sight from the land and keeping the merchant ships barely visible.
If the plan works, Rick thought. It should work. Need to watch the weather of course. And it’s important to know what we can do at sea.
After some thought, Publius had decided to join Rick and his staff on the flagship Ferox, and they had been introduced to Captain Pilinius, Fleetmaster Junius’ flag captain, as they came aboard. He was a cheerful man in his thirties, a seasoned professional seaman who didn’t seem much impressed by all the visiting dignitaries. He was clearly a bit embarrassed at the lack of accommodations for his powerful guests, however. Ferox was a large, multidecked vessel, but she was also packed like an Earth sardine can, and there was very little cabin space to go around.
Rick had been surprised to discover that none of Ferox’s oarsmen sat on its upper deck. Or, rather, that the ship had an upper deck, which served as a sort of roof for the rowers, rather than an open oar pit. From an offhand remark Pilinius had let fall, Ferox was “cataphract built,” which suggested that the “roof” was intended as armor, a feature designed to protect the rowers from missile fire. That made a lot of sense, and it also provided a much larger fighting platform for marines.
The mystery of the numbers had been solved as well . . . probably.
The quinquireme had three banks of oars on each side, which—logically—should have made it a trireme, as far as Rick was concerned. The triremes, on the other hand, had only two banks of oars on each side, which should have made them biremes. Or that was what he’d thought. In fact, the ships’ designations were derived from the number of rowers, not the number of oars. A trireme had two men on each upper oar and one on each lower oar, so three of them were stacked vertically in what Pilinius called a “file.” The quinquireme was a bit longer and did have a few more oars in each bank, but it had two rowers on each oar in the upper two banks and only one on each oar in the lower bank, which produced files of five men each.
A solid upper deck might protect the rowers, but it couldn’t do much for ventilation, which Risk suspected had to be a vital consideration when it came to how long and how hard your crew could row, so there were several smaller hatches on the raised forecastle and quarter deck where wind scoops could be rigged. In addition, much of the ship’s midships deck consisted of a single huge hatch which could be opened to provide air to the oarsmen. The hatch could be closed and battened down in sections; when fully open, it was over fifty feet long and eight or nine feet wide. There was no sign of chains, and each rower had a short sword racked at his elbow where it would be readily available yet out of his way while he rowed.
Ferox was bigger than he’d expected, as well. The upper deck was just over a hundred and fifty feet long, and its beam was about sixteen feet at the waterline. It was closer to thirty-five at the upper deck level, though, because the oarsmen sat in a box that was built out from the hull on either side. In some ways, it reminded him of the way US Navy aircraft carriers’ hanger decks broadened their hulls. The edge of the upper deck was about nine feet above the waterline, although the sturdy, solid bulwarks—obviously intended to serve as protection against incoming arrows and crossbow bolts—increased its total freeboard to about fourteen feet. There were nettings on the bulwarks where the crew stowed its rolled-up hammocks each morning. That would increase their ability to absorb incoming fire, although Rick didn’t remember ever reading about the Roman navy of Earth doing that sort of thing.
Sailing ships did that during the Age of Sail, I think. Did the Romans even issue hammocks, though? Wonder if Warner has a clue about that one?
The ship also had two large torsion catapults or ballistae, like enormous crossbows, on the forecastle and a trio of arrow throwers spaced out along each bulwark amidships. Each arrow thrower consisted of a gimbal-mounted, trough-like firing tray that could be loaded with six enormous arrows. They were actually closer to fletched javelins than anything Rick would have called an arrow, and they were fired using a single, torsion-driven striker that was cranked back with a windlass and then released to strike the butts of all six arrows with enormous force.
The arrow throwers were primarily close-in, antipersonnel weapons designed for a scattergun effect, but the ballistae on the forecastle were quite another matter. Large spear-like bolts, much heavier than the arrows of their little brothers mounted on the bulwarks, were laid out near each of them, and their torsion bands, like those of the arrow throwers, were wrapped in a waterproofing made of well-oiled parchment. They could also fire other types of projectiles, and a supply of stones, each of which probably weighed forty or fifty pounds, rested in boxes nearby. They were remarkably uniform in size and shape, and Rick reminded himself that early cannonballs had also been made of shaped stone. There was also a rack of clay pots—empty, at the moment—clearly of a size to be launched by the catapults, and a dozen Roman marines were stationed on the forecastle to operate the artillery. They were dressed in cloth tunics and there were no hobnails on their boots, but the other differences from the standard Roman army uniform were minor.
All in all, Rick thought, Ferox was a formidable fighting machine, and its crew was much larger than he’d estimated. According to Pilinius, the quinquireme carried three hundred rowers, seventy marines, and twenty-five deck crew to run the rigging.
I just hope the Fivers and the Riccigionans don’t have a lot like it! I doubt the Five Kingdoms do, but Riccigiona may be an entirely different kettle of fish. It sounds like the Duchy’s got itself a professional navy, like Rome and Nikeis, and that could be bad.
The visitors were conducted to the quarterdeck. Pilinius made certain they were all safely in their assigned places and out of the way before he began to shout commands. Signal flags rose up lines on the masts. Landsmen cast off the harbor lines and the oarsmen shipped oars. The burly oarmaster raised his hammers, and at a signal from the captain began to beat out a pace on a big wooden block as the squadron began filing out of the harbor.
Once into the open sea, Pilinius set the big lateen sails on each mast and the rowers ran their oars back inboard. They moved more rapidly under sail, and once they were well underway, Rick went below to the battery-operated repeater set Baker had brought to Tran. The antenna had been mounted well up on Ferox’s mainmast, connected to the set by coaxial cable, and he picked up the microphone and pushed the talk button.
“Test. Rabbit One, this is Big Mamma. Over.”
“Rabbit One here. Given that there are nine radios on this planet it’s not likely I’d be anyone else, is it, Sir? I hear you well. Over.”
“Good. We have communications. Over.”
“We’re making the expected pace,” Baker said. “The plan calls for us to be in sight of the swamp before noon tomorrow, and I expect that will happen. We’ll anchor offshore at dusk tonight, as planned. With this wind I presume the anchors will hold. Captain Oranato is a fussbudget, but he appears competent enough. Over.”
“The lookouts at masthead can make you out at the horizon,” Rick said. “We’re keeping pace with you. The fleet is right behind us. Yell if you need help. And keep a close watch tonight! Over.”
“I’ll do just that, Sir. But I don’t think we’ll have any problems. Over.”
“Any issues with the crew? Mr. Warner working out all right? Over.”
“No problems with troops. Not with Oranato, not with mine,” Baker said. “Baker out.”
“It is true, then,” Publius said when Rick came back on deck. “You have ways to speak to your men at great distances. You did not have such in our previous battles.”
“No. The equipment was brought here by Major Baker.”
Publius nodded, frowning thoughtfully.
“Will there—is there more of this magic in the containers?”
“There may be,” Rick said. And he’s a pretty smart bird. He knows how valuable all this stuff is. And the ship is his. Rick was glad of the weight of his Colt .45 in its shoulder holster. And that Bisso and Rand would stand watch outside his cabin.
Of course, now wasn’t the dangerous time. The dangerous time would be after they’d defeated the main pirate fleet. Both Rome and Nikeis needed his help now, but when that threat was removed . . . And it was probably not a good idea to count one’s battles before they were won. One fight at a time. On the best reckoning they’d be outnumbered by more than two to one in a naval battle with the pirate alliance, and it might be as high as five to one. That might not make any difference, since the pirate fleet wouldn’t have guns, but it was still something to worry about.
* * *
They anchored at dusk.
Rick estimated they were less than a mile from shore. The land to the west was flat, but marshes began just to the north. The wind was from the northeast, an onshore wind, but it was very light, and no one seemed concerned. The anchor held nicely, at least.
Rick’s binoculars indicated that some of the land was cultivated but he saw no one. Probably fear of pirates and slavers. They would farm in large parties rather than individually, with lookouts to watch for incoming sails. It might even have been the sight of his fleet that drove everyone inland. Probably was, now that he thought about it.
This stretch of coast was nominally under the governance of an Eqeta who was seldom seen, and who managed to trim between Rome as an ally and Drantos as sovereign without rendering much assistance or tribute to either.
“Could the Eqeta actually be in alliance with the pirates?” Rick asked, and Fleetmaster Junius shrugged.
“We have little to do with this shore,” he admitted. “Rome has little commerce with the Five Kingdoms to the north, and when we do go there, we go by way of Nikeis. Nikeis commands the Inner Sea.”
“Nikeis may claim to,” Publius said. “But the pirates clearly have a rival claim of some strength.”
Rick nodded silently. A hundred ships was a considerable claim.
Dinner was cold, mostly bread, and there was little further conversation. Rick had no desire to betray his utter lack of knowledge about naval warfare, and his attempts to draw more information from Fleetmaster Junius were received politely but without much encouragement. Rick went to bed early. They’d found him a small cabin with a hammock. It wasn’t comfortable, and it took a long time to get to sleep. His stomach growled and more than once in the night he winced in pain.
Rick kept thinking about his conversation with Baker. Like it or not, the history of this planet was going to change radically, thanks to whatever was in those containers. The only religious war he knew of on Tran was the one with the Defenders of the old faith led by Phrados the Prophet. Before that there was no record or memory of one—none that anyone remembered, anyway; there had to have been at least minor squabbles, given human nature—so they hadn’t had Reformation and Counter-Reformation. Maybe they wouldn’t. The only major religions were pagans and Christians, and the new Unified Church was absorbing one of the major pagan powers into something like a Christian church, largely because Rick and his star men seemed to accept Christianity. Religion was strong here: there were many histories of divine intervention and skyfire every six hundred years or so. No wonder they believed in God and gods. But wouldn’t that change with the spread of science and scientific method?
He fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed that someone was shouting that Great Pan was dead.
* * *
Rick woke before dawn and wandered down to the galley, where there was a fire in a large ceramic stove. A cook obligingly put on a kettle to boil, and after a cup of mint tea that would have to serve, since he hadn’t brought any of his precious coffee on board, Rick climbed up the rope ladder at the ship’s mainmast and took out his binoculars. It was shortly before the rise of the True Sun. As the glow in the east grew brighter Rick could just make out Baker’s little fleet on the northern horizon. He watched until he saw all three ships turn away on a northwesterly heading.
“They’re getting under way,” he called down.
“My thanks, Patrician,” Captain Pilinius yelled back. Rick was taken aback for a moment; he was still getting used to his new Roman title.
Pilinius shouted orders, and the sailors raised the big iron-and-wood anchor. The other ships of the fleet did the same. Sails were set, and they moved steadily northward, careful to keep Baker’s fleet just at the horizon as seen from up the mast while Mason, Bisso, and Rand took turns climbing up to observe with binoculars.
At noon the radio gave a message alert.
* * *
Larry Warner perched on a tiny platform halfway up the mast of the tubby merchant vessel Sagitta.
Sagitta my ass, he thought, gazing through his binoculars. Damned hard to think of anything less like an “arrow” than this tub!
The navis oneraria was on the small size for its type, about the size of one of the Roman triremes, and that meant its masts were on the short side, too. Which was just as well, since it meant he’d fall a shorter distance before he splattered on the deck. It also meant he couldn’t see as far as he could have from a greater height, but he was just fine with that.
His current roost could hardly be called a crow’s nest, but that was the only term he had for it. Down below there was no sign of the Gurkha troops, although Major Baker stood on the quarterdeck. From close enough he would look a bit strange in his battle dress, but there wasn’t any chance of that. The pirates wouldn’t have telescopes.
Not yet, Warner thought. But once the idea gets loose . . .
He scanned the horizon to the east, then northeast. He’d seen nothing since they got underway just after dawn, but they were headed northwest—well, more like northwest-by west he supposed, if he was going to be all nautical about it—with the wind out of the northeast. That meant it was coming in almost broad on their beam, which he thought he recalled was supposed to be the best point of sailing. Or was that with the wind on the quarter? It didn’t seem to matter much, either way, because they weren’t setting any speed records, even with the lateen sails set on both of the ship’s stubby masts. They could probably have gotten more speed out of the ship by rowing, but Warner had been surprised to discover how seldom oars were actually used. Merchant ships like Sagitta used them only to maneuver in and out of harbor, or in a dead calm, and they were slower than hell when they did. War galleys were a lot faster under oars than merchant ships—had a lot to do with their hull forms, he thought; they were much longer in proportion to their beams. But even they almost invariably cruised under sail and stripped down to their oars only when a fight was imminent or they needed to move against the wind. All of which meant that if anything dangerous was around, it would probably be coming from upwind.
He scanned again, this time to the southeast. He could just make out the sails of the trailing fleet, and he turned back to the north.
Bait, that’s what we are, he thought, and a line from Pogo came unwanted. “Once you been bait, you ain’t much good for anything else.” For some reason that hit him hard. Because they were a long way from Earth, and he’d never see a Pogo cartoon again, he realized glumly. Then he grinned.
Too bad I can’t draw. I could do my own. If I need to miss something from Earth, a cartoon possum shouldn’t be all that high on the list.
He scanned eastward, then north again. Then—Hah! Something there, but a lot farther west than he’d expected. He focused in to be sure of what he was seeing, then called down to Major Baker.
“Sail ho. Two of them, actually. Sails just in sight, hull down, almost dead northwest of us.”
“Only two?”
“So far that’s all I can see, Sir.”
“Right. Keep watching.” Baker turned to Captain Oranato and tried to say “Enemy in sight” in the common Tran trade parlance, but Oranato’s expression showed that Baker’s northern accent had defeated him.
More sails crept into view, and Warner called down again, in English then repeated his message in the local language.
“Five sails in sight now! Bearing north-northwest. They look to be headed east-southeast, not straight for us. There’s another. Six. Six so far, all on the same course.”
“Right,” Baker shouted. “Corporal Wakaina, take Mr. Warner’s place on the mast! Warner, I’d rather have you down here, in case we need to give information to Captain Oranato.”
Warner grinned.
“Yes, Sir. Coming right down.”
As soon as he was on deck, a Gurkha trooper with binoculars clambered up the mast to replace him.
“I assume they’re trying to catch us, Mr. Warner?” Baker asked.
“They’re northwest of us, Sir,” Warner said to Baker in English, then translated for Captain Oranato. “Maybe six miles away, and steering a bit south of due east. They look to be heading about as close to the wind as they can under sail.”
“Not quite a reciprocal of our course,” Baker murmured, rubbing his chin. Then his eyes narrowed. “They’re sweeping around to get upwind of us,” he said. “Of course, they can see us. Ask Captain Oranato what he would normally do in this situation.”
Oranato must have understood without translation, because he was already speaking—rapidly, and with wide gestures.
“Basically, he’d get the hell out of here,” Warner translated. “This is a merchant ship, after all. Usually, he’d turn southeast, directly away from them, or southwest to put the wind straight behind us, and run for it. But southwest’s straight into the swamps from here. So under the circumstances, he’d turn northeast, as close to the wind as he can sail—close-hauled, I think they call that—and try to get out to sea. Get away from the swamps and get some maneuvering room to dodge them.”
“Hmm. So at some point we ought to do that. How soon will they be sure we’ve seen them?”
“Anytime now, I’d think.” Warner shrugged. “They can’t know about binoculars, but even so . . . ”
“Precisely. So the one thing we don’t want is for them to think we want them to catch us. Mr. Warner, ask Captain Oranato to run off to the northeast, but slowly, as if there’s something wrong with his ship.” He thumbed the radio. “All Rabbits, this is Rabbit One. Enemy in sight. We will turn northeast as if running away. Keep station on us and close to a hundred meters behind, please. Acknowledge. Over.”
The radio squawked twice in acknowledgment and he shifted channels.
“Big Mama, enemy in sight,” he said. “Repeat enemy in sight. Six sails, I repeat, six sails in sight. I believe they have seen us. They are trying to close with us. I will signal when engagement is near. Over.”
“Nothing else to report?” The radio flattened tones, but Rick sounded anxious, and Baker grinned at Warner.
“Not a thing, Sir,” he said. “Out.”
The wind was light, so Captain Oranato chose to tack through it under oars rather than wear ship. They cast off the sheets to spill wind from the sails, the oarsmen pulled the bow through the wind, and the deck crew reset the sails on both masts. The canvas filled, and they began moving faster, headed east-northeast, away from the shore with the wind coming in from port and well forward of the beam. Warner was astounded by how close to the wind their lateen sails could come, but Captain Oranato left the men on the oars to help the canvas along. It took several minutes for Baker to persuade him to at least slow the oarsmen’s stroke.
“Excellent,” the major said then. “Now to let the Colonel know.” He selected a channel and thumbed the radio again. “Big Mama this is Rabbit One. Over.”
“Big Mama here. Is all well, Major Baker? Over.”
“Well, we now have seven sails closing. There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of doubt about their intention; they turned to pursue as soon as we altered course. We’re steering to east-northeast, as if running from them, but we’re not at full stroke. They’re definitely pirates, not great galleys—single-masted, the lot of them—so we have more sail area than they do, but they’re also built for speed. We aren’t, and they have the wind from a more favorable angle. Captain Oranato estimates they should catch us up in a couple of hours. Over.”
“What do you want us to do? Over.”
“Sir, mostly we need you to stay out of sight if we expect to lure these chaps out where we can get at them. I’d rather fight them at sea than try to thread our way through marshes and swamps. Over.”
“We didn’t expect seven. Does that worry you? Over.”
“No, Colonel, it doesn’t worry me at all. Over.”
A short pause.
“All right. We’ll stay out of sight. Be careful, Major. Over.”
“That I will, Sir. That I will. Out.”
* * *
The wind came up stronger an hour later, and some of the Gurkha troopers looked a bit green as the ship pitched. Baker went down to the main deck to be sure they weren’t in distress, but came back up to the poop deck in good spirits.
“Nothing wrong that a chance to fight won’t cure,” he said, and thumbed the radio again. “All Rabbits, this is Rabbit One. Ask your skippers to stand by for maneuver, it’s time to go catch those buggers while we have enough daylight to work in. Acknowledge, Rabbit Two. Over.”
“Martins here. Acknowledged. Stand by one.” There was a pause. “Skipper says they’ll want to wear ship rather than tack in this wind, Sir.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We’re headed east-northeast, the wind is from north-northeast, and the pirates are west-northwest of us, Sir,” Martins said. “To tack we’d turn to port and put the bow through the wind. He’s not going to do that. He’s going to turn to starboard—turn right—so the stern goes through the wind. Then he’ll turn right some more to get on the new course towards them.”
Baker frowned, then looked at Warner.
“Did you understand that?” he demanded.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Explain it to Captain Oranato. Then you can have a go at explaining it to Leftenant Cargill, if you will. I’ll just listen in to be certain you get all the fiddly bits right for him.”
Warner grinned.
“Of course, Sir,” he said, and his grin grew wider.
* * *
It took half an hour to accomplish the maneuver. By the time they were headed for the enemy fleet, the two lead pirates had lowered their sails and were barely a kilometer away. Their oars moved gracefully in full sweep, and they were closing fast on Baker’s ship. The Roman marines, dressed as merchant sailors, gathered on the forecastle, readying the ballista which had been hidden under a tarpaulin. They were careful to not look very professional while they did, and the Gurkha riflemen stayed out of sight, clustered just forward of the oarsmen. Their rifles were still cased and they lay back on the deck, hands clasped behind their heads, chattering among themselves as the fleets closed.
Captain Oranato shouted orders, and his sailors began hauling in the lateen sail to the big yardarm, then lowered the yard until it rested on supports. The oarmaster increased the pace of his hammering, and the oar strokes became more rapid. The two lead pirates slowed their forward pace.
“Got too far ahead of their pack,” Baker observed. “They’ll pay for that.”
“Bit surprised they don’t just turn and head back until their friends catch up,” Warner said. “They’re faster than we are, and if the three ships I was chasing suddenly turned on me, I think I’d start wondering if something was going on that I didn’t know about.”
“We’re merchant ships; they’re warships. Well, pirate ships, at any rate.” Baker shrugged. “They’re certain to have bigger crews than any merchant vessel, as well, but we do outnumber them three-to-two. Probably think we’ve decided our best chance is to try to overwhelm them before their friends arrive, but I doubt they’re overly concerned about the outcome.”
“Likely the best ships they have, too,” Warner said. He scanned the approaching ships. “They’re crawling with armed men, Major. They think they’re ready for us.”
“I’m sure they do.” Baker nodded with an unpleasant smile. “But whatever they’re ready for, it’s not us.”
The ships drew closer together and Baker took out a whistle and sounded it for attention. The Gurkhas looked in his direction, and he pointed at the oncoming pirates.
“All right, lads! Make ready for volley fire!” he ordered, and the Gurkhas uncased their rifles. Warner glanced at the other two ships and their riflemen were doing the same.
The pirates came steadily closer.
Duck and cover? Or stand here like I’m brave? Warner thought.
The Roman marines had their artillery ready, a spear-sized bolt in the catapult and a dozen cocked crossbows to support it, but they remained seated on the forecastle while the Gurkhas knelt on one knee behind the ship’s bulwarks. Warner could see archers on the pirate ships, and he and Baker and Warner were the only people—which meant targets—visible to them at the moment. Not a pleasant thought.
“They’re upwind of us,” he said nervously.
“Bit out of range for arrows, surely.” Baker sounded infuriatingly serene as he studied the lead pirate through his binoculars.
“Closing, closing . . . make ready to fire,” he said conversationally to his men. “We will fire in volley at one hundred meters range. Your aim point is the forecastle of the lead ship. Take your aim—now!” The Gurkhas rose higher on their knees, swinging their rifles over the top of the bulwark, as Baker put one hand on the mast while he felt the timing of the ship’s roll. A moment passed, and then—
“In volley, fire!”
The twenty rifles crashed in what seemed like one long shot.
“Change your aim point to the oardeck!” Baker shouted. As he did, there were two more volleys, one from each of the other navibus onerārius in their flotilla, and suddenly the forecastles of both approaching pirate ships were littered with bodies.
“No archers standing!” Warner reported, and Baker bared his teeth.
“Piece of cake,” he said, and turned back to his men. “New aim point, change targets! The port oardeck is your aim point! Take your aim, in volley, fire!”
The rifles crashed again, and Baker paused to assess the damage.
They were nearly abreast of the pirate ship thirty yards to their port. Most of the oars were unmanned, and there seemed to be chaos on the enemy ship.
“Good enough. New aim point. Change your aim point to the steersman. First section, make ready. First section only, fire at will.”
There were several shots with no effect, then the enemy steersman doubled over. Warner heard cheers. Then the Roman officer on the forecastle shouted orders, and an arbalest bolt penetrated the pirate ship just aft of the mast. There were more cheers, although Warner didn’t think they had hit anyone, and the Roman officer pointed to his firepots.
“No, dammit!” Warner shouted. “We want that ship, Centurion! Not a burned hulk.”
They passed the pirate ship at a distance of twenty yards. Someone had taken the steersman’s place, and shouted orders could be heard. A few pirates had bows, but the Gurkhas were both faster and more accurate. As they swept past there was more individual rifle fire, and again the pirate ship had no steersman.
“Now, Mr. Warner,” Baker called. “Let’s see about that fellow.”
He pointed at a third pirate ship, a thousand yards or so behind the two leaders, that was suddenly backing oars as their quarry turned on them.
Warner shouted to Captain Oranato, who grinned widely and gave orders to the steersman. The oarsmen on the deck below were cheering.
Warner looked southeast. A dozen sails had appeared over the horizon, and he touched Baker’s sleeve and pointed.
“Colonel’s coming up.”
“Yes, we’ll let him deal with those two.” Baker raised his voice. “Stand by to engage,” he said, then thumbed his radio to the general channel. “All units, this is Rabbit One. We’ll cripple the third enemy and see if we can catch any more of them. Once we’ve hit this next ship, leave these for the main fleet to deal with. We will then engage the next three pirate ships in line. I note that the trailing ships have slowed their pace, I believe they may try to run away. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Rabbit Two, aye, aye,” Martins said. “Well done, Skipper! Over.”
“Rabbit Three, aye, aye. Over,” Cargill said.
The third pirate ship tried to turn away at the last moment, but its captain had left his decision too late, and Warner cheered as Sagitta bore down on the galley.
“We’ll rake him, by God!” Baker shouted. He grinned at Warner. “Well, that’s what they say in the Hornblower novels. Make ready for volley fire. Your aim point is low on the steering deck. Keep it low. Stand by . . . take aim. In volley, fire!”
Five minutes later the third pirate’s sail fell.
“The rest of them are running away,” Warner said. “They’ve seen the fleet, I think.”
“Or what happened to their companions,” Baker said. He shrugged. “Either way, we aren’t going to catch them. They’re pulling away from us now.” He frowned. “Waste of ammunition to fire on them at this range. All right, Sergeant Major, you can have the lads put their weapons away. This job is pretty well done.” He thumbed the talk button. “Mission accomplished, Colonel. What’s next?”
“Stand off until we bring up the fleet,” Rick said. “We’ll get things—uh—ship shape. Then we’ll take the fleet to call on Nikeis.” Rick’s chuckle came through on the radio. “After you transfer back to Ferox, we can send your merchant captain on ahead to tell them what he just saw.”