The storm broke a little past noon such that all of Fletch’s sails were let out to dry in the calm. She was now well out of sight of land, steaming south-southwest toward Kjell. Dunstable had rejoined the formation and was now but a few thousand arshins behind.
“Signal them to move off a little to one side, I’d like to exercise the gun.” Granger instructed the bosun. Boyle went up to the bridge and hailed Dunstable with the lamp and the great ship moved as instructed.
“Are there sufficient qualified men on this watch to man the gun?” He asked next.
Boyle nodded. “Aye, I’ll assemble a crew now.”
“Very good, and put a barrel over the side, would you, they need something to aim at.”
An empty drinking water barrel was cast over the fantail by one party of sailors as another gathered aroundthe 30 line Schulman Works naval rifle. Two of them hefted a crate of shells from below.
Granger eyed the men around the gun. “Mr. Nock?”
“Aye, sir.” Replied a tall, middle-aged sailor.
“You were qualified as a gunner in the merchant auxiliary?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And you’re familiar with the Charleville device?”
“Somewhat, sir.”
“Then this gun and crew are yours. Dispatch that barrel.”
“Aye, sir!” He acknowledged, then turned to the men. “Stand by the gun! Ready a shell!”
The commotion had drawn Bethany, and she stood next to Granger as Nock consulted a twin-lensed telescope of sorts mounted on a brass box that swiveled with the gun.
“What is he doing?” Bethany asked.
“Finding the range to the barrel, through the eyepiece he sees its image, split by a hair, and uneven. He must adjust the lenses until the image is even, and each increment of adjustment corresponds to a distance, thanks to some principle of optics that I doubt he understands, certainly I do not.”
“500 arshins.” Nock reported. “Ship speed and bearing please, sir.”
“Helm: bearing, and last taken speed!” Granger called to the bridge.
“Bearing 226 degrees, speed 11 knots, sir!” The helm reported.
Nock manipulated a series of knobs on the face of the brass box while repeating. “226, 11.” Pulling a handle on on its side, he activated a gear train which clicked away briefly before displaying a string of numbers via a digit wheel mounted behind a protective glass cover.
Consulting the readout, Nock ordered: “Traverse up two degrees, traverse starboard 23 degrees.” Cranking wheels near the breech of the gun the crew aimed the gun in accordance with the Charleville Patent Ranging Engine’s instructions.
Nock turned to Granger. “Sir, my gun is laid.”
“Fire when ready.” Granger ordered.
“Load!” Nock commanded.
The crew hurried a shell into the breach and slammed it shut.
Marine Captain Farley was also observing now. He offered Bethany a cheap spyglass while sighting down his own, finer model. “You’ll want to see this.”
Bethany took it with a polite nod and found the barrel bobbing in the sea. As she did so, Nock bellowed: “Fire!”
The 30 line gun barked and a split second later a massive splash landed just in front of the floating barrel.
“We are going away from it, you should have taken the range last.” Farley commented to the gunner.
As his crew ejected the spent shell and readied another, Nock took another consulted the Charleville’s sights again. “700 arshins!” He reported, entering that figure into the device. “Keep your lateral traverse, increase vertical traverse by four degrees.” He went on. As the crew input the small adjustment, Granger stated: “You may fire as soon as the gun is laid.”
Nock did so, and the barrel was vaporized.
The gun crew let out a self-satisfied cheer, which Granger dampened. “You’ll need to drill for speed as well. That gun is rated for 12 rounds per minute.”
As the splash from the shot settled, Bethany saw a strange flicker of light from beyond it. She first attributed this to the sun glinting off the disturbed water, but it persisted even after that had settled.
“Mr. Farley do you see that light, just there?” Bethany asked, pointing.
Farley regarded it with spyglass. “I do. Mr. Granger, take a look at this.”
The Sailing Master lifted his glass as well. After a long moment, he remarked. “That is a signal mirror, almost certainly.” Lowering his glass, he turned to the bridge.
“Helm, come about and signal Dunstable to stop.”
Fletch turned quickly and steamed toward the signal. Bethany made for the bow and found the flickering again. As it drew nearer, she could make out first a small, triangular sail, then the hull of a lifeboat.
“Go below and get a carbine, we’ve no guarantee this isn’t a Bexarian.” Granger ordered Farley.
Farley went below and emerged with two marines bearing three line carbines, his service revolver and sword. The lifeboat was very close now. “Helm, all stop.” Granger ordered.
The screw ceased turning and Fletch drifted forward on her remaining momentum. Granger retrieved his speaking trumpet. “Good afternoon, we are the S/Y Fletch in service of the Assembly. Identify yourself. Make no sudden movements.”
A man slowly stood in the boat. “Greetings, Fletch, I am Lieutenant Threlfall late of the ACS Laurel. I’m very glad to see you.”
“And we you, Lieutenant.” Granger replied, then turned to the bosun. “Get a boat hook right away.”
Fletch passed just alongside the lifeboat, it was carefully hooked and pulled firmly against the yacht’s hull.
“Can you climb out on your own, sir?” Granger asked - if he had been too long at sea he may be deathly weak.
Threlfall answered by hauling himself shakily from the lifeboat. When he was aboard Fletch he leaned over the gunnel and retrieved a carpet bag and small wicker box, which seemed to be moving on its own. “What’s that?” Granger inquired, pointing to the box. “Flummox, sir, my cat.”
The Sailing Master clapped Threlfall on the back. “Very good. Now, do you know if anyone else survived the sinking, and if so where they may be? Did any other men get off in boats?”
“Sinking, sir? There was no sinking.”
“Then how did you come to be out alone in a boat?”
Threlfall approached Granger and broke him off from the gathered marines and officers, in a confiding tone, he explained: “I am a ship’s scribe and seer, sir. I predicted the storm you just weathered, and sent the Laurel around it but in doing so directed it into the path of a Bexarian raider. That is no fault of mine - I can only know what will be, not what may be - nature is certain, man is not, I could not have known the raider would be there and choose to strike for I could not see into its captain’s mind. We were lightly damaged only, but a ship’s boy and a few popular crewmen were slain. This stirred a frenzy before the mast, the crew demanded my head as a traitor, they thought me a Bexarian spy or, at best, a fool. The Captain, Mr. Wesley, was on my side but he could not risk mutiny and admitted, to his great sadness, that he could not guarantee my safety unless I confined myself to my cabin, and even then perhaps. Ultimately he ordered me off onto the boat - I have here a letter of introduction that explains the situation in his words, and also my commission and certification as a seer.”
Threlfall passed a handful of envelopes to Granger, who set about skimming the letter from Captain Wesley.
“Indeed, it seems you were a victim of ignorance, Lieutenant.” The Sailing Master concluded. Leaning in and lowering his voice, he added: “Though I cannot say that our ship is free of such foolishness - you would do well to keep this story away from the common sailors.”
“Naturally.” Threlfall nodded.
Granger faced the bridge: “Rejoin Dunstable and proceed on course.” Regarding Threlfall again, he explained: “Now, we are ourselves under orders to steam to Kjell without deviation. I am sure would prefer to be put off on the mainland so that you might seek transfer to another full-fledged ship like Laurel but might you deign to serve us?”
“I’ve already contacted the High Command and they are presently too busy to find me a transfer, so, certainly. If you would annotate and my commission reflecting my join joining your ship I would...”
Granger interrupted him, motioning toward Bethany: “I am only the Sailing Master, sir, she will need to sign for you.”
Threlfall looked perplexed, nearly whispering, Granger added: “It’s her father’s ship, poor man has no sons.”
The seer approached Bethany with a smile. “Madam, Captain, as you may have heard I am joining your crew. If you might sign my commission to make this official I would be very thankful.”
“Mr. Threlfall, I would, but I haven’t a pen.”
Granger interceded: “We have plenty in the chart room. Follow me.”
Fletch’s chart room was a little bigger than a closet and was dominated by large table, bolted firmly to the deck, over which a paraffin lamp hung. The current chart, all blue, for there was no land to speak of in this area of sea, was spread out and marked with their progress so far. Tens of other charts, used and yet to be used, were rolled up and secured in a rack against the aft bulkhead. As promised, Granger provided a pen and handed Bethany also Threlfall’s commission, he indicated the blank space on its back where she was to write.
“What should I say?” Bethany asked.
Granger dictated to her: “I, your name, Captain of the S/Y Fletch, owing to the exigencies of service, hereby append the officer referenced in this commission to the company of the S/Y Fletch at his present rank until the service formally re-assigns him or I see fit to order his transfer.”
Bethany wrote exactly as instructed in her schoolgirl’s longhand and signed her name to it. She then handed the commission to Threlfall. As he grasped it a few of his fingers touched hers, and a peculiar look flashed across his face. This he quickly banished, and, placing the commission in a pocket, shook first Granger’s hand and then hers. As he did the latter, Bethany again noticed a strange, scrutinizing glint in his eyes.
An overlarge dinner was held half in Threlfall’s honor and half to alleviate the boredom that pervaded the long, mid-passage evenings. It began with the mundane, polite discussion befitting officers in the presence of a lady but was driven by drink to a civil yet passionate debate between Granger and Farley regarding the as-yet entirely hypothetical capabilities of the Bexarian land forces.
‘They were paper tigers.’ Contended Granger.
‘They had known great success putting down risings in Bexar, unlike our own forces they were recently blooded.’ Retorted Farley.
The fact that neither man was expert on land warfare only made the discussion lengthier. By the time night fell, Badrine was sitting in silence on his third cigar, Threlfall was pacing the deck, and Bethany had retired to her cabin.
She sat on the edge of her bunk, studying her painting of Boyle. She liked it well enough, but regretted rendering merely the wall and window behind him, rather than capturing his face and then embellishing it with some sea scene. Then again, his striped shirt and boatman’s hat told all but the most obtuse viewer that he was a sailor. A gentle knock came at the door. “Miss Esterhouse, I hope I am not waking you. I had the steward prepare tea and I thought you might like some.”
It was Threlfall. Bethany laid the painting on her desk and stood. “Do come in.”
Sure enough, he bore a silver tray of tea. He looked about for a place to lay it down and Bethany scrambled to take her painting from the desk so that he might put it there. As he poured tea, he looked her in the face: “Good evening, witch.”
Bethany started but calmed quickly - of course he knew. Before she could speak, Threlfall went on: “Do you take jam with your tea... no, you wouldn’t, your southwestern you probably take ice... but truly, jam or sugar?”
“Well if you’re taking jam I should like to try it.” Bethany responded.
Threlfall prepared two cups of tea in the same way and slid one across the minuscule writing desk to her.
“I would ask you how you knew, but I suppose you saw it.” Bethany began.
“Saw, no, sensed. You aren’t a seer or a scribe, but you’ve the same touch, more so, actually. I would wager there is enough ability in you to make 10 scribes.”
“How did you arrive at that?”
“The same way a scribe can feel another’s pen across 500 versts. Whatever is in me, rather, us, that allows us to touch witch glass with reaching for it, allows us to sense the talent for it another, if you take my meaning. Some say there are traces of Moldavite in our blood, but they’ve injected the purest distillate of that into common men and found it does nothing.”
Bethany stirred her tea: “A scribe told me something like that, in fewer words, not long ago. My mother and grandmothers were witches - my grandmother was a high one, my mother merely practical, they told me that I was born with nearly nothing, but a doctor in Bray now contends that I have enough to be a danger, but too little to train.”
“You mean to say you were never trained?”
“Not a whit.”
Threlfall put his cup and saucer down. “Have you ever actively used your ability?”
Bethany looked at the desk a while. Threlfall, who, by the speed and volume of his talk was clearly no friend of quiet, was about to start speaking again when she spoke. “They say I killed a girl at fencing practice - put an edge on a dull sword just as it struck her.”
“Did you?”
“She lies dead and I did not sharpen it beforehand.”
“How pitiable, a terrible way to discover your talent. One of my fellows at the Naval Academy found he was a seer when, at six, he predicted his grandfather’s death. It was merely old age, but he felt he had somehow precipitated it - like the wizards of old could cause something be simply by making the image in their mind - it took a decade’s schooling and reading before all his guilt was banished. Fencing though? Is that how you came by that scar?”
“Yes. It’s a rather meager one, honestly, made by the tip of blade at speed rather than the edge - that’s all one can manage with a dull sword.”
Threlfall nearly laughed. “Would you prefer a larger one?”
“I would prefer to have none at all, but the University men certainly seek the grandest one possible, so long as it does not blind them or damage the scalp, it’s a mark of honor.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard to dodge a blade aimed at the body but easy enough to turn one’s head or duck, a gentleman, however, accepts the hit.”
“And you, it appears.”
“I wish I could say that, but I simply failed to see it coming. I had sweat in my eyes and I was not expecting anything from the girl across from me - she was a transfer, I thought she had never held a sword before, most schools where she was from do nothing martial - but her father had hired a private instructor so that she would not be humiliated.”
While she was speaking, Threlfall had extracted a small - ten lines or so - marble from his officer’s coat and was rolling about in his left palm. “Might I show you something?”
“Certainly.” Bethany assented.
“Step outside then.”
Standing just outside her cabin and, therefore, nearly against Fletch’s gunnel, Bethany watched Threlfall throw the marble overhand from the side of the ship. He made a point of showing her that both of his hands were empty, then, an instant later, the marble appeared in his open right hand, hovering just above his palm.
“It has a moldavite center.” He explained. Bethany nevertheless looked confounded: “Still, to handle it a such a speed is beyond a scribe’s practice.”
“So it is. That is why I do not show that to just anyone. 50 years ago it would have gotten my throat slit, it still might in some provinces and it would land me in jail anywhere.”
“You are wizard, then?” Bethany asked in a whisper.
Tossing the marble between his hands, Threlfall went on: “No, I am a mere dilettante, a scribe with aspirations, but the Assembly Charter proscribes even the plainest wizardry - that said when men who could move mountains still lived, many lesser talents, practical wizards, operated unnoticed and their blood was passed on. From the weakest of these we have the plain scribes, from just above them, the scribe-seers, and men like me, well, no one truly understands heredity. Witches were luckier - many were regarded as healers at the time, and those who were not were still of the fairer sex, the populous would have risen to their defense, but wizards, the high ones at least, had shown a penchant for spilling common blood.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Is it true the Charter makes no mention of witches?”
“Not one that I can recall - it was presumed that with no high wizards to pass on their talents to their daughters it would die off soon enough, especially since marriage between a man and woman both bearing the talent was outlawed. They failed to account for the possibility that it might also be matrilineal. An oversight, to be sure, but they were writing quickly, in time of war.”
Bethany glared: “Are you sincerely defending the drafters, they would have seen you dead.”
“Something had to be done. You should read the histories, the old wizard-Kings slew more than the assembly ever did.”
“This war might change that.” Bethany observed.
“It might, if they reach the mainland, which they never managed before.”
“So you’re in Granger’s camp then.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but enough of this talk, would you like to try with the marble?”
“Try what? Throwing out to sea?”
“No, no, I would never see it again.” Threlfall protested with a small smile. “I would like to see, if you’ll humor me, if you can contact it at all. I hate to make mention of your incident, but if you were able to change the edge of a blade then certainly you must be capable of something as simple as that, though, the question becomes, can you do it whenever you wish?”
He offered Bethany the marble, she put in the palm of her hand as he had. “How do I proceed?” She inquired.
“Envision about it moving - flying just above your hand, nothing more complex than that or it could get confused.”
Bethany did so. The marble remained dead in her palm. Threlfall studied it. “This may seem a touch grandiose, but how about you use one hand to sort of pull it upward - do not touch it, but act as if there is a string on it and you are trying to draw it up.”
Bethany transferred the marble to her left palm and held her right hand about 100 lines above it. Carefully and with great concentration she began to raise her right hand. She did not see the marble move, but felt, for an instant, its cold weight vanish from her skin. She grinned: “I think I managed it, I could not see but...”
Threlfall interrupted her. “You did, I felt it. You should try again, but you needn’t go so slowly.”
Bethany attempted the motion once more, with far greater speed. The marble ascended, smacked her right palm, and careered away, first through the air and then down the deck, rolling swiftly along the polished teak. With a flourish, Threlfall stopped it and turned it around, skittering it toward them until it knocked against Bethany’s toe.
“I’m sorry, I might have lost it - it must be worth a great deal with pure moldavite in it.” Bethany responded when the shock of launching the orb so vigorously subsided.
“Don’t apologize. You did well. Most scribes fail to make it go more than 20 lines in any direction. Now, why don’t you try and pick it up.”
Bethany bent down. “I meant with your talent.”
“I know.” Bethany declared. “...but mustn’t I be closer to it.”
“You were plenty close standing. Truly, try from where you were.”
Bethany stood up and focused on the marble. It moved about a bit on the deck, but she was certain that was from the action of the waves against the ship. Without warning, however, it began to rise until it pressed itself gently into the center of her outstretched hand. Certain that it would fall out any second, she closed a fist around it quickly.
“Well, that was grand.” Bethany blushed.
They were well south now. It was so bright and warm that the officers walked about on deck without their coats - badges of rank they would suffer much discomfort to keep. A fine wind was up and Fletch could run at half ahead with their sails deployed and still handily keep up with Dunstable.
Nathaniel sat perched on the taffrail with Bethany and her easel standing about an arshin in front of him. The portrait was half complete and the boy had sat in silence so far. An occasional bit of soot fell onto the canvas from the funnel but the scene - the shining deck and taffrail with the wake-stirred sea stretching out behind, was too good for her to consider moving.
Granger was walking the deck with a cup of tea in his hand and a battered boatman’s hat upon his head. Unlike the new ones possessed by the sailors, his bore a red ribbon with the name Zealous embroidered. As he walked into Bethany’s sight, she idly asked what sort of ship the Zealous was.
Granger took off the hat and passed the brim between his fingers contemplatively. “A fine one. A ship of the line, hull of wood, iron shot. I was a mid aboard her.”
Bethany attended to some detail of her painting, seeming not to hear him, but, without looking up, asked “Mid?”
“Midshipman - an apprentice officer.” Granger replied.
“What became of her?”
“Broken up not long after my cruise. I imagine there are some fine houses along the coast with her timber in their frames. She never did loose a shot in anger, though I suppose that is a blessing, broadly speaking.”
Bethany’s reply was preempted by the bellowing of Dunstable’s steam whistle. The blast went on without interruption for nearly 15 seconds and when it ceased, one of Dunstable’s deck guns barked. The action was occurring on the far side of the freighter, and was therefore invisible to her escort.
Granger looked her in the eye. “Clear this away and get below.” Next, he shouted: “Beat to quarters!”
The word was passed and a Marine drummer emerged from below decks and stood near the hatchway, playing a long roll. This summoned both watches. Nock and his men took up positions at the gun, the remaining marines readied their carbines, while the sailors stood poised for orders.
When the drumming stopped, silence engulfed the deck. Granger broke it. “Helm, slow ahead and steer to pass behind Dunstable. Boyle, spill our wind.”
Fletch turned hard and began to move toward Dunstable. The latter was still steaming at speed but black smoke rose from her superstructure and her puny deck gun spoke every 30 seconds, firing on an unseen enemy.
As they slowly crossed the troopship’s wake, Granger rushed to the forecastle, spyglass extended, and scanned the sea for Dunstable’s assailant.
A tramp freighter, painted jet black, filled his view. The Bexarian standard fluttered from a pole at her stern.
A man with a speaking trumpet was barely visible at her prow. “Assembly ship, surrender now, if you try to escape we will shoot away your rudder, if you continue firing on us we shall sink you!” He threatened.
Bethany had not gone below, she crouched behind the gunnel amidships. Fletch still lay largely in the shadow of Dunstable’s fantail.
“I’m not sure they see us.” Granger whispered to Farley with an air of disbelief.
“Indeed, their guns are still aimed at Dunstable only.” Farley agreed.
Granger selected the sailor nearest him and whispered: “Everyone keep quiet. Pass the word.” As the sailor scampered off to do so, Granger jogged down the deck to Nock’s gun.
“Load an explosive shell and sight on their bridge as soon as it comes into view.” He instructed. “And go gentle, make no calls.”
“Assembly ship, you have but 30 seconds to strike your colors!” The man on the tramp steamer shouted.
Granger addressed Farley once more: “Have your men take up firing positions. Target their gun crews and wait for my word.”
With balletic silence the marines crouched along the gunnel, bracing their carbines against it and taking aim.
Granger watched as Fletch slipped from the protection of the troopship’s shadow. Nock’s crew aimed their now loaded gun as instructed. Turning to the marines, Granger ordered: “You fire when our gun does, take as many shots as you can, thin their decks.”
On the tramp freighter’s forecastle, a gun was traversed aft along Dunstable’s hull, making ready to carry out the threat to the rudder. Granger stood up straight and shouted: “Mr. Nock, fire!”
Fletch’s deck gun barked and the Bexarian raider’s bridge disintegrated in a ball of flame. Bethany winced as the unmistakable silhouette of a human body rose with the blast and fell burning into the sea. Farley’s marines fired several volleys, cutting down a few gun crews. The surviving ones immediately turned their weapons on Fletch.
“Helm, full ahead and turn ‘round her.” Granger commanded. The yacht bucked as her screw bit the sea hard. Three shells thundered from the raider, one missed short, sending a column of water into the air, the other two shrieked between Fletch’s masts. The enemy ship was drifting now, with her bridge destroyed the men in engineering had likely stopped her engines, and though she could be steered from below decks, with no intact helm it would require a relay of crew giving directions to a gang manually directing the rudder from steerage, never an easy thing to organize and virtually impossible during a battle.
Fletch’s gun crew was fighting a personal battle with their opposite numbers. They missed a few of the emplacements but their fourth shell of the engagement struck home, wiping out what looked to be 50 line gun aft of the tramp’s superstructure. Suddenly, a massive sound like a whip-crack emanated from the stern of the enemy steamer. “That’s cavitation!” Granger announced, then asked: “Is she making astern or ahead?!”
“Ahead, sir, I think she means to ram the trooper!” Boyle, who, with no sails to manage, was manning a spyglass replied. The tramp was already perpendicular to Dunstable and would need to move forward but a quarter verst to hole her side with her bow.
“Nock! She’s making to ram! When we come around her stern try to knock out her rudder and screws.” It was impossible to decline the gun enough to directly target the enemy’s screws, but a near enough high explosive shell could do enough damage to their shaft mountings to render them lame.
It did not take long for Fletch to come around the raider’s stern, her hull making the cross of a “T” whose stalk was the enemy’s hull. Her deck gun fired twice, the first shot striking the fantail just above the rudder and the second entering the water below that and exploding in the sea. These impacts succeeded in stopping the raider’s directed charge but did not rob her of her momentum.
“By god she’s going to hit.” Boyle muttered.
She hit, her bow failed to pierce Dunstable but scraped violently alongside her hull. The troop ship turned abruptly in the direction of the impact so as to kick her tail and precious screws away from the foe. While she did so a volley of rifle fire poured down on the raider from the troop ship’s boat deck. Some clever soul had finally decided to give at least some of the soldiers onboard access to their service rifles and ammunition.
Dunstable’s turn had freed her from the ramming and the enemy drifted clear of her stern, now listing noticeably to port.
“We shall have to trust Dunstable’s men to sound their ship and shore her up. We are not finished with this scoundrel.” Granger mused. “Helm, steer to intercept. Mr. Farley, select and arm a boarding party from among the crew.”
Bethany’s ears rang, she was practically deaf. Gun and coal smoke filled her nostrils. She was still pressed against the gunnel, clinging to it as if she would fall off the planet should she let go. Nathaniel bounded over to her. “Get up Miss Bethany, we’re about to do them in.” Bethany tried to stand but her legs felt like dead wood. Nathaniel reached a hand out as if to pull her up and though he was too young and small to actually do so, the gesture willed her to rise.
“The fool’s flag is still up!” Granger observed. Fetching his speaking trumpet he appealed: “Bexarian ship! You are without propulsion or steerage! Strike your colors and you will be handled with honor!”
As the Fletch drew neared its battered prey, Threlfall, who had come on deck bearing his officer’s sword when the drumming began but had remained quiet - the rank afforded to scribes and seers was a recognition of their expertise in their craft, not their usually minimal naval training - spoke now to Boyle. “May I see that glass?”
Boyle wordlessly passed him his spyglass. Peering through it, Threlfall announced: “That is the very same ship that attacked Laurel - she came at night and swept us with her guns, then ran when she realized we were a proper warship and not a merchantman.”
“Cowards.” Granger scoffed.
“Rather I suspect it’s that they didn’t wish to die.” Threlfall countered.
“They appear to have changed their minds.”
A group of sailors had swung out one of Fletch’s launches and were piling into it, armed with swords, knives, and revolvers. Farley’s carbine armed marines joined them, and the marine captain himself, now wielding a pump action shotgun with bayonet, reported to Granger: “Boarding party stands ready to depart, sir.”
Granger nodded: “Very good.” Lifting his speaking trumpet, he addressed the raider once more: “Bexarian steamer, prepare to be boarded!”
The Bexarian made no reply and its ensign still flew.
“Helm, stop engine.” Granger ordered. “There’s no reason to give them a chance to board us.”
Fletch came to a halt a fewer than one hundred arshins from the raider. Farley boarded the launch and told the sailors standing by the davits to lower away. It did not take long for the little boat to reach the sea, the boarding party manned its oars and began making their way to the enemy.
Bethany stood along the gunnel with Granger, Threlfall, Boyle, and Badrine. The latter had come from directly from the engine room and looked a fright - covered in coal dust and sweat - but, with the engine stopped, he was finally able to go above to watch the battle and was keen to do so. He lit a cigar with a long match.
“Will there be a fight?” Bethany asked the assemblage.
Boyle fielded that. “Aye, girl, if they’ve not stuck yet it means they ‘spose they’ve a chance to hold off the boarders.”
The launch drew very near the raider. Threlfall offered Bethany Boyle’s spyglass. She took it and saw the launch come alongside the ship near her forecastle. She had rather ample freeboard and so the first step was to throw a grapnel to hook the gunnel. On the second try this maneuver succeeded and a sailor bearing a rope ladder coiled on his back scaled the line. When he reached the gunnel he peaked over it and conferred with Farley. They made some decision - it was impossible to hear what from the Fletch. The rope ladder was then secured to the gunnel and payed out until it reached the boat. The sailor responsible for it clambered down rather than going over the gunnel and onto the raider’s deck. Instead, Farley mounted the ladder, his shotgun slung across his back and a sword in his hand.
As he reached the top of the ladder and began and began to haul himself over the gunnel, Bethany’s breath caught. His entire body from the knees up was exposed as he stepped onto the raider’s deck and even the poorest marksman could send him hurtling overboard, to death or crippling, with a single shot.
None came. He shouted something and the rest of the boarding party rushed up the ladder and onto the deck. Like most tramps, the enemy ship had a small superstructure at her center and otherwise open decks to ease the handling of cargo. The boarders fanned out and moved from forecastle to the beginning of the superstructure, encountering no living men. They found all of the hatches to the superstructure shut and most were dogged down as if in a storm. One, however, had been warped by shellfire and stood slightly ajar. Bethany saw Farley point to two sailors and direct them to open it. When they were halfway through this task, a rifle jutted from the hatch and fired, striking a marine in the leg. He crumpled, Farley took aim with his shotgun and put two blasts through the opening. The rifle’s wielder fell dead, his gored midsection lying across the hatchway’s threshold. Farley made a point of stepping on the corpse as he moved into the superstructure. The wounded marine took cover behind a capstan as his compatriots advanced. Soon, the entire party was out of view.
Gunshots rang out across the water. The baritone thud of Farley’s shotgun interspersed with the cracks of rifle and revolver fire. A Bexarian with a knife jutting from his ribs stumbled backwards through a hatch on the side superstructure - intended to accommodate a gangplank in port, opened during the battle as a firing position -and fell dead into the sea. After a few minutes a hatch at the rear of the superstructure swung open a Bexarian burst through it in a panicked run. He was shot down. A few boarders then proceeded onto the stern, sweeping it. Farley was not among them.
Granger noted Bethany’s look of concern. “Most of them will be going below to clear out any remaining men, check for scuttling charges, and secure the seacocks.”
This they did, and no gunfire could be heard, though Bethany did not know if this a consequence of the men below surrendering or the heavier steel of the hull blocking the sound. The clearing took just long enough that Granger began to toy nervously with hilt of his sheathed sword, but Farley’s party came on deck, escorting several prisoners at gunpoint, and joined the others at the raider’s stern. On Farley’s instructions a sailor cut the Bexarian ensign down and passed it to the marine captain, who wadded it and shoved into his belt to keep as a trophy. A bloodied Bexarian officer offered a sword to Farley, who rejected it with a wave of his hand.
“Either he wants nothing to do with a scoundrel’s sword or he feels the bastards fought bravely enough that he deserves to keep it.” Granger explained.
Bethany blinked: “Even as a prisoner? What if he lies in wait then turns it against us?”
“Such a move is so dishonorable that his own command would likely court-martial him for it should he escape, and, if he did not, which is more likely, we would hang him straight away.”
A towrope ran taut between Dunstable’s stern and the raider, which, her surviving crew had reported, was called Nebel. It was dusk and a launch with a lantern burning at its prow rowed gently from the captured ship in the direction of Fletch. When it came alongside and was secured, Badrine disembarked. He had left the yacht in a clean uniform but his clothes were once again besmirched with the grime endemic to a ship’s engineering spaces.
He saluted Granger, who asked: “What is your report?”
“She is floating on her pumps now, sir. The flooding can be brought under control over the next day or so if the prisoners and some of Dunstable’s crew are put to the work. As for the running gear, her port screw is utterly destroyed and the shaft tunnel is flooded is on that side. She is twin screw, fortunately, and while the starboard screw has thrown a blade it should be able to propel her, albeit slowly.”
“Good. Begin to take care of the flooding immediately. I will speak with Dunstable about getting you some more men and rounding out a prize crew. We can’t spare you for the voyage back, though, so you will need to select and train a deputy on the Nebel.”
“Their second engineer is living. I have spoken with him.”
“Do you trust him?”
“He was on her crew when she was a merchantman. He’s no fanatic.”
“That will do then, set to it, please.” Granger dismissed Badrine and found Threlfall conferring with Bethany at the taffrail. “Lieutenant.” He greeted. “Sir.” Threlfall replied.
“I have a message to send if you would join me in the chart room.” Granger went on.
Threlfall nodded. “Of course.” The two men moved off toward the chart room and Bethany followed. On the way, Threlfall diverted to his cabin to retrieve his pen from its strongbox.
Arriving in the chart room, Granger laid a sheet of blank paper atop the chart and smoothed it with ceremony in the anticipation of a reply.
“To Vice Admiral Locke, aboard Howl. From Fenimore Granger, Sailing Master, S/Y Fletch, at sea.” Granger began as Threlfall dutifully transmitted, his fingers resting gently on the pen.
“Near noon today an enemy raider, Nebel, did attack and demand the surrender of Dunstable, whom we are charged to escort to Kjell. Dunstable sounded the alarm and summoned us, at first out of sight of this incident, and we quickly moved to her defense. Following a gun engagement, enemy was boarded and largely cleared of life, her surviving crew, 15 men and three officers, did then surrender. We have had but one man, a marine, wounded and none killed. The ship’s registered tonnage is roughly 10,000 and she has on board coal for many months steaming, and food for the same. Three intact 50 line guns remain as well as 300 shellsfor the same. The preceding stores and equipment represent the only objects of noteworthy value, she carried no conventional cargo. The ship and its running gear are substantially damaged but she is seaworthy and will be dispatched to Bray with a prize crew and prisoners. I trust this information is satisfactory. Your servant, F.G.”
Threlfall finished his transmission. “A reply is coming through now.”
The pen began its flight and with the scribe’s hands guiding it, wrote: “Excellent. Expect prize to be bought into service at Bray as troopship. Provided your description is accurate, one million Ritter prize likely, more possible up to one and one half million. Signed, Locke.”
This drew a look of restrained glee from Granger. “Thank you, Mr. Threlfall. Now, I have a question for you.” He paused briefly, putting a hand on the young officer’s shoulder. “As Nebel brought you such trouble on Laurel, how would you like to be her prize captain for the voyage to Bray.”
Threlfall considered this. He glanced at Bethany - what little color there was in her face had suddenly gone out of it.
“I would like to sir, but this ship is sailing into harm’s way, I feel I would be of more service remaining aboard rather than commanding a prize in largely friendly waters.”
Granger appeared somewhat disappointed but breezed along. “Very well. We will have to use of one Dunstable’s officers then.” He moved out of the chart room and found Boyle. “Convene the watches, I have news.”
Boyle swiftly gathered the ship’s complement and they stood in ranks on the fantail.
“Men!” Granger began. “I have the honor of reporting that Nebel will be dispatched to Bray and there she will be bought into the service for at least one million Ritters!”
The cheer was deafening. As it died way, Granger continued: “In light of this success, there will be served tonight on deck double rations of rum and the best food we can muster.” This brought joy almost greater than the prospect of prize money.
It took some time to prepare the feast. When it was ready, Granger, wearing his best uniform, opened the door his cabin and was greeted by a line of marines and sailors on each side. Each man bore a sword. Prompted by a drum roll they unsheathed them and raised them until their points met high in the middle, forming a cathedral ceiling of sorts under which Granger passed. This ancient salute could only be organized by a ship’s junior officers with the cooperation of the common sailors. It was reserved generally for especially popular captains after a battle or on the day of their retirement.
The men not in the saluting lines applauded and when Granger was through and the swords sheathed, a cheer was raised: “Hurrah for the Lucky Fletch! Hurrah for Granger!” After bathing in this for a while, Granger smiled broadly and said: “Shall we eat?”
Dinner was served, the men lounged about Fletch’s deck eating and drinking. When all of the food and most the rum was gone and old sailor produced a fiddle and set to playing with some skill. The men sang songs about women, prizes, and dead Bexarians. When they came around to “The Tattered Pennant” a ballad written in the last war that had risen to become something of a naval anthem, Granger and the other officers joined them. It told of the cruiser Carillon which was said to have singly fought off a squadron of Bexarian corvettes before sinking. As she sank, her officers had removed her pennant and fastened it to swivel gun armed launch so that she might fight on in spirit.
The ballad ended with most of Carillon’s brave crew dead and so, sensing the somber mood, the fiddler struck up a lively peasant dance tune. The crew did not dance, but stomped their feet in time, and finished their drinks. Bethany sat near the taffrail, largely detached from the festivities. She watched Dunstable’s lights glint off the wavetops as she steamed onward, no longer burdened by the waterlogged Nebel.
Nathaniel approached her. She did not see him until he spoke: “Can you dance, Miss Bethany?” He asked, the roses in his cheeks suggested he had been given some rum.
Bethany smirked: “Not well.”
“Neither can I, but we should try!”
They tried, doing their best not to stumble into the gun. A parcel of sailors watched in amusement, when the tune ended they laughed kindly and congratulated Nathaniel.
Fletch was making 17 knots with her sails spread and engine turning. Dunstable ran just beside her. Rifle shot echoed from the troop ship’s stern as her soldiers took turns practicing - Kjell was but a few days away now. A few idle sailors strained to see the firing, taking turns peering through a rusty spyglass one of them must have brought aboard. The ritualized drill was far from exciting, but it was the most interesting activity at hand. To Bethany’s ear they seemed to be judging the riflemen like one might judge a racehorse: ‘this one looks game and steady’, ‘that one looks nervous’, in an effort to guess whether the man would strike that target, a man sized assemblage of canvas sacks mounted to a makeshift barge that the Dunstable had under tow, on his first attempt. Those that failed to do so were roundly mocked despite the fact that the sailors, handed the same rifle, would be hard pressed to hit the barge at that distance, let alone the target.
Growing more bored than even the sailors, Bethany wandered down the deck until she reached the boiler room skylight. There she witnessed an oddly genteel scene. Badrine had brought the stokers, who were working at a relatively relaxed cadence thanks to the wind, coffee in a silver pot appropriated from the steward. It was served to them, for the lack of any others, in fine patterned cups. They stood drinking it in a small circle, careful to stay under the breeze from the skylight, and talking about something - Bethany had no chance of hearing what over the sound of the churning engine - that seemed to animate them. It struck her that until now she had never really seen these men as men, but as some part of the ship’s mechanism. The sailors were somehow different, though their lives were hard they worked above deck, in her view, and seemed to perform an array of tasks rather than what seemed to her to be a single repetitive motion that a machine might do. She wondered what arc their lives took. Perhaps the brightest among them would go on to have Badrine’s position, a sort of liaison between the rest of the ship and the stoker’s demimonde. She felt that the work would eventually kill the others if they kept at it, it was clearly a young man’s trade.
Threlfall found her still looking through the skylight. “It might help you to know they’re paid quite well, at least for men of their station.”
“What happens when they grow too old?”
“I must say I do not know. Steam is still young enough that I’ve yet to see a stoker retire. I suppose they could train others. It is a skill you know.”
Bethany looked up: “You mean they don’t just throw the coal in?”
“It has to be balanced so the fire burns evenly, there’s more to it than that but my understanding goes no further.”
“Was Mr. Badrine a stoker once?”
“I suppose he would have to start somewhere, but you should ask him. It’s quite possible he was always an officer and chose, or was assigned, to specialize in engineering. Regardless, he seems to treat his men well.”
“He does.” Bethany agreed.
Threlfall turned away from the skylight. “If you have moment, I should like you to try something.”
Bethany nodded. “Certainly.”
“Follow me.”Threlfall proceeded to the forecastle and then turned, walking on until he reached the starboard gunnel. Bethany joined him there. “Place a hand on the rail and concentrate, you might wish to close your eyes.”
Bethany did so, but could not help asking “Why?”
“Fletch has moldavite in her, does she not?”
“Only a little.” Bethany replied.
Threlfall considered that. “A little is enough for our purpose.”
“Which is?”
“Humor me a moment. What do you feel?”
“The engine, thumping.” Bethany intoned.
“Naturally, now, if you can, put that aside.”
Bethany continued touching the rail but grew flustered. “Nothing.”
“Please do close your eyes.” Threlfall advised.
“If you are going to put me overboard I will never forgive you.” Bethany laughed and then finally shut her eyes.
For a moment she felt still nothing other than the engine and the occasional sailor’s footfall on the deck. Then, all at once, she had an all consuming sensation of speed and lightness, almost of flight. It was disorienting, her head spun, but as it went on even that faded and she felt as if she was being carried on a current of air.
Bethany opened her eyes and her legs went weak, she reached for the gunnel with her free hand and managed to steady herself. Breathlessly, she demanded: “What was that?”
“Fletch.” Threlfall stated. “I cannot explain it completely, no living man can, but there is a certain enchantment that comes with the moldavite in her hull. It used to be said that one was feeling what the ship felt as she moved along the water, but I’m not ready to accept that she lives in that way. In fairness, I cannot dismiss it either, for certainly there is a deep connection. That is why I waited until we were on a lovely run like this, for doing what you have just done in a storm, or, heaven forbid, to a foundering ship, can bring on a sense of vast dread.”
“I don’t think I shall ever do it again anyway.” Bethany replied.
“Why not?”
“What purpose does it serve, other than to make one feel half-mad?”
“A ship like this is a nest of opposing forces. The wind drives her forward but also to the side, the masts creak and shift in their mountings, the currents affect her course, the screw provides propulsion but in turning produces a torque that also affects her direction. What you felt, and I know because I tried myself before I bothered you, was all of those forces held in balance, the grace of a well trimmed, happy ship. In the millennia between when men discovered sail and the rise of the Assembly and the common man, every sea captain and most bosuns had our talent, so they could know with a touch if their craft was running to her potential.”
The wind had died with the sunlight and now the pair of ships proceeded across a flat calm. Bethany had dragged a chair from her cabin and sat upon it, gazing across the water. Above her the ship’s bell rang six times - 11 at night. As it ended she faintly heard a watch-stander turn the hour glass on the bridge on its end, setting the sand running again. She wondered why they did not use the fine chronometers - the single most expensive objects on the ship according to Granger - instead. Tradition, probably, like so many other things in the ‘service.’ Bethany had been told, half as a warning, that most landsmen resented sailor’s adherence to such things, or found it quaint. She did not. Rather, she took them as seriously as she could, for she grasped the need for them. Without tradition and their history, there was nothing to ennoble the sailors. Their work was hard, their food usually meager, and in the absence of prizes, their pay could not begin to compensate them for the hardship. Those among them that were literate and could do sums, nearly half, Bethany supposed, could easily find work as clerks and take in the same Ritters in far greater comfort. The others could be laborers and though this was less desirable, it did not carry the same risk of a violent, lonely death.
Some chose the service to escape the grasp of land’s authorities, be they legal or social, that was certain. Every ship, it was said, carried a few unwed fathers and fleeing debtors, many even carried murderers and thieves. Fletch carried at least one of the former. She knew that, the knowledge never left her mind. It could be obscured by activity, when she painted, read, or spoke it seemed to fade away, but when she was idle as now it burned behind her eyes. A priest had called it guilt, a gift, for it proved she was no monster, but the actual incident of the girl’s death did not figure greatly in her memory. The instant the blade pierced Angeline’s heart was not present at all, she had fainted almost as it did so, as soon as the blood burst through her victim’s blouse and spattered Bethany’s face.
Rather, she recalled sitting in the corner of a cell with stones that wept scummy water, waiting to be hanged. Her family had not come, though the school had written to them on her behalf. Instead a solicitor had conveyed the written opinion of an expert panel engaged by her father that there was no hope of mounting a defense, for at least thirty people had witnessed the incident. He also provided her with some stationary so that she might write any last letters.
The next day she had watched them prepare the scaffold and hang six men. She had asked a jailer if she would die there, in the barren prison yard. He had told her no, Angeline’s family wished it to be public. This detail had made death very real to her. Plans were being made, there existed somewhere, perhaps still being built, the few wooden steps she would mount in bare, bound feet, and the thick rope that would kill her. She was a name and a date in some executioner’s ledger. Cheap lithographs bearing an engraving of her and “Bethany Esterhouse, Murderess” were being somewhere printed.
Before the jailer’s news she had slept if only through exhaustion, but after it even that was not enough. Days and nights passed and she grew delirious. She spoke to the wall and so to her sister, her mother, to God, to Angeline. The prison surgeon, urged by the complaints of her fellow inmates, had finally given her something to make her sleep. She had awoken the crack of pistol shot and truncheons breaking skulls. A prison rising was in full swing, and the new block, built from timber, was burning. As the sounds of fighting drew nearer a man, she was certain he had worked for the prison but he did not have the look of a turnkey, had opened her cell door, muttered something about a riot being no place for a girl, even her, and made her follow him. She would never know where he had meant to take her; a horse thief cut his throat as they rounded a corner.
She had run then, not to escape prison and the noose, but the immediate horrors around her, the screeching, personal violence of prisoners and jailers fighting to the death with largely blunt weapons.
Bethany rose and dragged the chair back into her cabin. By the failing light of her paraffin lamp she took two doses of papaver, the toll for sleep, and fell onto her bunk.