David Weber - How firm a foundation

That particular surprise no longer applied, and judging by the rapidity with which the Triangle Shoal fortress was pumping out round shot, it had been equipped with updated artillery, as well. If those shore gunners had modern guns, on modern carriages, and were using bagged charges, then the stability of their footing should actually allow them to serve their pieces even more rapidly than the Charisian gunners could.

On the other hand, there’s a difference between rapid fire and effective fire, Yairley reminded himself. Blazing away and not hitting anything is just a more spectacular way to accomplish absolutely nothing, and anybody who’s going to open fire at this range is unlikely to be the most accurate gunner in the world at any range.

He stood on Destiny ’s quarterdeck, hands once more clasped behind him, feet spread, shoulders deliberately relaxed, and concentrated on looking calm.

I wonder if one reason I’m feeling so smug about the standard of Desnairian gunnery in general is that gloating over what lousy shots they are is one way of reassuring myself that they’re not going to hit anything. Like me.

The thought made him chuckle, and he shook his head at his own perversity, then looked at Lathyk. The captain was bent over the binnacle, taking a compass bearing on the smoke-spurting fortress. Then he straightened and glanced up at the masthead weathervane with a thoughtful frown.

“Well, Captain?”

“I make it about another mile and a half before we alter towards them, Sir. Perhaps thirty more minutes.”

Yairley turned to gaze over the bulwarks, considering angles and rates of movement, then nodded.

“I believe you’re right, Captain. I think it’s time to make the signal to Captain Rahzwail.”

“Aye, Sir. I’ll see to it.”

Yairley nodded again, then looked around at the unfolding panorama. At least all the men who were about to die had been given a lovely day on which to do it. The sky was a deep, perfect blue, with only the lightest scattering of high-altitude cloud and the water was a gorgeous blend of blues and greens, creaming in white under the galleons forefeet, in the early afternoon sunlight. The seabirds and sea wyverns who’d followed the Charisian galleons, swooping and bobbing as they hoped for garbage in the ships’ wakes, seemed confused by the sudden, rolling bursts of thunder on such a perfect day. They were circling away from the ships, although they didn’t really seem panicked yet. On the other hand, they were probably bright enough to realize that what was about to happen was none of their business.

The rest of his squadron forged along in Destiny ’s wake, and astern of them was a moving forest of masts and canvas weathered to all different shades of gray and tan and dirty white. The imperial standard flew from mastheads throughout the fleet-some of the more enthusiastic captains had one at each masthead-and the long, thin, colorful tongues of flag officers’ command streamers blew from mizzenmasts for rear admirals and commodores, from mainmasts for admirals, and from foremasts for the newly introduced rank of vice admiral. Up until the last year or two, Yairley couldn’t have imagined seeing that many ships in one place, all bent on a single mission under the command of a single admiral. Even now the sheer magnitude of the spectacle seemed preposterous.

He couldn’t pick Destroyer out of the mass of her consorts, but she was back there, sailing along in the middle of that huge sprawl, rather than leading the way as he knew High Admiral Rock Point would have preferred. But that exposed position wasn’t the proper place for a high admiral-not in something like this. No, that was more properly left to a more expendable flag officer… like one Sir Dunkyn Yairley.

“The signal to Captain Rahzwail is ready, Sir,” Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk said respectfully, and Yairley gave himself a shake.

“Very well, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk, let’s get it sent,” the admiral said with a crooked smile. “And then I think we should probably signal the squadron to reduce sail, don’t you think?”

“They don’t seem very impressed by General Stahkail’s gunnery, My Lord,” Captain Mahlyk Ahlvai observed dryly.

“No, they don’t, Captain,” Baron Jahras agreed.

They stood on the poop deck of HMS Emperor Zhorj, Jahras’ forty-eight-gun flagship. Unlike the majority of the Desnairian Navy, Emperor Zhorj was a purpose-built war galleon, with much heavier framing and planking than her converted merchant consorts. Despite that, she was considerably smaller and more lightly armed than the ships sailing steadily towards her.

Jahras had strongly considered remaining in his shoreside office. With access to the semaphore and the signal flag mast on top of the main dockyard building, he’d actually have been better able to send orders from there (at least until smoke obscured all signals), especially with Emperor Zhorj ’s masts truncated because of his orders to send topmasts and topgallant masts ashore. It would also have been considerably safer, in a personal sense. But while Jahras had steadfastly avoided combat with the Imperial Charisian Navy, there was nothing wrong with his personal courage. If his fleet had to fight, his proper place was with it. And from a somewhat more cynical and calculating perspective, he was more likely to avoid condemnation for the debacle about to occur if he could point out to Vicar Allayn and Vicar Zhaspahr that he’d commanded from the front, in the very heart and fury of the action. He didn’t know how much more likely to avoid condemnation he might be, but anything was worth striving for.

At the moment, however, he could only endorse Captain Ahlvai’s opinion. General Lowrai Stahkail, the commanding officer of the Triangle Shoal fortress, had not been Jahras’ choice for his job. He could think of at least a half-dozen officers he would have preferred to see commanding that fort, but Stahkail had friends at court and a reputation-mostly self-bestowed-as an artillerist. Jahras had never seen any evidence he deserved it, although, to be fair, he was an Army artillerist, not a naval gunner.

Not that the baron was interested in being any fairer to Stahkail than he had to at the moment.

He raised his telescope and picked up the white flaws of round shot skipping across the waves. Perhaps Stahkail was trying to ricochet the shot into the ships, extending his range by bouncing the projectiles the way an artillerist could sometimes do on land. If so, he didn’t seem to be succeeding.

You really should be at least a little fair, Urwyn, he told himself. There’s not much chance the Charisians are going to come into his range. If he wants to hit them at all he’s going to have to do it from a long way away.

Unfortunately, Stahkail’s… enthusiasm seemed to be contagious, and some of the floating batteries closest to Triangle Shoal were beginning to fire sporadically, as well. Their guns were much closer to the water, giving them even less range than the fortress, and he lowered the glass with an angry grimace.

“Signal to the floating batteries if you please, Captain!” he snapped. “Cease fire! Do not waste powder and shot!”

“Aye, My Lord,” Ahlvai replied, then cleared his throat. “Ah, should I address the signal to General Stahkail, as well, Sir?”

“By no means, Captain.” Jahras actually managed a smile. “First, he’s got a lot more powder in his magazines than any of the batteries do. Second, I don’t think he quite grasps that the Navy is in charge of Iythria’s defense. There seems to be some confusion in his mind as to the exact structure of the chain of command, and I’d hate to overtax his clearly overworked brain trying to explain it to him in the middle of a battle.”