David Weber - How firm a foundation

For the first time in its history, Old Charis faced the threat of being forced to resort to the sort of impressment other navies had routinely employed for centuries. The Crown had always had the authority to impress seamen, but the House of Ahrmahk had been careful not to use it, and for good reason. The fact that the Royal Charisian Navy’s galleys had been manned solely by volunteers built around solid cores of long-service, highly experienced regulars had been its most telling advantage, and they’d been willing to accept a smaller fleet than they could have built in order to maintain that qualitative edge.

With every mainland realm united against the Empire, however, that was a luxury the Imperial Charisian Navy couldn’t afford. It needed as many hulls as it could get, and while galleons didn’t require the hundreds of rowers galleys did, they were far bigger than even Charisian galleys had been and much more heavily armed. Providing them with gun crews and enough trained seamen to manage their powerful sail plans drove the size of their companies up rapidly, and completely filling the “establishment” crew for a galleon like Destiny required approximately four hundred men. With the prizes being put into commission, the Navy’s galleon strength would rise to two hundred and eleven… which would require over eighty-four thousand men. And that didn’t even consider all of the schooners, brigs, and other light warships and dispatch vessels. Or the competition for the strength to man the Navy’s shoreside establishments. Or the requirements of the Marine Corps, or the Imperial Army. Or the fishing fleet. Or the merchant marine upon which the Empire’s prosperity and very survival depended. And while the Crown was finding-somehow-all the men it needed for those requirements, the manufactories producing both the sinews of war and the goods fueling the steadily growing economy-not to mention the farms feeding the Empire’s subjects-still had to be provided for somehow.

So far, enlistment was managing-barely-to meet demands, but an increasing percentage of the Navy’s strength was Emeraldian or Chisholmian, and even the native Old Charisians coming forward boasted a lower percentage of experienced seamen. From what Aplyn-Ahrmahk had seen, the basic quality of the new men was just fine; they were simply less well trained and hardened to the demands of life at sea than the Navy was accustomed to. And even with the newcomers, Destiny ’s official four-hundred-man company was forty-three men short.

Well, he thought, watching the gun begin to rise once more, I guess having too many ships and too few experienced men is a lot better problem to have than the other way around!

Sir Domynyk Staynair leaned back in the window seat, one arm stretched along the top of its cushioned back and his truncated right leg stretched out in front of him, the padded peg resting on a footstool. It was almost the turn of the watch, and the cabin’s skylight was open, admitting the sounds of King’s Harbor and the closer, quieter voices of the officer of the watch and his senior quartermaster as they discussed HMS Destroyer ’s log entry. The more distant cries of gulls and sea wyverns drifted down through it, as well, and wavery patterns of bright light reflected into the cabin through the quarter and stern windows, gleaming on polished bookshelves, sideboards, and tables. It sparkled from the cut crystal of decanters, sending rainbow ripples across the cabin as the galleon stirred gently, and the portraits of Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan faced each other across the deck’s thick carpets. Those carpets had been a gift from Empress Sharleyan, and their deep-toned color went just a bit oddly with the gayer fabric of the chair coverings Rock Point favored. The table at the center of the cabin was buried under charts, dividers, and compasses, and Zhastrow Tymkyn, his new secretary, sat at his small desk to one side, pen scratching as he annotated his minutes of the high admiral’s last conference.

The cabin door opened, and Rock Point’s even newer flag lieutenant ushered another officer through it.

Lieutenant Haarlahm Mahzyngail had stepped into Lieutenant Erayksyn’s position less than two five-days earlier, and he still seemed out of place aboard a Charisian warship. Not because of any lack of competency, but because his fair hair, blue eyes, and pronounced Chisholmian accent remained such a novelty here in Old Charis. They were becoming more commonplace, though, as more and more Chisholmians enlisted in the Navy. It was surprising, really. Given the Royal Army’s traditional prestige in Chisholm, Rock Point would have expected any adventurous young lad from that island to have been army mad, not drawn to a naval career. As things were working out, though, he’d actually received an only half-humorous protest from the Duke of Eastshare, the Imperial Army’s commander, about the Navy’s “poaching” on his private preserve.

Probably has something to do with the fact that we’ve kicked the Loyalists’ asses at sea every time we’ve crossed swords, he thought. Except, he corrected himself much more grimly, where Thirsk is concerned, of course.

That thought hit harder than usual as the overland convoy carrying Gwylym Manthyr and his men crept steadily towards Zion. Grief for a friend and anger at his own helplessness seethed just below the surface for a moment, but he made himself push those emotions back into the depths. It felt disloyal, yet there wasn’t anything he could do to change what was going to happen, and Gwylym wouldn’t have thanked him for letting friendship distract him from his own duties and responsibilities.

“Captain Yairley, High Admiral,” Mahzyngail announced, and Rock Point nodded. The young Chisholmian was still feeling his way into his duties, although one might not have supposed that from his confident demeanor. He wasn’t yet as familiar with his admiral’s professional and personal relationships as he might have been, however, and he’d decided-wisely, in Rock Point’s opinion-to err on the side of formality until he got them all straightened out in his own mind.

“So I see,” Rock Point said, and smiled at the young man. “For future reference, Haarlahm, Sir Dunkyn is an old acquaintance. I know him well. So be sure you keep an eye on the silverware when he’s around.”

Mahzyngail’s nod of acknowledgment bobbled noticeably on the last sentence. He froze for just a moment, then completed the movement.

“I’ll strive to bear that in mind, Sir,” he said, and Rock Point chuckled.

“See you do,” he said, then held out his right hand to Yairley. “I’m going to stay moored right where I am. Rank has its privileges and I’ll be damned if I’ll clump around when I don’t have to. Sit.”

He pointed with his left hand while the two of them clasped arms, and Yairley settled into the indicated chair with a small smile of his own. He was a naturally less demonstrative man than Rock Point, and more than one of his fellows had put him down as a dour, fussy worrier. There might actually be some accuracy in that, the high admiral thought, but only a very small accuracy.

“How’s Destiny coming?” he demanded, coming straight to the point.

“The dockyard says I can have her back Thursday.” Yairley shrugged. “I’ll believe that when I see it, but I think we probably will be able to warp her out to the roadstead sometime in the next five-day or so. We’re taking her gundeck guns back onboard this afternoon, the carronades will come back aboard tomorrow morning, and I’m reasonably satisfied with her repairs. The sail loft’s running behind, though. That’s why I’m doubtful about Thursday. Once they get the new canvas delivered, though, we’ll be in reasonably good shape.”