David Drake - Tyrant

"Not yet, not yet," Thicelt was murmuring to himself. "Wait a bit, want all of them way out there where they can't retreat. ."

That was apparently the Islander's own way of keeping his nerves steady. Probably effective, even if it was far beneath the dignity of a proper Vanbert nobleman to emulate. But Sharlz, like any Islander, didn't give a damn for that kind of "disrepute." In times past, Demansk could remember hearing Thicelt poke fun at the "steady silent calm" which Confederate nobles prized so highly. Probably even fuck that way. Which is okay with me. No wonder I get invited into so many Vanbert beds.

Demansk almost chuckled at the memory. It hadn't just been boasting, either, from what Trae had told him. Thicelt was apparently as skilled at seduction as he was at seamanship.

" Now, " Thicelt hissed. An instant later, he was waving his arm and the little corps of signal drummers on the quarterdeck began beating a new rhythm.

Demansk turned his head, looking over the stern. There, hidden behind the quinquiremes which formed the front line of Demansk's fleet, were the dozen new woodclads which Trae and Thicelt had designed for him. Their captains had obviously heard the signal, since the vessels were beginning to move forward.

Very slowly. Not only were these new ships incredibly heavy and ungainly, with the immense slabs of wood which formed their hulls — in complete contrast to the normally light construction of war galleys — but they were also powered by a relatively small number of oars. Given the nature of what they had been designed for, the woodclads had only a single bank of oars. And, while each huge oar had five men working at it, the angle was awkward also. The first bank of oars in most galleys was situated low, close to the water, giving the rowers the best possible leverage. This bank was high up, with the oars slanting down at a steep angle. The last man on the oar, on the inmost side, was forced to swing his arms over his head.

Slow. Slow, and incredibly awkward. But it shouldn't really matter. The woodclads had been designed for one purpose, and one purpose only — to serve as a counter for Casull's new steam rams. They didn't even have to defeat the rams, just hold them off while Demansk's fleet overwhelmed the rest of Casull's ships.

Demansk had learned enough, from his one prior experience with steam rams, to know that he could have overwhelmed them also, even with normal war galleys. Given, at least, the size of the fleet he commanded. But he would have suffered great casualties in the process, and that was the one thing he could not afford. Not only because he would need those soldiers later, but because he would need their loyalty as well — which, in the days and weeks and months to come, he was going to be stretching to the limit. But he thought he could manage the thing, so long as his men weren't festering with resentment at the loss of too many of their friends and comrades. Not the least of the reasons Marcomann had been so popular with his soldiers was because he gave them light casualties as well as good pay and bonuses.

"We'll find out," he murmured. Then, for a moment, felt a bit chagrined at the untoward lapse into Islander loquacity.

He saw Thicelt smiling out of the corner of his eye. "Good, good," murmured back the ex-pirate. "Why not? You'll be breaking traditions in much bigger ways, soon enough."

It was uncanny, really, the way Thicelt seemed able to read Demansk's mind. Despite the social and cultural distance which separated them — not to mention the racial and religious ones — Demansk had discovered that in many ways he found the Islander closer to him than any of his advisers. Even Prit Sallivar, whom he had known since they were both six-year-old boys.

With a little sense of shock, Demansk realized that he liked Sharlz Thicelt. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. The understanding brought concern rather than pleasure. Could he afford such a personal indulgence?

He decided to worry about it later. The woodclads had emerged from the fleet and were taking their positions against the oncoming steam rams. Less than two hundred yards now separated the opponents.

The sidewheel paddles of one of the steam rams suddenly began churning the water. Demansk could now hear the engines — that animal-sounding chuff-chuff he remembered — and see heavier smoke begin pouring out of the twin tubes poking up from its turtle-shaped carapace. "Funnels," Trae called them.

"Damn," hissed Thicelt. "I was hoping they'd all try a ramming run. Get rid of the problem quick."

Demansk understood the logic, even if he didn't entirely share the confidence that Thicelt and Trae had in the ability of the woodclads to withstand a ram. But. . in this area, he freely admitted, his admiral and his son were the world's two experts. Well, leaving aside that weird Emerald genius named Adrian Gellert who had designed these infernal new devices in the first place.

Within fifty yards, the steam ram was up to full speed. The paddles were whipping the water into a froth, tossing a double curl of spray ahead of the ram as it came charging forward. That also Demansk could remember from the siege of Preble — at full speed, assuming the engines buried in its bowels didn't fail, a steam ram could outrace even a war galley.

The captain of the woodclad it was aiming for apparently shared Thicelt and Trae's confidence in his vessel. Either that, or he was simply a very conscientious officer. Whatever the explanation, Demansk could see that he was following orders. Rather than trying to meet the ram head on — no way to avoid it, of course, with such a clumsy ship — he was turning his ship broadside, presenting the juiciest possible target to the ram.

For a moment, Demansk found himself wondering if that maneuver would alert the commander of the steam ram that something was amiss. But, here also, Thicelt's greater experience held true. The Islander had described to Demansk how difficult it was for the captain of a steam ram to think clearly, in the middle of a battle. The engines were not so many feet away from the little armored blockhouse near the bow from which the captain commanded the vessel. Between the din they produced and the poor visibility allowed by the narrow viewing slits in the blockhouse itself, Sharlz said it was like trying to fight while in a shroud. A very protective shroud, granted, but a shroud nonetheless.

And any decision to break off a final ramming drive had to be made quickly. It only took the ram a few seconds to cross the final distance — less than half a minute — before the order to reverse engines was made. That was necessary, of course. Not even one of these new warships could withstand the shock of ramming at full speed.

"Too late now," came Thicelt's soft, satisfied words. "He's committed." The admiral pointed to the woodclad's rigging. "That captain's good, too. Willem Angmer, that is. He's already got the rigging in place."

So he had. The woodclad had unusually heavy masts, very well braced. Partly that was to withstand the impact of a ram, which would normally snap off any mast which hadn't been taken down yet. Even with the heavy bracing, the only reason the woodclad's mast would survive was because of the bulk of the ship itself.

A woodclad's masts were not designed to be taken down in battle, anyway. Because the other reason for the heavy construction was that the masts also served as a weapon. They were Trae's design which he had worked out with Thicelt in the first days after his father brought him into his plans.

The woodclads were triple-masted vessels. The sails had been taken down well before the battle started. The great yardarms which normally held up the sails doubled as derricks. Sailors working on the deck heaved at ropes which levered up extensions onto the yardarms. At the end of each extension rested a huge clay jar, suspended by much smaller ropes. Very similar in design, except fatter in cross-section, to the containers which were used to ship oil. In fact, the things had been made by the same Solinga manufacturer who normally made the oil jars.