Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

‘How many soldiers are we facing?’

Wulfstan answered. ‘That four-master alone is probably carrying a hundred soldiers, and they’ll be armed with all kinds of weaponry — heavy crossbows, traction catapults, flame-throwers, incendiary grenades… One sailor I met in Kaifeng said the Chinese navy ain’t quick to grapple with the enemy. Instead they have these long poles hinged at the base and with a spiked hammer at the top. When they get within range, they drop the hammer end onto the enemy ship, holding it at a safe distance while they bombard it.’

‘We might as well give up now.’

‘What the Chinese ain’t got is a counterweight trebuchet. I can land a dozen rocks on their decks before their catapults get in range. Their incendiary ain’t a patch on ours, either. Burns hot, burns fast, but it doesn’t stick and burn to the bone like Greek Fire.’

Vallon turned to the troopers. ‘Reposition the siphon at the stern.’

While they went about their task, he appraised the ship and saw how vulnerable it was to fire — a huge piece of floating kindling. ‘What happened to the hides from the rafts?’

‘Stored below,’ Wulfstan said. ‘Two hundred of them, enough to cover the entire deck.’

‘Do it.’

Evening came and the sun set behind the enemy ships, now only a mile astern. The Outlanders toiled into the night sheathing the junk in hides, draping the stern with two layers. When the skins were in place, they soaked them with water. The slat-and-cotton sails couldn’t be fireproofed and Vallon ordered his men to strike the mainsail and stow it below deck. The moon, only a day off full, shone on the Chinese warships shadowing Jifeng so closely that the Outlanders could hear the beat of drums and shouted messages between the vessels.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ Lucas asked Vallon.

‘Night attacks are risky. I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same.’

‘I’m too tense to sleep.’

Vallon walked off then walked back. ‘I’d like you to stay close to me tomorrow.’

‘I don’t need mollycoddling.’

Vallon laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking about your protection. I’m getting too old for combat. I’ll feel more secure with a strong and skilled right hand at my side.’

Lucas flushed. ‘Goodnight…’ he said, leaving a word unspoken.

Vallon stopped, his skin prickling. Say it, he prayed. There might not be another chance and if I die tomorrow I’ll quit this world more peacefully knowing that my son acknowledged me as his father.

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Vallon was back on deck in full armour before dawn, the warships still tagging in their wake, moonlight cupped in their sails. What little breeze there was blew from the south, almost at right angles to Jifeng ’s progress. The moon was sinking into mist steaming off the river as the sun rose. The vapours soon burned off and the sun struck hot. The current had slowed and was so thick with silt that it resembled soup. Within a day of the sea the river seemed to have become indifferent about reaching it, branches wandering fitfully through a wilderness of reeds. Wayland, appointed sailing master, sought Vallon’s advice.

‘Which channel should we take?’

The river forked around a sand bar, the left-hand channel half the width of the right, less than two hundred yards wide and only navigable for a third of that.

‘Take the narrow stream. We draw less water than the enemy. They won’t be able to get past us without risk of grounding.’

Jifeng nosed into the channel between walls of reeds. The Outlanders waited, sweating in full armour. Vallon moved among them, exhorting them to be of good heart. He paid a brief visit to Qiuylue before taking up position on the stern deck.

Wulfstan shambled out from below, lurching from hold to hold, cowled and clad in heavy, full-length white robes like a member of some diabolical sect. Vallon grabbed him.

‘You’re drunk.’

Wulfstan hiccupped. ‘And you’re scared, but I’ll be sober soon enough.’

‘What the hell are you wearing?’

Wulfstan eyed his drapes with pride. ‘Asbestos. Hajar al-fatila , the Arabs call it — “wick-stone”, because flame can’t touch it. In these togs I could walk through hell and step out the other side without a scorch.’

‘They’re coming,’ Lucas said.

The drumbeats had quickened. War cries panicked flocks of wildfowl into flight. The four-master bore down on Jifeng , fire-pots glowing on its foredeck and the sun flaring off its iron-sheathed bow.

The first volley of heavy crossbow bolts struck.

‘Everyone take cover,’ Vallon ordered. He dropped below the stern transom with half a dozen other men.

Only the trebuchet team and steersman remained on deck, partly protected by bales and wicker screens. With his good hand, Wulfstan loaded one of the lightest stones into the trebuchet’s sling. In stepping back to check the range and aim, he tripped and fell. Vallon rushed at him.

‘I’ll kill you for this.’

Wulfstan reached up. ‘Give me a hand. This outfit weighs a ton.’

He was wearing armour beneath his fireproof drapes and it took two men to hoist him to his feet. He cracked his knuckles and squinted at the oncoming battleship.

‘Not yet,’ he crooned. ‘Wait for my word.’

A dozen men working the enemy warship’s catapult dragged down on ropes and launched the first missile. It fell well short. Wulfstan reached into the capacious folds of his robe and pulled out a bottle. He unstoppered it with his teeth and drank.

Vallon hefted his sword. ‘Wulfstan, if you survive the battle, I’m going to flog you myself.’

Wulfstan capped the bottle and turned a sleazy leer on the general. ‘Hush. You’re disturbing my concentration.’

Another stone from the enemy catapult splashed into Jifeng ’s wake. Wulfstan crouched, assessing the range.

‘Wait… Wait… Launch!’

The throwing arm tilted skywards, the sling extended like a whip and the missile hurtled in a high parabola before crashing onto the warship’s stern deck.

‘Use that one next,’ Wulfstan shouted, pointing with his good hand at another stone.

Five times the team manning the trebuchet dropped stones on the warship before the Chinese catapulters came within range. Vallon flinched as a stone bounced off the deck beside him. The enemy was within a hundred yards, their commander directing teams of crossbowmen who loosed droves of bolts so heavy that they splintered through the two-inch thick transom.

Outnumbered and under-armed, the Outlander archers could only respond with snap shots before ducking back behind cover. Indifferent to the lethal darts, Wulfstan continued calling the shots between slugs of liquor. ‘Load that big bastard,’ he said, pointing at the heaviest stone in the heap.

Two men struggled to lift the boulder and one of them fell dead as he rose, pierced through by a bolt that still had enough energy to bury itself in the mainmast.

The boulder trundled down the stern deck. Gorka sprang forward and threw himself on it before it rolled off. Between him and the other loader they managed to scoop it into the sling,

‘I call this one the cuckoo’s egg,’ Wulfstan said. ‘On account of you wouldn’t want it in your nest.’ He brought down his arm. ‘Release.’

Crouched below the transom, Vallon watched as the throwing arm flicked up then slowed almost to a stop, arrested by its burden. The rope attached to the sling extended lazily before it tautened and the missile launched into space. A lob rather than a hurl. Vallon heard something terminal break on the trebuchet, but his attention was on the little black planet describing a shallow arc extending for no more than a hundred feet before it smashed through the warship’s foredeck with a hollow crack. Another crash as it tumbled through the lower deck