The Venusian Gambit (19 page)

Searle nodded, though he still looked skeptical. “Orders, Admiral?”

Weatherby turned to Finch. “Which group is closer?”

“The northern group. They seem to have the wind,” Finch said.

“As would we should we attack them first, then pivot to the other group,” Searle added.

Weatherby considered this a moment, then decided. “Captain, signal the fleet. We sail north to engage the enemy. Have a brig and frigate fall back to Edinburgh and tell them of our course, then stay to help defend the city if needed.” He then turned to Finch. “If Edinburgh is indeed attacked, could you have some knowledge of it with your working here?”

Finch reached up and removed his odd headgear, showing his face even more pallid and sweaty than before. “I believe so, my Lord. Though I will need rest in between.”

“So I see,” Weatherby murmured. “Get below and rest. We’ll have need of you to tend the wounded from the coming engagement. And by God, I do hope you’re right, for we leave Edinburgh exposed to do this.”

Finch smiled wanly. “I’m right, Tom. I swear it.”

Weatherby nodded, and Finch went below, leaning upon one of his alchemist’s mates for support. Weatherby pulled a small pocket-journal from his coat, along with a pencil, and made a note to himself to discuss this working in great detail with his wife and step-son, for it seemed Finch’s bouts of anemic sallowness were at times tied to his workings. He also made a note to have someone search Finch’s quarters for signs of his return to the lure of Venusian opiates, just to be cautious.

It was but four hours later when the lookouts first caught sight of the French fleet, well off the coast of Arbroath. As it happened, Finch’s mystical reconnaissance turned out to be correct, though he did confuse a fourth-rate for a smaller ship; while brilliant in the research and execution of the mystic sciences, Finch was always a poor naval officer. The odds were roughly even, for while Weatherby had more guns and one more ship, the French had the weather gage and the knowledge that there were a second group of their fellows making for Edinburgh.

But Weatherby nonetheless sought to maximize whatever advantages he had. Well prior to the sighting, he had ordered his ships to form a single line in order to obfuscate the number of ships he could bring to bear. So it was that the ships now sailed straight for a scattered group of French vessels, which were spending critical time and effort forming their own line of battle.

And it was but one line, as Weatherby had hoped. Thus, he could put his plan into action. “Captain Searle, signal the fleet. Form the second line.”

In moments, half the ships in Weatherby’s line—every other ship, in fact—split off from the line and sailed roughly two hundred yards before forming up again. So whereas Weatherby had but one line prior, he now had two, and they would now maneuver to place the French line between them, catching them in a cross-fire.

But the French commander, it seemed, was a versatile strategist and, much to Weatherby’s consternation, split off his own ships into two lines, sending one to Weatherby’s larboard side, potentially leading
Victory
and three other ships into a cross-fire of their own.

“Damn him,” Weatherby muttered as he peered through his glass. “Starboard line, continue forward. Signal the larboard line that we’ll take the van, and they are to follow us.”

Searle had the signals run up, and soon
Victory
was peeling off away from the second British line, drawing that portion of the French squadron with them. Weatherby had hoped his trickery would even the odds, but now it seemed a fair fight would be at hand, and the casualties would be high. There would be no flight from it.

Flight.

Weatherby snapped his glass shut with a smile. “Signal our line! Rig for Void!”

Searle was stopped in his tracks. “My Lord? We are fleeing?”

“Not at all. But be quick. Signal the line!”

Searle gave the order, and but three minutes later, HMS
Victory
and three other ships began to slowly rise from the sea to the sky, and thence into the Void. Except….

“Now come about east! Prepare for keelfall! Signal the line!” Weatherby shouted.

Searle, to his great credit, passed along the order before commenting. “My Lord Admiral, we shall burn all of our Mercurium to do this.”

Weatherby smiled. “Then it is a fine thing we managed to save Elizabeth Mercuris, is it not? Now run out the guns and prepare to fire at my command.”

The turn, combined with the order to descend, caused the four English ships to essentially jump over the second French line—as well as the first line and that of their English fellows as well.
Victory
and the other ships splashed down on the other side of four French ships, immediately catching them in between.

“FIRE!” Weatherby roared.

A moment later, more than fifty guns poured iron and alchemy into the nearest French ship, burning through wood and men with equal, deadly efficiency. Upon the other side, HMS
Mars
likewise fired, capturing the French vessel in a horrid cross-fire. Already, sickly green flame burst through the French gunports; inside, Weatherby knew, would be an abattoir of wood, iron, fire and flesh.

Looking aft, Weatherby saw three other pairs of English ships tearing into the line. One French vessel, a stately old 74 by the look of her, exploded into a greenish-red ball of flame almost immediately, her magazine having been caught. Masts fell while the men on deck screamed and dove overboard, preferring the cold embrace of the sea over fiery death.

The French did not even have time to run out their guns against
Victory
and the other English ships that had taken to the sky. But there were signs of damage on the other English line;
Mars
had taken heavy cannon fire to her gun decks, and her foremast was listing forward at a dangerous angle.

“Report, Captain?” Weatherby asked, more for the formality of it than anything else.

“Our line reports damage amidships from shrapnel and the like, minor injuries,”
Victory
’s captain said. “Our other line endured more fire, but all report ready to continue.”

But the other French line, as it happened, had little appetite for further engagement with Weatherby’s leap-frogging squadron, and continued south and west toward Edinburgh. “They’re likely linking up with their fellows,” Searle said. “Shall we pursue, sir?”

“For now, full sail in pursuit,” Weatherby said. “Engage with chase guns if we come into range. In the meantime, have Dr. Finch meet me in the hold if you please.”

“What of the French ships?” Searle asked, turning to regard the blazing hulks. The men aboard were struggling unsuccessfully to contain the fires, and there were many men in the water besides.

Weatherby sighed. “Trail lines aft. Perhaps we may save some yet. But…we must continue.” Searle nodded gravely in understanding, and Weatherby made for the bowels of the ship, trying not to be sickened at this violation of the laws of the sea. As much as he wanted to help those men, the preservation of his country—or what was left to him of it—was of a far greater and more immediate concern.

Minutes later, Weatherby watched Finch descend the wooden stairs into
Victory
’s hold, where were housed the lodestones that guaranteed the ship’s air, warmth and gravity in the chill of the Void. Yet there were other alchemical workings stored there as well. Finch paused to check on the nearest lodestone, muttering to himself as was his wont of late. Weatherby heard something about “souls,” but could not piece together the rest.

“Finch?”

The alchemist stood and smiled once more. “That was quite a trick, Tom,” he said by way of greeting; they were alone but for a few able seamen, and formality was often wasted on Finch to begin with. “Good thinking.”

Weatherby forced a smile. “I enjoy catching the French unawares. Now, we need to talk about the Mercurium.”

Mercurium enabled ships to rise into the Void through alchemical means, rather than through the traditional method of sailing into the aurorae at the poles of Earth, or whichever other world they were upon. The French, without reliable sources of Mercurium, were forced to make for the poles each time, making it relatively easy for the English Royal Navy to patrol the northern regions of Earth—or, more often, the polar regions of the Void—in order to thwart them.

But it was a finite resource that required reapplication to a ship’s hull and sails, and they had just wasted a great deal of it, which is why Finch looked perplexed. “Still planning on making for the Void? I doubt we’d be able to. An abortive rising like that burns through a great deal of it—it was as if we had ascended a dozen times.”

“I know,” Weatherby replied. “Could we do it again?”

At this, Finch shrugged. “That depends. To what degree?”

Weatherby explained his plan, and Finch listened with incredulity and a growing smile. Soon, the alchemist was casting about the hold for his stores.

“It’s going to be a tight thing,” Finch warned, though he seemed freshly energized by the prospects. “The Mercurium will most likely be spent, and I shall have to rely on other workings to keep us aloft. Even then, we could very well plummet from the sky at any moment.”

Weatherby, having given his orders, made for the stairs and the decks above. “Then we shall aim to land atop their ships,” he said, only half-joking. “Whatever it takes to stop them.”

Philip and Elizabeth watched from the parapets of Edinburgh Castle as the sun set over the mountains to their left. To the right, the waters of the Firth of Forth glistened. There was no sight of the French—or of Weatherby’s fleet.

“They found them and engaged,” Philip said, adopting the naval terminology with only a small amount of confidence. “They’re likely managing the prizes and helping the French survivors now. I’m sure we’ll see them tomorrow.”

Elizabeth looked at him with a small smile and a hard eye. “You’re horrible at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Being at all reassuring.”

Philip gave her a lopsided grin and was about to say something he thought quite witty, but suddenly spotted sails upon the water, far in the distance. “I dare say they are returned now, my Lady!” he exclaimed.

Elizabeth turned and smiled…but the joy quickly faded. “I do not see
Victory
among them,” she said quietly. “I would know her lines anywhere.”

It was in that moment that a miniscule puff of smoke was seen from the lead ship, followed by a small popping sound that carried across the water toward the castle. It was a cannon shot.

“The French,” Philip whispered.

Seconds later, bells rang throughout the city and the streets below the castle were flooded with people rushing about—soldiers rushing to the shoreline, all others rushing for the security of the castle walls. The castle had withstood assault from sea and land for centuries, though none imagined but a few short years ago that such shelter would be required once more.

Philip and Elizabeth were soon joined at the lookout by the Prince Regent’s retinue, including Lord Castlereagh and Anne, the latter continuing to serve as His Royal Highness’ adviser on all things alchemical and mystical. Together, they watched six French ships of the line—double-decked warships, all—and several brigs and frigates fire long range upon the docks at Leith and the defensive batteries set upon the small isle of Inchkeith. The castle’s cannons were already firing warning shots into the water despite the range.

Below, Philip and Elizabeth could see line after line of red-coated soldiers massing upon the wharves. In the midst of such a gathering, it would seem a massive throng. From above, they seemed all too few, and tiny compared to the force carried by the French warships.

“How many men do we have, Castlereagh?” the Prince Regent asked.

“Two thousand, sire. Wellesley is rallying them to shore right now,” the minster responded. His tone was not one of confidence. “I am not a naval man, but I imagine those ships could easily carry twice as many.”

Prince George nodded as he surveyed the defenses. The calculus of his thinking was writ upon his face, and although he was often considered something of a dilettante by some, those around him could see George’s resolve—and the weight of his responsibilities—in his faraway gaze. Finally, he, turned to Anne. “My Lady,” he said quietly. “I hope it is most premature, but I am sorry for your loss. And I must ask you to nonetheless aid in the defense of the city.”

Anne stood tall and stone-faced; Philip looked on with sorrow and pride, while Elizabeth allowed a tear to fall silently for her father. “I am at your service, sire. By your leave, I shall take charge of the alchemists within the palace and ensure enough supply to repel a siege.”

The prince nodded and looked out once again at the scene unfolding below. The French ships now dominated the harbor. Several smaller ships stood watch at the mouth of the Forth, the first line of defense in what the French likely hoped would be their beachhead—and the ultimate defeat of England.

Anne watched as well, seemingly unable or unwilling to move, and Philip’s heart broke at the sight of her. Always strong, always certain, Anne now stood silently as the French ships drew closer. It was as though she awaited one more miracle, a sign that her husband was not lost, but would somehow, in some wholly inscrutable manner, arrive to turn the tide.

Finally, with a sigh and a tear falling down her cheek, she turned to depart, aware that she had duties remaining to her. But she stopped again, looking not at the water, but at the sky toward the west, where the sun was settling below the mountains. And to Philip’s great surprise, she smiled.

“Oh, dear God in Heaven,” she breathed.

There was a light.

Several lights.

And as they grew larger, shapes surrounded those lights. It was if they had wings.

“What is that?” the prince demanded as all eyes turned toward the heavens.

They weren’t wings after all. They were sails.

There, swooping in from the heavens, was the triple-decked, 100-gun wooden monstrosity that was HMS
Victory
, with several more ships behind her—all aloft, all flying with planesails unfurled, bobbing unsteadily in the breeze, looking as ungainly as a seal out of water.