Read Online The Venusian Gambit by Michael J. Martinez - Free Book Online

masts and had struck their colors; Weatherby would later allow one to be sailed to England as a prize. The other would be disarmed, her cannon added to the defenses of Elizabeth Mercuris, and given over to the two French crews to sail wherever they pleased, so long as they left Mercury and swore never to return. Much goodwill had been engendered by these tactics, as the bulk of the French crews—and even some of their junior officers—had been pressed into service. Many had set sail for Ganymede, where the ships would become merchantmen or be sold to the upstart United States.
    The rest of the French had followed the French flagship into the current, allowing themselves to be whisked away in defeat. As was his practice, Weatherby went below decks to congratulate the men—and to survey the damage. It was upon the middle gundeck that Weatherby saw the carnage the Xan weapon had wrought, for there was a massive gash in the ship’s hull, some forty to fifty feet long and four feet wide. No fewer than seven guns had been hit, disintegrating under the alchemical onslaught and sending thousands of bits of metal shrapnel careening through the entire deck. The decks were slick with the blood of brave Englishmen, and even though he had seen such horrors many times before, it was all Weatherby could do to maintain his composure and put on a brave face for the men, many of whom looked at him with any number of emotions: pride, sorrow, horror, recrimination.
    There were scores wounded, and junior officers and alchemists were quickly administering curatives to any who could be saved. Finch was there as well, still looking wan, but moving deftly to save the life of some poor soul whose name he likely did not know, nor would ever learn. The fleet alchemist’s arms were covered in blood up to his elbows, and it was left to one of his assistants to procure the necessary curatives from his stores, for the glass vials and cloth satchels would be tainted with blood were he to handle them personally.
    “How bad?” Weatherby murmured as he drew close enough to speak quietly.
    Finch poured a silver liquid into the abdominal wound of a sailor who could be no more than fifteen years of age, and the young man screamed in utter agony. “Sixty, perhaps. I cannot say yet for certain. Now if you please, Tom…”
    Weatherby straightened up and left Finch to his workings, slowly making his way forward once more, shaking hands with the survivors, consoling the injured with a kind word and a hand upon brow or shoulder. He knew full well his legendry, and knew that the merest touch could be a salve to a dying man, giving those lost souls a measure of purpose and grace, even as they breathed their last.
    It was appalling. It always was, it always would be. But it was the duty of an admiral to the men he used as a weapon against his enemies.
    After a half-hour of this, and with his fleet turned about to return to Elizabeth Mercuris, Weatherby returned to the ship’s great cabin, where Gar’uk had poured a glass of claret for him. Weatherby struggled to turn his attention to the battle’s conduct, rather than its aftermath. The French still hewed to their old tactics, but the admiral knew that even their inexperienced officers may learn from this engagement. So Weatherby took pen and paper in hand and began to make sketches of the engagement, so that he could review the battle with his captains later. They could not become complacent, and so they would alter their approach next time so as to keep the French upon their heels.
    His sketch complete and other notes compiled, Weatherby allowed himself a generous portion of wine before turning to his logbook to write his report on the engagement. But upon the once-blank page, a message awaited him.
    By order of His Royal Highness, George, Prince Regent and Prince of Wales, acting on behalf of His Majesty, George the Third, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland King, Defender