“Good luck, Eusebius.”
* * *
Eusebius, a proper artisan, did not really believe in luck. Even his new career as a naval officer had not much shaken his faith in logic and order. So, as he positioned the barrel of the fire cannon to rake the oncoming picket boats, he did not give much thought to the possibility of being sunk by cannon fire coming from the guns on the fortress. If for no other reason, he would be sailing so close to the picket boats that they would not fire at him for fear of sinking their own craft.
A great roar announced the first volley being fired by the fortress. Not too many seconds later, Eusebius was muttering fierce curses and frantically repositioning the barrel of the fire cannon.
His intended target had disappeared. The Malwa had fired at the Victrix. They had undershot, however, and managed to sink the lead picket boat coming toward him.
* * *
Whether from chagrin or simply because the Malwa commander of the fortress decided that Menander’s ships made a more suitable target, the second volley was fired at the Justinian and the four barges it was towing. As was the third.
And Menander, cursing even more bitterly than Eusebius, was confirmed in his belief that the Goddess of Luck reigned supreme in battle. None of the ships were hit by the fortress’ fire. Indeed, none of the great cannon balls landed closer than thirty yards to any of the Roman vessels. But one ball, guided by incredible good fortune, did manage to neatly sever the cable towing the last barge.
That barge, containing most of the powder and shot for the twenty-four pounders, fell away and began drifting aimlessly in the sluggish current. The handful of soldiers stationed on the barge were completely helpless. None of them were really sailors; even if they had known how to raise the sails, there was no wind to fill them; and they were far too few—nor was the barge properly designed for the task anyway—to drive it against the current using oars. All they could do was drift, awaiting their certain doom.
Menander was not even aware of the problem immediately. The change in the flotilla’s speed due to the sudden lightening of the load was too minor to register. It was not until the Justinian and the three barges still attached to it had steamed completely out of the smoke bank that he realized what had happened.
For a moment, he was torn by indecision. He was still within range of the fortress’ guns, and would remain so for several minutes. If he cast loose the three barges he was towing in order to steam back to rescue the fourth, he might lose them all. On the other hand, if he waited until he had towed them far enough upstream to be safe from cannon fire, it would take him quite some time to rescue the stray and return—assuming he wasn’t hit himself. During which time, the three barges cast off might very well ground ashore or drift back into range. The Indus’ current was not swift, but it was irresistible for a barge not under any form of powered control.
His eyes fell on the Victrix, now almost a mile away. He could see another gout of flame spurting from its bow and engulfing a Malwa picket ship. In the fireship’s wake, he could see that two others were burning fiercely. As expected, river craft could not hope to match the Victrix in close quarter combat. A single burst of that hideous weapon was enough to turn any small vessel into an inferno.
There was only one Malwa picket boat left. The commander of that boat, no coward, was still rowing toward the Victrix. Menander could see a small flash in the bow of the boat, as it fired the puny little bowchaser it carried. That would be a three pounder, at best. Even at short range, the heavy timber which shielded the Victrix’s bow would shrug it off.
To Menander’s surprise, however, the Victrix began to turn away. Within seconds, he realized that Eusebius had spotted the orphaned barge—which was now not more than three hundred yards away from him—and was intending to go to its rescue.