We Sail For Celestia

The news of the Kirin setback at Yakfrost Pass was received with great cheer among the denizens of Canterlot when it was reported in the newspapers, several days after it had actually happened. The word took time to travel, and even when it did, important war information could be withheld from the civilian press for days- sometimes weeks- if it was deemed to be in the national interest to do so. The unvarnished truth was only ever known by the military top brass and the civilian leadership, namely the two royal sisters. The prism of propaganda could quite easily distort a stalemate into a major victory, or a crippling defeat into an act of courageous sacrifice and determination, by the time it reached the ears or the eyes of common ponies.

Little such spin was needed to spread the word of the success at Yakfrost. It had been a victory, a potential turning point in the war. The Kirin advance, hitherto relentless and uncontained, had been halted at long last. If the fates were with Equestria, that could delineate the farthest reaches of the Kirin's territorial ambitions. If they could be contained, the word on the street said, then they could be crushed, driven out to sea, back across the water to their distant, mist-shrouded homeland, no more to trouble Equestrian shores. The mood in the city was upbeat, for this was the first positive news that had been received since the war began.

In the war council chamber, things were less cheerful. Superficially, the defence of the Yakfrost Pass was a victory, something to be proud of. But Princess Celestia and her advisors knew that the reality was rather different. It was a victory, but it was only the beginning of their troubles in the east. Northwick province was almost entirely in enemy hands, save for Harmony Bay, and large areas of southern Yakyakistan province were also under the Kirin's sway, though the capital city itself was not, thanks to the defenders at the Yakfrost Pass. If the port city fell, then so would the last bastion of Equestrian power in Northwick. That, in turn, would free large numbers of Kirin soldiers and artillery to press home the attack on Yakyakistan City, and complete their stated aims of liberating both provinces.

It would still take a number of weeks to mount anything approximating a major counteroffensive. Troops were massing in Yakyakistan, and on the Equestrian border to the west, but time was needed. Precious, elusive time, trickling slowly through the hourglass with every shell hurled at Harmony Bay, and every day of expended rations, mounting casualties, and eroding morale. The siege had to be lifted, but that too would take time, weeks at a minimum. Either the land armies would break through and relieve Harmony Bay, or Blueblood's fleet would arrive and drive away the Kirin navy. That, at least, was the hope.

Poring over detailed maps of the city and its environs, Celestia's advisors explained how likely Harmony Bay was to hold out, and for how long. If either the fleet or the relieving armies were timely in their arrival, it was deemed likely that the city would hold out, unless the Kirin somehow managed to completely overrun their defences and take the city by storm. Harmony Bay had supplies of ammunition and food that would be sufficient to sustain the garrison, the fleet crews and the civilians for several months at a minimum, barring nothing untoward happening. General Snow Meadow had cautioned that the Kirin might try to use shelling or airship bombing as a means of inflicting damage upon the city's resilience by targeting storehouses and ammunition depots, but nopony could say for sure how much intelligence the Kirin may have had about the locations of such targets.

Minister Copperhead had repeatedly urged caution over expectations both from the fleet and the speed at which any ground troops might be able to mount a major assault. Much to the consternation of the Princess, he had pointed out the obvious, that which had been deliberately overlooked in the understandable rush to do something, anything, about the invasion. The Home Fleet, despite Blueblood's pompous, blustering assertions, was not an experienced force. Other than minor anti-pirate activities, they had done almost nothing for a century, spending most of their time in port polishing brass, or on mostly pointless, half-hearted exercises just outside Manehattan Bay. Furthermore, Copperhead pointed out with just a modicum of tact- for the Admiral was a distant relative of the Princess- Blueblood was not exactly the best commander the navy had ever seen. His leadership style, Copperhead described as abrasive. His tactical genius, essentially present, but broadly lacking in depth and nuance.

The minister then turned his sharp tongue on the army, for it was in no better state to fight a major war than the Home Fleet, for the most part, he asserted. Most divisions had been equipped with the most modern machine guns, submachine guns, mortars and artillery, but again the experience was lacking. Only a few divisions had been committed to the Mare-Isle operation, and it had been many a year since there had been any other large-scale conflict for the soldiers to get their teeth into. Despite intensive training and classroom instruction at the war academies, junior officers, for the most part, lacked any field experience at actually commanding under fire. Senior and staff officers, Copperhead complained, were still ready to fight the previous war, not the current one. This was worsened by the fact that the Kirin were, for the most part, an unknown, a lacuna in the war manuals. How they would act in battle, on the defensive at least, had yet to be determined, but they were aggressive and agile in the attack, both on land and sea. There was no reason to think they would be any different when it was the Equestrians who were on the offensive. They made good use of artillery to support their movements, and seemed plentifully supplied with machine guns. As shown at Yakfrost, they also used air support to drive home an attack, something that the forces of Eastern Command lacked, for most Equestrian airships were deployed elsewhere, to counter the potential threat of those of other nations, notably the Griffons. Nopony had even known that the Kirin possessed such craft until the reports from the battle had started to flow in.

The two advisors offered different views to the Princess, but both shared the same basic conviction. Equestria would be triumphant, of that there was, ultimately, no question, for her resources far outstripped those available to the Kirin, in terms of soldiers, armaments, and money. There were two main questions that remained unanswered as the war council departed that evening; would the city of Harmony Bay hold out long enough for those resources to make a difference, and how many Equestrian lives would the Princess be willing to sacrifice to make sure that Yakyakistan and Northwick were brought back under her control?

Far to the south of the capital where the war council had been meeting, the sea was dark and wild. The outer bands of a swirling late-season hurricane were whipping up the scudding waves, frantic low clouds crowding out Luna's moon and the bright winter stars above. Into this disturbed picture sailed the ships of the Home Fleet, a straggling string of ships great and small.

Blueblood had spent most of the day in his cabin, abed with seasickness, not a fine quality for an Admiral to possess, though certainly not unknown. Even some of the finest sailors of old suffered from the malady, and Blueblood, despite a naval career that had seen him serve aboard destroyers, cruisers and battleships, did likewise. The debilitating condition that afflicted many ponies was made considerably worse in bad weather, as the ships, even the mighty Chevaline, heaved and tossed like bucking broncos in the storm-wracked waves. As the fleet had pushed on through the dull overcast of the afternoon and into the inky blackness of night, the fringes of the hurricane had closed in, unavoidably crossing their path, driving its way toward the wind-blasted southwest coast of Equestria, not far from the border with the Griffon Kingdom, a part of the world well used to the pounding of hurricanes and tropical storms as they drifted their way northwest from the vast open ocean that lay between the mainland and the archipelago.

Blueblood's Flag Captain, Champagne Crown, had suggested they should linger to the west of the storm cell and wait for it to pass and weaken over land before continuing on. But the Admiral would not hear of it, despite his respect for the relatively young unicorn stallion who commanded the Chevaline. The dashing and handsome captain, it was said, was perhaps the only other office that Blueblood would listen to besides himself, a check on his inflated ego, though only in a twisted way. Champagne Crown reminded Blueblood of himself, went the theory. To further expound on that, the rumour-mongers below decks insisted that the pale yellow stallion, with his trimmed, waxed moustache and shining green eyes, was not just Blueblood's subordinate, but also his secret lover- because somepony as narcissistic as the Admiral of the Fleet could only ever love another who reminded him of himself.

These rumours, as were most that swirled below decks like the hurricane outside, were false, but that did not stop seaponies from believing them. Even on the Chevaline, the ship where the crew might be expected to be the most loyal to their Admiral, who had hand-picked most of them from the rosters of other vessels. Ponies down on the pitching gun-decks and swinging in their hammocks discussed many things to while away the hours, and the qualities- or lack thereof- of their leaders was always a popular topic, so long as no officers were nearby to overhear them. The last-minute order to clean and polish the ships ready for royal inspection and the missing pre-departure feast they had been promised had not sat well with the hard-working crews. While most of them respected their officers and adored their Princess, this whole campaign seemed to many to be something of a personal crusade by Blueblood, who had committed the Home Fleet, despite its lack of training and experience, to just about the longest possible voyage it could undertake. Why?

To win the war, Blueblood would argue. To defeat the Kirin, send them packing across the water and liberate Northwick for the crown once more. But that was not how many of the sailors under his command looked at things. It seemed to the more politically astute and cynical amongst them that Blueblood had hot-headedly committed the fleet to prove something- either his loyalty or skill- to Celestia. There must, they theorized, have been some other solution the government and the Princess could have taken that did not require them to sail so far into unknown dangers. Were they being sacrificed on the altar of Blueblood's vainglory?

Any such talk, of course, was dangerous, as it bordered on mutinous discussion. Whenever such words were overheard by officers, it was clamped down upon with anger, though those junior officers, many of whom shared similar convictions regarding the nature of their mission, sent such discipline no farther up the chain of command, but rather kept it amongst themselves. Keep your mouths shut if you know what's good for you. Don't let the Captain or the Admiral hear you talking like that. I won't report you, but another officer might.

Flag Captain Crown suggested keeping the fleet to the west of the hurricane, but Blueblood, seasickness be damned, had other ideas. That, he told his subordinate, would be an unacceptable delay. It would be at least a couple of days before the hurricane had completely passed, and those days might make all the difference between saving Harmony Bay and losing it to the Kirin, to say nothing of the damage to his personal reputation if the mission he had staked it upon were to fail. Instead, the Admiral had ordered the fleet to sail through the outer bands and pass to the east of the hurricane before the worst of it reached them. It would be an uncomfortable night and morning, but they could not afford to slow down.

Nature, however, had other plans for the fleet. As they ploughed through the heavy seas, their speed naturally dropped as a consequence of the great troughs they were wallowing through, natural depressions in the sea after each passing wave-crest. The wind was blowing the sea into a fury. Spray burst over the prow of each vessel like champagne spilling forth from a newly opened bottle. The few unfortunate souls called for deck-watch were restricted to the bridge wings and observation posts which were relatively safe to occupy, for anypony daring to venture onto the actual weather-deck, especially the slick wood or metal of the forecastle, would be in serious peril of being washed overboard, like a spider down a drain, by the periodical deluge of foaming, frothing water that would come thundering over the prow as the ship slammed down into the next trough. Below decks, ropes were rigged in companionways and compartments to act as handrails when the crew were moving about, something to hold onto as the deck gave way beneath their feet and the bow plunged down into yet another trough.

The smaller vessels, destroyers and minesweepers, were tossed and shaken by the heavy seas, but even the battleships were struggling to make good progress, being battered by chill winds and pelted with rain. It was difficult to keep track of other ships, as much for the high waters as the darkness. Lookouts on the bridge wings of each vessel held their thick waterproof coats tight about them, though within moments of stepping outside they were soaked to the skin anyway, for even their oilskin trousers, coat and hat could not keep the rain and spray from their bones for long. Water poured into their eyes as they strained against the dark and cold to see that their vessel was not on a collision course with another. Once relieved of watch duties, they staggered inside for a tot of rum and at least a few minutes with their head beneath a towel and over a basin of warm, steaming water, carefully gripped between the knees in case it should slop and spill. A pat on the back from a petty officer, and then it was down below to their bunk, to try, mostly in vain, to catch some sleep while the deck tossed and turned beneath them like a pony having a particularly cruel nightmare.

Blueblood, medicated with whiskey, lay curled up in his bunk, tucked away in his cabin with a precariously balanced metal basin on his desk into which he would vomit whenever the natural ebb and flow of the seas dictated its necessity. Though his desk had a coaming around the edge to prevent things sliding off in rough seas, the growing violence of the hurricane threatened to dislodge it nonetheless.

As Admiral, Blueblood's cabin was a significant step up from the living quarters of the rest of the crew of the Chevaline. A bunk the size, almost, of a true double bed, a mahogany writing desk, golden trim on the fixtures, a private bathroom, thick, shag carpeting and a drinks cabinet kitted out his quarters. Suitable for an Admiral it may have been, but his cabin was yet another source of resentment from the lower ranks aboard the Chevaline, whose cramped, shared bunks or hammocks strung up on the secondary gun-decks were not exactly the height of luxury. Even the senior officers and Flag-Captain Champagne Crown resided in small and relatively spartan cabins. As the flagship of both the fleet and the entire navy, the Chevaline had been built with an Admiral's comfort in mind; but not only an Admiral's. There was one spare chamber, as lavishly furnished as Blueblood's, intended for grand dignitaries who might wish to take a tour aboard the vessel and spend a day or two at sea as part of a good photo opportunity for the newspapers. It had been designed with the Princesses in mind specifically, but neither of them had ever deigned to spend more than a few hours aboard, and there had been no need for its use. It sat empty, though Champagne Crown gave its hatchway a longing look every time he passed it, for it would have made a fine upgrade from his austere cabin.

While hammocks, inhabited by most lowly seaponies aboard the battleships and cruisers, were designed to swing with the sea and the motion of the vessel, even they, the most nautical of sleep aids, could barely cope with the tossing waves of the storm-whipped ocean. The secondary gun decks where many ponies slept were battened up tight, their gunports secured and locked firmly against the raging winds and plunging foam. Instead of Luna's silent, nocturnal peace, the gun decks were awash with the sounds of retching and hurried feet as ponies grabbed for sick-buckets or rushed to the head to vomit into something more substantial. Even seasoned seaponies could succumb to the wretchedness of seasickness when confined to the sightless torture of riding out a storm without any visual reference to the horizon, though in truth even those on watch or on the bridge could easily struggle when the horizon was blanked out by darkness and the ceaseless, driving rain.

The windshield wipers on the bridge, three big mechanical arms with rubber blades, tried desperately to keep the glass clear so the helmspony and the bridge crew could see what lay ahead, but it was a futile battle. The storm- hurricane, for that was what they were fighting- was raging with a fury unknown to those crewponies who were born and raised in Manehattan, Canterlot or anywhere else either far inland or at a northerly enough latitude to avoid the tropical terrors as they worked their way up from the equator. It was on par with any winter storm that might be whipped up out around Northwick and Yakyakistan, which could be ferocious in the extreme and match windspeeds with those from the tropics, for though it was the latest of late-season hurricanes, the waters around the equator were still turbulent and warm.

The plunging bow of the Chevaline could just about be glimpsed through the ambitiously-named clearview screens, two discs of glass placed upon the larger panes and rapidly spun by an electric motor to throw off water droplets, much as the swirling hurricane would throw off bursts of rain and occasional tornadoes at its extremities. Even they could barely keep up with the torrent being hurled against them, not just from the rain but also the spray as the great pointed prow of the battleship dove into each trough like a swimmer launching from the starting blocks at the Equestrian Games. Each time it seemed as though the ship must surely follow its own bow down into the depths, but each time it would rise up again and break free of the clawing waters, foam streaming from the gunwales and hawse-holes, to begin its ascent of the next prominence, where it would perch delicately before tipping forward once more. Sometimes a new wave would rush forward before the Chevaline had even cleared its bows from the last trough, and would wash over the entire foredeck and burst upon the bridge and the rest of the superstructure, inundating the forward turrets and half-drowning the poor lookouts despite their elevated positions.

"Sir, telephone message from the radio room! We are picking up a distress call!" one of the junior ensigns informed Champagne Crown, who sat in his chair on the bridge, enduring the evening watch, no less uncomfortable than to lie in bed ineffectually seeking sleep.

"Very good. Put it through," he ordered. The officer spoke into the handset of the internal telephony system, and the radio operators patched the transmission through to the bridge circuit so the captain could hear.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the ENSS Conveyor. We have lost power and we are foundering! Requesting assistance!"

A frown creased the captain's handsome visage. The Conveyor was one of the fleet colliers, the vital coal transports that were carrying so much of the precious black substance. The battleships needed them, for though their own decks and store rooms were crammed with coal sacks to eke every possible mile from their boilers and turbines, it was still not enough. The colliers were vital, for they could transfer extra coal while at sea to restock the bunkers of the capital ships. If one was in trouble...

"Wake the Admiral," Crown ordered. "Summon him to the bridge if you please, Mister Kingfisher."

"Aye, Captain." The Midship-Pony in question hurried away down below, swaying with the motion of the ship as he held tightly to the companionway rail so as not to stumble or lose his footing. At least the deck plating was dry; on the weather deck it would be slick with water, while down below the gundecks were likely to be awash with vomit.

A short way astern and one deck down from the bridge lay the Admiral's cabin. Midship-Pony Kingfisher knocked, his knuckles rapping sharply upon the door. It was only then that he realised he did not quite know how to directly address the Admiral, his knowledge of etiquette deserting him at the most inopportune moment. Was he Admiral? Lord Admiral? My Lord? Your Highness? As a junior officer and usually only operating on the night watch on the rare occasion he was present on the bridge and not down below in the gunnery section, Kingfisher had never addressed the Admiral directly before.

"Sir?" Kingfisher called, settling for the most basic form of address, but probably the one least likely to get him into trouble for some perceived breach of etiquette, something Blueblood was known to pounce upon. "Sir? Begging your pardon, but Captain Crown requests your presence on the bridge..."

"Tell him to go and boil his head!" Blueblood replied from within the cabin.

"Ah...um, with all due respect, Admiral, I...believe the situation is quite urgent and requires your attention," Kingfisher ventured, receiving a growl in response. After a few moments, the door unlocked and the dishevelled figure of the Admiral appeared, his golden mane scraggly and out of place as he had been lying in his bed. His undershirt was no longer truly pristine white, for it was speckled in places with vomit. Kingfisher felt momentarily sorry for the Admiral, until he remembered that it was Blueblood's fault they were out here in the pitching waves in the first place. By all accounts, it had been his self-aggrandising and braggadocious speech which had persuaded the Princess to risk the Home Fleet on its long journey.

"What is it?" Blueblood demanded. "What is wrong? What could be more wrong than this confounded hurricane?"

"Radio message from the Conveyor, sir. They are foundering in heavy seas," Kingfisher explained. "Captain Crown requests your orders."

"Very well..." Blueblood grunted, pulling on his jacket and only bothering to fasten a few of the buttons, following Kingfisher to the bridge, swaying like a drunkard with every motion of the vessel. The Chevaline was making hard work of the waves, and so, it seemed, was the collier ship that was dragging along somewhere behind them in the darkness.

"Admiral," Crown clicked his heels and smartly saluted as Blueblood emerged onto the bridge, the squeak of the rubber wipers in the background as they continued their fruitless effort to keep the bridge windows clear of spray and rain. "We have received a message from the Conveyor."

"Yes, yes, I know," Blueblood snapped, leaning heavily upon the edge of the map table. "Where is she?"

"Last confirmed position was some eight miles astern of us, but that was several hours ago sir," Crown reported. "This storm is playing havoc with our station-keeping. We can't even see the Canterlot, or the Yaktown," he informed the Admiral. The two City-Class heavy cruisers which had been the flagship's close companions in formation were lost to sight, out among the heaving seas and whistling winds, no longer visible even if their station-keeping lights had been illuminated, which they were not, for Blueblood, still vigilant and wary, had ordered them extinguished across the fleet at night in case they helped to give aid to enemy torpedo boats or, worse, submarines.

"What does the captain of the Conveyor expect us to do about his dilemma?" Blueblood asked, the ship creaking beneath him as it rode a particularly large wave.

"He requests assistance, sir. A tow," Crown explained.

"A tow? In this sea?" Blueblood exploded. "Is he out of his mind? Tell him to fix his engines or whatever the issue is, and rejoin the rest of the fleet."

"Sir, the Conveyor reports that her engines have failed," Crown replied. "I do not think..."

"Mayday, mayday, mayday!" the radio, still relayed from the radio-room to the bridge, crackled again. "This is the ENSS Conveyor, we have lost power and are taking on water! Requesting immediate assistance!"

Blueblood frowned. If the fleet attempted to assist the collier ship, they would lose yet more precious time, but if they did not, they might well lose precious coal, and they could afford the loss of neither commodity. Sending ships to help would break up the fleet's formation even more than the storm already had, requiring more time to reform in the morning, or afternoon, once it had passed, and that could leave the capital ships exposed and alone. If Kirin forces were aware of their passage- and it seemed extremely unlikely they were not- then enemy ships or submarines could be waiting to pounce after the hurricane.

"Damn their eyes!" Blueblood snarled. "Do something about it, won't you, Captain? Sort them out. I'm going back to my cabin..." With that, the Admiral wandered off, leaving the bemused Champagne Crown to tend to the issue himself.

Out in the whirling, pounding sea, the Conveyor, a bulky, ugly vessel with fat smokestacks and a flattened, square superstructure, like the snout of a boxer broken many times in the ring, was struggling desperately against the water. With her engines out and the bilges overflowing, the collier was in trouble, flashing emergency signals with her searchlights in contravention of Admiral Blueblood's orders. The panicked crew were desperately trying to keep the pumps operating, but without the engines to provide a constant source of power, the old, creaky cargo ship was having great difficulty even achieving that. Emergency power was provided by several backup generators, but the water was seeping into the lower decks as wave after wave broke over her immobile bow, draining away through gaps in the old timbers of the deck, improperly caulked or simply worn with age, for the Conveyor had been in the service of the Home Fleet for decades. Truth be told, she was scarcely fit for the open water, having been initially built as a coastal transport before being purchased by the navy as a stop-gap measure until the construction of their own, purpose-built coaling vessels which carried the rest of the Home Fleet's vital fuel. Water was even soaking through and pooling in the great cargo holds that held the coal, soaking much of it through, to say nothing of the crew, who were as much water as pony, with rain, sea and now internal flooding to contend with.

At Champagne Crown's order, two ships were sent to the aid of the stricken collier. The ENS Revenge, a destroyer, and the ENS Ruby, a light cruiser, searched through the salt-spray for their target, a difficult task as the Conveyor did not know their true position. At long last, the lookouts, battered by the ferocious conditions on the bridge-wings of the Revenge, spotted the flashing signal lamps through the driving rain, and the destroyer set course, arriving alongside the Conveyor. A tow-rope was stretched and fired by line-gun from the stern of the Revenge to the bow of the collier, but the first poor soul from the Conveyor's crew who tried to retrieve it was swept overboard by a monstrous wash of seawater as a great breaker ran down the side of the destroyer's hull and then burst over the prow of the Conveyor, taking the line with it as well. It was hauled back in by the crew, but nothing could be done for the drowning sailor. Life-rings were hurled into the water by the collier's crew, but the unfortunate stallion, flailing wildly in the water, was almost immediately lost to sight in the undulating waves and blinding spray, drifting with the tide as the two ships tried to stick together. The Revenge's engines strained to keep position just ahead of the collier without smashing into her bow, for that would spell disaster for the destroyer, most likely mangling her props and leaving her as dead in the water as the Conveyor was.

The line gun was reloaded and the tow-rope fired onto the prow of the collier once more. This time it caught fast on one of the anchor chains, and two ponies were able to haul it in and tie it fast before scurrying back into the safety of the superstructure. The Revenge took the collier in tow, but the seas were greatly opposed to the two vessels remaining together, and the rope soon parted, snapping under tension. They tried again, and again they failed. The Revenge simply was not powerful enough to tow the heavily laden Conveyor. Her engines strained, props churning up the water like a school of feeding fish, but to no avail. A radio message was put out for the Ruby to come and aid them, but the cruiser replied that it could locate no sign of either vessel, despite constant searching.

Eventually, the seas overwhelmed the pumps of the aged collier, and its captain called for the ship to be abandoned. This entailed an even more perilous procedure, for taking to the lifeboats in such a savage and punishing sea was tantamount to suicide. That left them with one equally precarious option. The Revenge pulled alongside at a distance of as near to a hundred feet as the helmspony could reasonably estimate. The line gun was then loaded with another rope, this time not for towing, but for evacuation.

Carefully, but with haste, the crew of the Conveyor were carried across, one by one, in the breeches buoy attached to the rope, a kind of sling-harness worn like a pair of trousers, or breeches, hence the name. It was perilous, with the heavy seas threatening at any moment to swamp the tiny, dark figure of each pony as they were hauled across to the Revenge's deck and relative safety, hurried below with warm blankets and sharp tots of vodka or rum. The captain, as per nautical tradition, was the last to be hauled over, buffeted by the strong winds and lashing spray that swamped the overwhelmed deck of the collier. Within ten minutes of the last of the crew being taken off, the Conveyor was gone, slipping below the waves, taking her precious cargo with her.

Later that morning, when the sun finally rose above the hellish horizon and pitch darkness became a grave-grey overcast, the Chevaline meandered its way through the rough seas, still unable to accurately record her position; the radio was suffering heavy interference from the storm and its use was restricted to emergency communications anyway by Blueblood's orders, no coastline was in sight, and no old-fashioned star sightings had been possible during the night, the way the sailors in their wooden galleons had once navigated. Instead they had, essentially, been sailing blind through the night. Even their own instruments could not give an accurate reading of how far they had travelled or where they were; the ships' speed readouts had fluctuated wildly, almost constantly changing as she pitched up and down, riding the peaks and ploughing through the troughs, unable to maintain a constant rate of knots and rendering it difficult, if not impossible, to take readings of speed and time from the chronometer to work out how many nautical miles they had covered. Their heading had likewise shifted, despite the best efforts of the helmspony, who had received a fine workout to his arm muscles trying to keep the mighty battleship on course.

Finally, after hours of torture, a night of misery for those below and on duty, there was some tiny hint of a change in the weather. Above them, ahead, was a little sliver of blue sky, a pinprick in the shroud of heaven. No sooner had it come than it was gone, scudding away, obscured once more by the fringes of the storm, but it signalled a change. Half an hour later, there was more blue sky; the clouds were whiter, not as grey and laden with rain. The winds began to drop. If they were indeed still on course, and had vaguely covered anything like the distance predicted, they should be coming to the other side of the outer bands of the storm, having skirted the eyewall and stayed ahead of the absolute worst of the conditions. That had been Blueblood's plan- to push through the outer edges of the storm rather than wait for it to pass completely, saving them time and fuel. Unlike many things so far on the voyage, it had actually worked.

Up to a point, at least.