1901

by Robert Conroy

  When she mentioned that fact to Patrick, it perplexed him. Since his simplistic view of Bohemianism meant a degree of sexual promiscuity, he found himself wondering about her, and also wondering why he was concerned. Before he could wonder more, Trina answered his unasked question.

  “I am hardly a Bohemian. I am probably more conservative than an old dowager.” She frowned. “Why do people fear me when I try to be a little different? All I want is the freedom to be me, to learn, to search. Does that make me a Bohemian?”

  Her answer relieved him. “Of course not.” Now why was he so relieved?

  “Do I frighten you, Patrick?”

  He lay on the ground, his face looking into the latticework of tree limbs while she sat farther in the shade, her back against the tree trunk. “Naw. After fighting Apaches, Spanish, Germans, and the odd drunk in a garrison town, I’m not frightened of you at all.”

  Patrick told her about growing up an only child in Michigan, around Detroit, and what it was like being a soldier, moving from place to place and never really being settled. He had a lot of friends and was part of a fraternity, but he had little opportunity for close relationships. As for women, there were very few in a military compound, and those who were there were either already taken or not worth taking. It was, he told her, a strangely monastic existence. Not that he was a saint, but there was no reason to bring up everything.

  He told her that for some time he had been considering leaving the military. “I think I may be through with war and killing. I know I don’t want to sell farm machinery, but I would like to do something like what I did at West Point-teach. I’ve friends at the University of Michigan and maybe I can get something there. With what I get from the family business, and a few other investments I’ve managed to make, I could live there quite comfortably.”

  Trina nodded. “I wonder now if I could ever go back to living in New York. It’s like a phase of my life that’s closed. It’s occurred to me that I was never really comfortable in the city. For all its cosmopolitanism, it can be strangely restrictive. I don’t think I will ever go back there to live. Those apartments I lived in were rented. It’s as if we knew we would not put down permanent roots.”

  Against their wishes, the afternoon passed. As the sun descended, Patrick gathered their belongings and they drove the carriage slowly back to town and her house. When they arrived, Heinz informed him he’d found suitable accommodations with a local farmer a couple of miles down the road. He’d done so by appealing to the man’s patriotism and by outbidding another man.

  The four of them ate a quick and light dinner prepared by Molly. Both Patrick and Trina were openly pleased that Molly and Heinz had managed to negotiate a sort of unarmed truce. With dinner finished, it was time to depart. Patrick told Heinz to get the horses, which gave him a moment to say a quiet good-bye to Katrina.

  As they stood by the open door, Patrick had a feeling of longing. He wanted to touch Trina, but he feared that simply reaching for her hand would hurt her even more than the possibility of rebuff would hurt him. They stood in silence for a minute until Trina solved the problem. She reached up and kissed him softly on the lips. “I’m not afraid of you either, General Patrick. Please come back to me. I would appreciate it very, very much.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Captain Robley Evans, Fighting Bob to his peers and the press, paced the deck of the battleship Alabama and peered into the mist. He had a feeling of utter impotence. The Alabama was one of the finest and newest American warships afloat; yet with the distant sounds of ships’ guns echoing about, she was forced to crawl at less than one-third her rated speed of sixteen knots. He wondered if she was moving at all. It was maddening.

  The powerful Alabama was designated BB-8, or the eighth modern battleship in an expanding American navy. It displaced more than twelve thousand tons, was more than 370 feet in length, and had a crew of just under seven hundred. The only newer American battleship was the Wisconsin, BB-9, currently cruising the West Coast.

  “Anything, Mr. Lansing?”

  “No, sir. The lookouts think they can see the sky, so the mist may be breaking up, but until then we are well and truly blind.”

  Evans breathed deeply of the warm, moist air. What on earth had caused a mist at this time and place? It only showed how little control man has over the planet. According to the navigator’s best estimate, made less than an hour ago when they could see, the Alabama should have been about five miles off Saint Augustine, the ancient city on the east coast of Florida.

  Evans dared not speed up lest they blunder into something that might prove fatal or run aground. Evans and the crew of the Alabama knew full well that the United States was at war with Germany. Less than two weeks ago, they had been in port in Rio de Janeiro when the word was cabled throughout the world. In immediate contact with the American embassy, they’d been told to wait in Brazilian waters until they were either asked to leave by the Brazilians or given further orders.

  A few days later, orders had arrived directing the ship to depart Brazil and steam directly to the naval station at Guantanamo Bay on the eastern tip of Cuba. There they hoped they would be further enlightened. They had steamed carefully and prepared for war by painting the ship gray, discarding unneeded wooden furniture, and practicing their gunnery, which had proven to be a major problem for the navy.

  With gun ranges and ship speeds increasing, it was damnably hard to hit anything at all. Worse, the Alabama ’s secondary batteries, set as they were in the hull of the ship, could easily be rendered useless in a heavy sea, as the waves would crash right over them. There had to be a better way, Evans had thought. That was why he had experimented with the new Royal Navy way of aiming and firing that was being developed by their brilliant young innovator Percy Scott. So far, Evans had been impressed with the results.

  Scott’s technique was called “continuous aim” and required a telescopic sight for each gun, an elevating wheel to raise the gun so that the target did not become lost in the pitch and roll of the seas, and practice, practice, practice. The result was that a gunner did not have to find his target each time the guns fired; thus the rate of fire as well as the accuracy were increased. Evans had recalled the humiliating misses at Santiago where hundreds of shells splashed all over the ocean but rarely near the Spanish ships. The newspapers had crowed over the terrible shooting by the Spanish but had apparently not noted the almost equally bad American gunnery.

  The Alabama had made Guantanamo without incident. What had been a bright and gleaming example of American naval pride in Rio had been transformed into a dark and lethal weapon, at least as lethal as Evans could possibly make it. He knew that only a handful of his crew had ever seen battle, and that had been in the one-sided victories against the totally overmatched Spaniards. How would they react? All the drilling and practice in the world could not compensate for the real thing. For all intents and purposes, his ship was a virgin.

  There were other problems as well. The numbers of men in the navy’s officer corps had not kept pace with the ongoing expansion. The Alabama, like virtually every other ship, was short more than 20 percent of its allotted complement of officers. This resulted in junior officers having serious responsibilities. Evans did not relish the thought of going to war without a full complement of officers or enlisted men.

  But Evans had the experience his ship did not. An 1863 graduate of Annapolis, he had been wounded late in the Civil War, at Fort Fisher. His previous commands included the armored cruiser New York and the battleships Indiana and Iowa. The Iowa was his during the battle of Santiago. Had the Spanish war lasted longer, there was talk of giving him a cruiser squadron to send against the mainland of Spain. The Alabama was not supposed to have been his, but the sudden illness of Captain Brownson had given him an unexpected opportunity for independent command, and he had relished it.

  A powerfully built man, Evans was clean shaven in a time of beards and bushy mustaches, and he parted his thinning brown hair directly
down the middle. With his strong demeanor and colorful vocabulary, he could intimidate as well as charm. He liked everything about his navy except his small marine contingent. He considered them useless mouths on his ship and quietly urged that the Marine Corps be abolished. In his midforties, he was considered a man with a future.

  At Guantanamo they had received a coded message directing the Alabama to the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. So totally unexpected was this order that Evans had it decoded several times before accepting it as true. Canadian waters? He had hoped someone knew just what the hell they were up to.

  He hadn’t planned to be anywhere near Saint Augustine, but one of his crewmen had been badly hurt in a gun-loading accident and needed help that was well beyond the scope of his medical officers. Besides, Evans had rationalized, it would be a grand opportunity to pick up some additional supplies and the latest news of the war. Perhaps someone would cancel the puzzling orders to make for Canada.

  And now they heard the sound of guns. His crew had been bending and peering over their weapons for what seemed an eternity while lookouts tried to make visual sense of what they were hearing.

  “Mr. Lansing, anything?”

  Heavy guns could only mean the presence of the Germans. Yet in what strength? Was the Alabama being led to a slaughter? Running away was anathema to Evans, but so was running aground. Thus they prudently kept their speed agonizingly slow.

  “Captain, the lookouts say they can now see the horizon.”

  Evans smiled thinly. “Well, that confirms we are still on this earth!”

  There were a few forced chuckles. The captain had made a joke. When Capt. Robley Dunglison Evans made a joke, regardless of the circumstances, you laughed. The lookouts in their cramped platforms above had the best view. There was a school of thought that held that the captain belonged up there as well, but Evans disagreed. Although the view might be somewhat better, the command apparatus was here, on the navigating bridge, twenty feet below, where half a dozen officers and men were jammed into the little lookout post.

  Ship-to-ship communication was either by semaphore or Morse flashes, or even the new wireless, but messages were sent throughout the ship by different means. First, there were speaking tubes, which became useless when several people tried to speak at the same time, or when it was windy and the air distorted the sound. Second, there were the recently installed electric telephones, but their signals were weak, scratchy, and often overwhelmed by the sound of the guns. That is, when they worked at all. That left the tried and true means of sending messengers or shouting out commands and hoping they were heard. A wise captain used all means and hoped the men understood exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

  “Sir, the lookouts can make out two, no, make that three ships off our starboard side. They, damnit, they are firing into the town!”

  Evans pondered. “Are we making much smoke?” Like all major warships, the Alabama burned coal, and the finger of black smoke usually pointed skyward, giving away her presence long before she could actually be seen.

  “No, sir. Very little.” The mist was also doing them a favor by keeping the smoke down on the ship and not letting it rise to the sky.

  “And what do the lookouts make them out to be?”

  “They say cruisers. One heavy and two smaller and all in line, Captain.”

  “Very well. Maintain speed and steer in the direction of the enemy ships. Let the lookouts guide us. I mean to run down that line.”

  Evans stood tensely by his chair and drummed his hand on the armrest. Three cruisers. The Alabama had a primary battery of four 13-inch guns in two turrets of two guns each, one forward and one aft. There was a secondary battery of fourteen 6-inch guns in single mounts, with seven on each side of the ship. From what he recalled reading of German cruisers, no one of them could be a match for the Alabama. But three of them? The challenge was exciting. If fate smiled, he could wipe out an entire German squadron.

  He straightened up. By God, the mist was clearing! He could see the dim shapes of the enemy. “What range?”

  “Four thousand yards and closing. Sir, they are coming toward us at very slow speed. They may even have stopped. The heavy cruiser is closest.”

  Stopped? Not damn likely, thought Evans, but without anyone to prevent them from shelling the town, they were likely moving as slowly as he and enjoying their day’s work. “Fire when ready, Gridley. I want the big guns on the heavy. Divide the secondary on the other two.”

  Lansing smiled. The Gridley comment was an old joke. Within seconds, the ship shook as the forward twin thirteens belched fire at the lead German cruiser, with the smaller 6-inch guns quickly joining in the chorus, blinding them all with the lingering smoke.

  The smoke cleared quickly and Evans could see that the lead cruiser was obscured by splashes. Misses, he cursed. “Goddamnit! What the hell’s wrong with our gunners?”

  Lansing looked up from his speaking tube. “Lookouts report no hits, sir.”

  Evans cursed again in frustration. Surely all the practice had not been wasted. Or were they firing short in fear of hitting the town behind? He pounded his chair with his fist. Probably the gunners were just nervous. Let them work it out. The big guns fired again, silencing him, and the bridge was again blanketed by the stinking smoke cloud. He gave orders to turn the ship so that the rear turret could also be brought to bear, even though that meant widening the distance slightly. It made no sense to have half of his biggest guns unavailable.

  “Hit!”

  Evans strained to see. Yes, smoke was pouring from the front superstructure that housed the lead enemy cruiser’s bridge. He chilled, thinking of the bloody carnage that smoke hid. The bridge was where his German counterpart held sway. Only now there was a good chance the German had been blown to bits. Evans didn’t even hear the rear turret fire.

  “Hit!”

  Again Evans pounded the chair with his fist, this time with relief and satisfaction. One of the lead German’s two funnels had collapsed, and smoke was pouring from her innards, including clouds of white that indicated her boilers had been penetrated. She was now immobile. A cruiser’s armor could not stop a 13-inch shell weighing eleven hundred pounds and traveling at more than two thousand feet per second. Cruisers were meant to fight other cruisers, not battleships.

  “Sir, lookouts identify her as the German cruiser Freya. She has two 8.2-inch guns and a half dozen 6-inchers. Sir, she also has torpedoes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lansing. Let the lookouts watch for torpedo wakes.” Evans watched spellbound as his ship passed down the line of three Germans. Their return fire had been slow, very slow indeed. He suspected that virtually all the lookouts had been watching the shore bombardment and not looking to their rear. The smaller German guns were, so far, firing wildly. He tried, but failed, to feel some sympathy for them, tried to visualize their reactions as they saw the Alabama emerging from the mist at such close range and with so little time to react.

  The Alabama ’s guns hammered away with a life of their own. He could not help an involuntary cry as the forward single-gun turret of the Freya lifted into the air and fell into the ocean with a mighty splash. The sound and feel of the explosion washed over them seconds later. The Freya was doomed, seeming to shudder as the life was pounded out of her. Fires raged everywhere. She was no longer returning fire. “Secondary batteries on the heavy. Shift the big guns to the little ships.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Who are they, Mr. Lansing? We should know their names before we sink them.”

  Lansing smiled. “They appear to be the Gefion and another like her. I don’t know how many in that particular class. The Gefion has ten 4.1-inchers and torpedoes.”

  Evans nodded. The lookouts were again instructed to let him know if one of the infernal torpedoes was launched at his ship. The Gefion and her companion each had triple stacks and each was flying apart under the bombardment. Pieces of metal flew skyward along with what were, sometimes very obviously, bod
ies. The last ship, still unnamed, suddenly lifted out of the water and disintegrated as her magazine exploded. Two down.

  “Torpedo in the water!”

  Evans rushed to the port side of the circular bridge and stared at the blue-green water, straining to see the lethal tracks.

  “Captain,” yelled Lansing, “lookouts say the torpedo will miss. It may have been thrown off the German ship by an internal explosion and not actually launched.” Evans nodded to mask his relief and turned back to the one-sided battle.

  The second ship, the Gefion, seemed to disappear in a cloud of water and spray as the guns of the Alabama bracketed her. She was given a momentary respite as the Alabama, having run the Germans’ futile gauntlet, turned about. This simply gave the fresh and frustrated gunners on the starboard batteries an opportunity to practice their hard-earned skills in what was now a slaughter, not a battle. In moments, this phase too was over as the last German ship began to settle in the water, blazing from stem to stern. Evans called a cease-fire as he saw lifeboats being lowered and frantic German sailors jumping into the sea. He gave orders for their own boats to be lowered and the survivors rounded up.

  “I do not,” he added sternly, “want hundreds of goddamn Germans on my ship. Bring only the swimmers and the seriously injured aboard. Gather the lifeboats and direct them to the shore.” When an officer started to say something, he waved down the protest. “We will send our own marines ashore to see that the fools aren’t lynched, although,” he grumbled, “that might not be a bad idea for some of their senior officers. At least it will give the marines something to do for their pay. Now, what about our own damage? Any?”

  “Captain, we were hit at least three times, no major damage. However, we do have at least four dead and seven wounded.”

  Evans nodded and tried to keep the astonishment from showing. In the intensity of the battle, he hadn’t been aware they’d been touched.