CSS Appomattox: A Thomas Devareaux Alternative History Military Adventure (The Thomas Sumter Devareaux Series Book 1)

by Chris Stoesen

  Seeing that all was as well as it could be, he moved back to Mark. The man was badly burned across his left cheek where his face hit the boiler. His hands were gloved and the uniform protected the rest of him from the impact. The tube for his rebreather was partially melted near the mask. The glass on his googles was broken, but it did not shatter. He should be fine. The skin was already blistered and the damage extended up into his hairline.

  He nodded to the other two remaining engineering crew.

  "Back to your posts fellers, I will cover for Mark. There is nothing more we can do for him now."

  The other two men's eyes were wide with near panic. Mark was the senior of his crew down in the boiler room. Whatever took a bite out of the Appy, it was not his worry at the moment. They had power and could still fly.

  He continued to direct his men.

  "Tiberius, put in more fuel and seal the burning chamber again. We don't want any debris from the chamber to get loose. That could be bad."

  He needed to learn to watch what he said. The men grew pale as a new bed sheet. But most importantly, they moved to their tasks. At least they were not frozen with fear. His guess was that they would request a transfer at some point. Some folks are just not cut out for engineering.

  Hearing the captain’s call for a status report, he moved to the repeater tube.

  “Engineering OK”

  Well, it was close to the truth.

  ...

  The captain of the main top, Isaac Lutes, opened the door to the crew mess. He paused to reflect on the title. There was no main top on an airship. The rigging was minimal, but it was the only existing position that came close to what he did. During combat, he and his men had little to actually do. Sail trimming was rarely called for at this altitude as his men's rebreather tubes could not reach to a port from outside the ship. He heard a word that they were going to get portable rebreathers at some point, but today was not that day.

  It was at this point that the enemy shell hit the floor of the crew mess. The room exploded. The wash of fire pushed him back from the doorway and threw him against the far bulkhead.

  Isaac did not lose consciousness despite the violence of the explosion and the impact. He saw the room. The floor no longer existed. Below it was clear blue sky. His next thought was one of movement. He was sliding towards the sucking maw of the hole in the deck as the slight atmosphere of the airship was pulled through the hole. He scrabbled at the doorway and managed to cling with his right hand onto the door frame. His legs, from center thigh down, hung out through the hole. He desperately was hanging to the frame and began to gasp for air. Without the rebreather being plugged into a ship board port, he was not getting the stale but concentrated oxygen provided by the ship. His arm burned with the exertion almost as much as his lungs burned for additional oxygen. He looked around the room wildly for a functional port or any assistance. Instead, he saw the tube that fed the port that used to exist in the center of the room. It was pushing out the air he needed, but it simply vented into the void below the Appy.

  It was just a matter of seconds before he reached muscle failure. No one else heard Isaac’s screams as he fell from the airship. Isaac’s body would never be recovered. Nor would the bodies of any of his six men. Another airman lost for all time.

  …

  The fourth volley from the Blucher passed over the Appy entirely.

  Devareaux watched as the Blucher continued to roll. The guns of the airship were moving to try to compensate for the extreme tactic that its captain was employing. It almost seemed that the ship itself relaxed as the Blucher’s guns were out of range due to their over corrective roll.

  “Engine room, full emergency power, let’s get out of here.”

  …

  Elijah did not even watch the flight of his rocket. He busied himself with getting his next one to fire. Julius was watching his rocket’s flight through the viewport. He saw Elijah’s rocket cut a vapor trail all the way down to the sea below after missing the enemy airship. His rocket, however, impacted on the forward gondola.

  “Sweet merciful Lord.”

  He muttered under his breath least Elijah hear him speak so profanely.

  …

  The enemy airship was trying to fix its overzealous roll. It had stopped its roll with the belly of the ship facing the Appomattox. Even at full depression the Steam guns could not fire straight down and thus the Appomattox was temporarily spared further harm.

  The Blucher had a large forward and a separate rear gondola with a thinner structure connecting the two of them across the bottom of the airship. As the flash and flames of the explosion faded and Devareaux could see the Blucher, he saw that the explosion had ripped the front gondola completely away from the airship.

  Burning bits of wreckage fell from the remains of the gondola. Now that the roll had been halted, the Blucher’s nose now began to slew downwards. It was apparently out of the fight.

  “Well damnation. They are out of control. Tobias, look. What do you make of that.”

  As Devareaux spoke, one of the Blucher’s steam cannons broke free from its moorings and smashed through the side of the Blucher’s undercarriage and plummeted to the sea below. The loss of the steam cannon left the central structure of the enemy airship with a gap toothed look about it. With so much damage and other things to occupy the Blucher’s crew, all firing ceased.

  “That sneaky bastard, he nearly got us.”

  Devareaux shook his head with respect to his fallen opponent.

  …

  “Oh no you don’t Elijah. This one is mine.”

  The bow Winans gun continued to pour fire onto the stricken Blucher. Soon the port rocket battery and the port rear Winans battery joined in on the kill. They pounded out fire on the Blucher as she began to roll again and lose altitude. Soon the Blucher was out of range of the Appomattox’s guns.

  …

  “The other airship is not closing the distance. Look, she is keeping her distance. Can anyone tell me what she is?”

  “It’s the SMS Charlemagne sir.”

  Devareaux turned and looked at Tobias, who was standing with his hands folded in front of him.

  “How do you know that? Nevermind.”

  Turning the switch to the all crew channel as the thumping fire from the Winans batteries tapered off, Devareaux gave his orders.

  “We are turning around and heading for home. Someone keep that other German airship honest.”

  A final volley of two rockets was launched out towards the Charlemagne, but neither came close to the distant airship as it was far out of range.

  “All batteries cease fire, all batteries cease fire.”

  Devareaux shouted into the repeater. He spun the large wheel and began to turn the airship around.

  They would not bother to attempt to catch the Charlemagne.

  “Engine room, can you get me any more speed?”

  “No, sir. We are at full power now.”

  “Very well. Keep it up.”

  Devareaux opened his watch again. Less than an hour. The death of two enemy airships, one twice his size, took less than an hour. He was confident that he would not be able to get away with an easy victory like this again.

  The German fleet below was impotent to engage the distant Confederate airship. The Dons would doubtlessly be pleased with what they had accomplished. The Spanish navy had such a small presence in Puerto Rico; they would be overwhelmed by the oncoming fleet. The fortresses on the island had modern guns, but they were placed in ancient fortifications that could not withstand the pounding from modern naval bombardment. Against Sir Francis Drake, they would have done well. The Confederate flotilla added some punch to the Dons but it's not nearly enough.

  Devareaux estimated that one more sortie out and the air cover for the Germans would be all but gone. Maybe then, they could switch over to bombing to help even the odds. Still, their actions today would secure a Confederate naval base in Cuba for sure. Possibly in San Juan if i
t could hold.

  He raised a telescope to his eye and looked down at the fleet. The smoke rising from the coal engines rose up into the sky. He spotted several smaller sloops below them as well as the gunboats and the ironclads of the German navy. He also saw the transports, colliers and supply ships in the back of the formation. There were four of them. That was more than enough men to carry the island and possibly carry on toward Cuba as well.

  When Devareaux lowered his telescope, he found Powell still diligently writing in his notebook while periodically searching with his telescope at the enemy surface fleet.

  Devareaux’s briefing on the Spanish military was that their forces were largely militia troops in the Caribbean. There were a few units of regulars in the fortifications and in the larger cities, but there were not nearly enough of them. The Signals Bureau report stated that it would not take a significant force to be able to keep the populace in check once the islands were taken. So the five large troop transports meant that the Germans were intending to stay around.

  The bow battery announced itself on the repeater. Stoe’s voice was determined and hard.

  “Sir, permission to engage the ships?”

  Devareaux smiled and replied.

  “Permission granted. See what you can do about those transports while you are at it.”

  Almost instantly, the battery opened fire. It was followed shortly thereafter by both stern Winans batteries. The batteries fired for another two minutes before the firing died away as the airship pulled out of range of the naval forces below.

  “Status report,” Devareaux barked out.

  The weapons batteries began to call in.

  “Port Rockets here. We have four rockets left. All crew OK.”

  “Starboard Rockets, no rockets expended. All crew OK.”

  “Bow battery here. I have about fifteen seconds of ammunition left, sir. All crew OK.”

  Stoe sounded exhausted as his voice bubbled over the repeater.

  “Port Winans battery here. We have over half of our ammunition. All crew OK.”

  “Starboard Winans battery here. The same. All crew OK.”

  “Bow Gatling Battery here. All crew OK.”

  “Engine room here. I have one wounded man. The engines are fine.”

  There was a pause in reports. After about fourty seconds, Bosun Hargrave’s voice was heard next.

  “Mr Lutes, report in.”

  A few seconds passed that left a palpable tension in the air.

  “Isaac, are you there?”

  Hargrave’s voice was strained by stress. Another ten seconds passed and the thump of feet was heard over Devareaux’s head. The hatch opened and Hargrave dropped onto the back of the bridge.

  He slammed the hatch shut, then saluted Devareaux. The bosun looked worried. He dismissed himself and ran to check it out.

  Five minutes later, Hargrave’s grim voice came over the repeater.

  “They are gone. All of them. There is no sign of the sail crew, no sign of Isaac and no sign of the messmen. They were in the crew mess as their ready station. That shell that hit us got all of them. There is nothing left. The floor is gone from the mess room. I have sealed the door.”

  The man’s voice was raw with emotion.

  Devareaux noticed his altimeter. They were slowly bleeding altitude. The damage they had sustained would need to be repaired before they could fight again. He adjusted their heading and put on more speed to reach the distant city of San Juan in time. He leaned into the repeater.

  “Steady Paul, come back up to the bridge. There is nothing more we can do for them now.”

  The next few hours were crucial as the crew of the Appomattox fought to reach the island of Puerto Rico.

  Chapter 3: Altitude

  Henry Stoe secured his weapon. Pulling a few levers, he bled off the steam from the weapon and the ammunition tubes. Petrus and Lucius finished picking up the shot that was rolling across the floor of the battery. There was a special loading box on the rear of the compartment hatchway. They opened the top and dropped in the loose shot. Lucius handed Petrus, one of the empty ammunition tubes from the floor. Mating the tube to the receptacle at the bottom of the box, the loose shot fed neatly into the tube. Sealing the tube with a small, tin flap scavenged from the floor of the room, he placed it back into the ready shot locker.

  Stoe helped them pick up the empty ammunition tubes and placed them into the used box on the right side of their small station. He then waved his crew out of the compartment and grabbed his jacked on the way out.

  Stepping from the confined heat of the Winans battery into the frigid air of the passageway was always a shock to the system. Lucius and Petrus busied themselves to get shirts and jackets on before they stepped out into the passageway.

  They headed to the crew quarters. They met Elijah and Julius in the hallway. The men nodded to each other but none spoke a word. They all heard the report of the losses.

  With quiet steps, they moved to the crew quarters. The passageway was soot darkened in an expanding pattern leading from the mess room door outwards to the opposite wall. Each man moved to their bunk and took at seat. They plugged in their rebreathers into the ports set out near each bunk.

  Elijah sat on his bunk with his hands folded in prayer. He was a devout Presbyterian from Laurens County, South Carolina. His father was a pastor of First Presbyterian Church. Unlike many pastor’s sons, Elijah took his faith seriously. He was not the typical pastor’s child running rampant. Instead, he looked forward to seminary following his military service.

  He then opened his small trunk and withdrew his bible. While he would publicly say that the bible was his most prized possession, it was the letters inside that he placed next to Psalm 21. These were old family letters, one from each of his family heroes. Elijah Pickens Thompson claimed descent from two prominent Southern families. The first of which was his namesake Elijah Clarke. The next was Andrew Pickens, both were heroes of the revolution throughout Georgia and South Carolina. Granted the relationship to Clarke was rather muddied but he took great pride in his lineage to these lions of the Revolution.

  He carefully opened the first. It was a letter from Elijah Clarke to his wife during the revolution, shortly after his wounding at Alligator Bridge in 1778. It was brief, poorly spelled and tortuous to read. Yet it was a vital link to his past. The second was from Andrew Pickens to his grandson. This grandson of Pickens was Elijah's grandfather. The letter resonated with Pickens’ great faith and his hope for the future of America. He refolded the letters and began to read from the book of Psalms.

  Julius, Petrus and Lucius were practical men. They immediately lay in their bunks and went promptly to sleep. They knew that at any minute, they could and probably would be called upon to do something that could get them killed. The strange thing was, they did no mind it. Here, in the navy, black men had respect. They were paid a decent wage. The meals were far better than anything to be had as a farm hand. The officers here were not the brutal task masters that were still present on some farms.

  The field hands’ conditions did not radically improve following manumission. Sure they could leave now any time they wanted and look for work but the question was where could they get more work? The only answer was another farm or doing manual labor in a factory or business in the town. None of which paid as much as work in the Navy or in the Army.

  Unlike Stoe who was nervous and fidgety. He wanted to talk but knew better than interrupt Elijah while he was reading his Bible. He began to pace the floor in his impatience.

  With deliberate slowness Elijah closed his Bible and set it next to him on his bunk.

  “Why Henry, you are stalking back and forth like a wildcat caught in a cage. Sit down before you wear a hole in the deck.”

  That earned Elijah a brief glower that eventually turned into a smile.

  “You are right, as always. I am too keyed up to rest. I would get this way when practice firing the gun too. You never seem to get excited about
anything. Why is that?”

  Elijah actually gave the flippantly asked question some serious thought.

  “We are in a dangerous business. Our losses today show that. The enemy losing two airships also shows how dangerous this is. Such an enterprise should be handled respectfully as we are dealing with men’s lives and that should not be taken lightly.”

  “But they are the enemy.”

  “But they are created in the image of the living God. Sinners they may be but still a soul that is precious.”

  Henry’s face darkened as he sensed a sermon coming on. Elijah raised his hand to forestall any objections.

  “I am not preaching at you. I am merely stating the reasons behind my behavior. You welcome to take your joy in battle. That is your experience. I know you are a good man Henry. I am not judging you. How did you and your crew fare? Seems things were hot for a moment for our friends on the bridge. The captain called out for you to target that gun over the whole ship channel.”

  Now Henry was back on more comfortable ground. He sat on his bunk and punctuated his words with his hands.

  “I had some pressure issues initially. My first string of rounds fell short. We had it worked out by the time it came to firing on that Gatling turret. I am really disappointed with the phosphorous rounds though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “For them to work right, they have to be really hot before getting ready to fire. The length of time that they are in the mag well, is not long enough to heat them. They cool on their way to the target too often. You can see them winking out on the way to the enemy.”

  “Huh, that is interesting. Why can’t you put more steam into the magazines?”

  “It’s been tried before. In ground trials, it worked out ok until prolonged firing melted the pressure gasket and pressure was lost. I think we are better off without the phosphorous rounds.”

  “Have you told the captain?”

  “Nope. It would not do us any good. The stores we receive come with them preset. We would have to remove them manually. Convincing the supply chain to ignore them will take 20 years and by then it will be an obsolete weapon.”