Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  Putting the glasses on, he looked at Cromwell. In spite of the spectacles and rumpled nightshirt, Claudius still had the bearing of a Roman patrician: hair silvery gray and cut short, shoulders broad despite his sixty-five years of age. Long ago, before the Republic, he had actually commanded a galley, but he had adapted well to the new world created by the Yankees and was as adept in commanding a steam cruiser as he had been commanding a ship powered by sail and oars. His stern bearing was simply a bluff. He was a favorite with the sailors of the fleet, known as a man who was just and always willing to hear someone out. Command of the Republic’s newest cruiser was seen by everyone as a fitting capstone to an illustrious career.

  “What kind of light is it, Mr. Cromwell?”

  “Sir, a red glow, like a fire, but there are flashes, something like heat lightning, but it’s different somehow.”

  Captain Gracchi nodded, running fingers through what was left of his thinning mane. “Come on, lad, let’s look at your fire.”

  Even when awakened in the middle of the night, Gracchi always had a calm, fatherly manner. It was usually then as well that he lapsed into calling Cromwell, and a few chosen others, lad. He shuffled out of the cabin and onto the bridge, Cromwell respectfully following.

  Picking up a set of glasses hanging next to his chair, he braced his elbows on the railing and scanned forward. After the light of the cabin, Cromwell had to squint for a moment, letting his eyes adjust again to the darkness before he could see the glowing patch of red on the horizon.

  “Current position?” Gracchi asked, and Cromwell, anticipating the captain’s request, had the chart up, the latest hourly passage marked off.

  He nodded, eyeing the chart. They were five hundred miles beyond “the line,” the division created by treaty with the Kazan nearly fifteen years ago. There were no markers, islands, or territory to define it, simply a line traced across a map beyond which both sides had agreed not to tread.

  The agreement had come after President Keane’s first term in office. Keane had vehemently argued against it, declaring that if the Kazan were so insistent that no one venture farther out, that must clearly indicate that they had something to hide, or worse, to conceal until such time as they wished to reveal it.

  Opinion in the navy was divided. Some, including Admiral Bullfinch, had declared that until such time as the Republic could truly muster a significant fleet, it was best to observe the agreement and to quietly build. But the building had been slow. The entire fleet still only numbered nine armored cruisers. Gettysburg was the newest, and three more sister ships were ready to be fully commissioned by the end of the summer.

  Thus it had come as a surprise to everyone on board when Gracchi announced, as soon as they had put to sea, that they had been issued secret orders directly from President Keane to sail beyond the line and, as he put it, “poke around a bit.”

  Gracchi lowered the glasses for a moment, examined the chart, grunted, then raised the glasses back up.

  A minute or more passed, Gracchi muttered to himself, as was his habit. Some in the crew thought it a clear sign that the old veteran was slipping. Cromwell had no opinion about it. A man of intelligence never passed opinions on captains, they simply obeyed and survived. Gracchi was the captain, and if he wished to mutter that was his right.

  Compared to some of the others in command, muttering was an idiosyncrasy Cromwell could deal with. He had heard the stories about Captain Feodor, who had been quietly removed from command after his crew reported that he had taken to climbing the rigging at night in order to talk to the saints. Then there was the infamous case of Captain Xing, who, after six months of cruising on a survey mission, without once hailing another ship or sighting land, had simply pulled out a revolver, blew out the brains of his first lieutenant and chief petty officer, then flung himself over the railing, where the sharks which always trailed the ships, made quick work of him.

  Command created a certain level of madness at times in the fleet, and Gracchi’s muttering, if it went no further, was nothing. Besides, Gracchi was one of the survivors of the Great War, and for that alone he deserved respect.

  “That’s a city burning,” Gracchi finally announced, lowering his glasses to look at Cromwell. “Seen it more than once back in the war.” He sighed, shaking his head. “The other flashes…I’d say it’s a fight, one hell of a fight.” Cromwell, having learned from the beginning of life that when unsure it was best not to speak, remained silent.

  Gracchi looked off absently. “We’ve come out here to scout around a bit, Mr. Cromwell, and I think we’ve found something. I take it you’ve heard the rumors about what that merchant ship, the Saint Gregorius, claimed it found.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Everyone had heard. It had been the hottest topic of conversation ever since Gracchi had spoken to the crew about their mission.

  “Well, son, I think we’ve found another city getting sacked. I can feel it. You can almost smell it.

  “I think we’ve stumbled into a war. After all these years we’ve finally found them.

  “Mr. Cromwell, I suggest we beat to quarters. Roust out the chief engineer yourself and tell him to fire up the boilers. I want a full head of steam if we need to maneuver. Get the sailing master while you’re at it. Have him draw in all sails. We’ll run on steam alone.”

  Gracchi began heading back to his cabin, then turned. “And damn it, boy, have someone get me some tea.”

  Cromwell saluted.

  The armored cruiser Gettysburg was a sleeping ship on this, the midnight watch. The only ones topside were the bridge crew, lookouts, and the watch officer.

  Within seconds all that changed. Cromwell shouted for the petty officer to pass the word to beat to quarters. The petty officer raced aft, leaping down the gangway to the main gun deck below, while Cromwell went forward, gaining the open hatch to the fo’c’sle, officer territory.

  Gracchi had told him that only a short generation ago the domain of officers had been aft, where the following breeze was still fresh and the open quarterdeck a place for the high and mighty to take the morning air. All that was gone on this long-ranging armored cruiser. Though it still might sport sails, twin engines were mounted just aft of the midships, massive boilers and pistons, over seven hundred tons of ironworks to power the twin propellers. Aft was now a place of steam, coal bunkers, grease, and heat, and forward was where fresh breezes and relative quiet reigned.

  Taking the steps two at a time, he landed on the main deck, and raced past the tiny cubbyhole cabins of the eight midshipmen, four ensigns, and his superiors. Pausing at Chief Engineer Svenson’s cubicle, he pound on the door, shouted the captain’s orders, and moved on to the sailing master, then down the corridor for good measure, making sure the rest were up as well.

  Within seconds Svenson was out of his cabin, trailed by a faint scent of brandy and a couple of ensigns, one of them very unsteady. Gaming dice were on Svenson’s bunk. One by one the midshipmen piled out, filled with questions. Cromwell simply pointed them topside, shouting for them to move smartly and get up there ahead of the men they commanded.

  Stopping at his own cabin, he popped the door open, leaned in, and shoved his sleeping roommate, Sean O’Donald. “Come on, Irish, we’re wanted topside.”

  Sean rolled over, sat up groggily and rubbed his eyes. “What? What time is it?”

  “Move it!”

  Richard raced back out the door and joined the rush of men pounding up the stairs. Aft he could hear pipes shrieking, echoing down the corridor. The crew was coming awake.

  It always amazed him how a ship could be so quiet one moment and absolute bedlam the next, then within minutes the bedlam would give way to a steady, disciplined silence as men reached their stations and set to work.

  Though he longed to be on the bridge, to hear what Gracchi was saying about the light, Cromwell went forward. His battle station was the lone scout aerosteamer, positioned at the bow. There had been two of them, but poor Sean, fl
ying the second plane, had snapped off a pontoon on a bad landing. It was a common enough occurrence, especially when the seas were running high, but the accident had shorted them one of two precious planes, and the normally placid Gracchi had been none too kind to O’Donald when they had finally fished him out of the drink.

  Flying a scout plane off of a cruiser was an extremely hazardous job. Flying itself was nearly suicidal, even without trying to take off from a ship at sea and then survive the landing.

  Launched by a steam catapult, the plane could scout two hundred miles or more and return—that is, if the pilot could navigate his way back to his ship. Navigating, though, was only the start of the problem. The real challenge was the lack of anyplace to land.

  There had been talk of transforming the older cruiser Antietam into an aerosteamer carrier, razing the masts and converting it solely to steam power. With a cleared deck aerosteamers could not only take off but also land. One of the old monitors on the Inland Sea had even been converted as an experiment, but nothing had progressed beyond that.

  The problem was that without the masts, the ship lacked the range. On engine power alone a ship could cruise only a thousand miles from port and then had to head straight back. In the vastness of the Southern Sea, the hybrid design of sails and steam seemed to be the only answer for the distances that needed to be covered.

  Therefore, once launched, the pilot had a most interesting task. On return he had to bring the fragile plane in and land it alongside the cruiser, hoping that the ungainly pontoons underneath endured the shock of landing. The cruiser would then swing out a hoist and pull the scout plane, which was based on the air corps’ reliable Falcon design, back up on board.

  More often than not the landing on the rolling seas ended in disaster, and it was lucky if the pilot and his gunner were fished out alive. Even if they survived, not uncommonly a wing would be stove in or the canvas hydrogen bags amidships on the plane would be punctured while being hoisted back on board. Thus, on most voyages, an aerosteamer would be sent aloft only in the direst of circumstances, or when close to port, and the plane could safely make it to land with dispatches.

  Gracchi, acting more aggressively, had been launching both Sean and Richard ever since they had crossed the line, and yesterday the result had been Sean’s near death and the loss of a plane.

  In the darkness, Richard went forward, stepping aside as half a dozen foretop men raced past, leaping onto the rigging and scrambling aloft into the night. Strange, he was a pilot, but the thought of dangling two hundred feet up, straddling a yardarm in the darkness, was absolutely terrifying to him. Most of the crew thought him mad for being a flyer. He thought them mad for going aloft. They were utterly without fear and on a bet would dance a jig atop the tallest mast.

  As he approached his airship, its faint outline was visible in the starlight of the Great Wheel overhead. The frame was covered with canvas, the wings folded back. His launch crew of four came up, reported, and within seconds were at work. At times the drill seemed a futile gesture. Gunners at least fired blanks on a regular basis and even engaged in some live target practice; a barrel tossed overboard and then shot at from a thousand yards out, the crew coming the closest getting an extra ration of vodka.

  There were competitions as well between the mast crews for speed of taking canvas in and spreading it. Even the engineering crew had the satisfaction of racing to bring the boilers up to steam and, on rare occasions, especially when they were coming back into port and could waste the preciously hoarded fuel, of unleashing the pent-up steam and bringing the great cruiser up to flank speed.

  But for the men of the aerosteamer crew, launch and recovery seamen Bugarin, Yashima, Zhin, and Alexandrovich, the drill was always the same. Pull off the canvas cover, set the wings, then set the burners for the caloric hot-air engine, check steam power to the catapult, but don’t open the line. Every pound of steam was precious and filling the two hundred feet of hose from the boilers was a waste of energy if there was no launch. Then, if given the order to actually launch, pour the five-gallon glass jugs filled with sulphuric acid into the lead-lined vat containing zinc shavings and wait the fifteen minutes for the resulting hydrogen to fill the midships gas bags.

  The last two steps were merely simulated and had never actually been done as part of a battle drill. The men had been delighted with the activity of the previous three days, but the crash had dampened their enthusiasm and they expected tonight to be another drill with no results.

  Alexi arrived first. He was always enthusiastic, and Richard already knew his words of greeting.

  “Well, sire, perhaps this time we fly!”

  Alexi’s family had lived in the great woods north of Suzdal, and despite^ having moved over twenty years ago to the Republic, he had grown up accustomed to the old way of address.

  “Perhaps, Alexi, something is up.”

  “What, sire?”

  Cromwell pointed to the southeast, and Alexi, with his catlike eyes, immediately spotted the flickering glow on the horizon, which Richard could now just barely discern.

  “Ahh, a fire at sea? Perhaps there’ll be some fun then for us.”

  Bugarin, Yashima, and Zhin joined them, gossiping amongst themselves as they cleared the tarpaulin and struggled to swing the wings forward. Richard checked carefully as the team set the locking pins and fastened the bi-level wings into place. Pins not properly set were the most common kind of accidents. The wing would snap back at launch, and the plane would dive straight down. Their comrades on the starboard-side catapult stood around glumly. There was nothing to do now that their plane was gone. Cromwell’s command leveled a few good-natured jibes about their now being drafted to go shovel coal.

  The rest of the ship was a flurry of activity. The bow gunner crew was clearing the tarps from the twin-mounted steam gatling guns, uncasing the ammunition drums and slapping them into place. Fire crews connected hoses to pumps and tore the lids off buckets of sand hung from the railings.

  The single turret forward, containing a massive fourteen-inch muzzle-loading gun, slowly turned, steam wheezing from the vent ports. From inside, Richard could hear the gunnery master shouting orders, preparing the weapon to be loaded if the captain should decide to go to full alert. The problem was that once loaded, the gun could not be unloaded other than by firing it, and ammunition was too expensive to waste whenever an alert was sounded.

  Below, on the main fighting deck, Richard could hear firing ports on the starboard and port side being cleared. Armament below was a six-inch rifled breechloader forward, and another aft, with two ten-inch muzzle loaders amidships. The guns could swing to either starboard or port, then be run out and fired. Farther down, below the waterline in the forward and aft magazines, the steam hoists were tested and the first shells and powder bags loaded in, ready to be sent up through brass-lined tubes to the main gunnery deck.

  Secondary guns lined the topside deck, the lighter three-inch weapons maneuvered by the muscle power of their crews.

  Overhead, in the three masts, more than a hundred men swarmed, awaiting the command to take in and let out sail. If an enemy was sighted, sails would be furled. All motive power would shift to the steam engines that were still powering up as stokers tore into the coal bunkers, trundling out wheelbarrow loads of the precious black rock, upending the barrels into the open maws of the furnaces, which, with every passing second, glowed hotter and hotter. Rakers spread the hot coals out, the burning heat coiling around the hundreds of feet of piping that fed cold water through the boiler. The water flashed to steam that thundered into the pistons and hundreds of yards of piping that fed power to the turrets, gatling guns, hoists, pumps, pulleys, and Cromwell’s catapult launch.

  Richard felt a rumble pass through the ship. The propellers, turning over, dug in. The command then went up for all sails to be furled.

  The drill had been done a hundred times since they had set sail, less than a week after his graduation from the academy, but this
time Richard could feel the tension. He could see the glow on the horizon from the main deck without aid of field glasses. It reflected off distant clouds, shimmering, then dying down, punctuated by sharp flashes. “Lieutenant Cromwell, you’re wanted on the bridge.” Richard followed the messenger, dodging around fire crews laying out buckets of sand and ammunition carriers bringing up three-inch rounds to the topside guns. Gaining the bridge ladder, he scrambled up. The deck was illuminated only by starlight, and the dim glow of the helmsman’s lamp had an unworldly feeling to it. Gracchi barely looked up at him, just a sidelong glance.

  “You ready to fly, son?”

  Startled, Richard did not respond.

  “Well?”

  “Ah, yes, sir.”

  Gracchi, putting down his mug of tea, came up to Richard and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to be cautious, son. Get up, use the clouds. I want you to get a good look at what is up ahead. Two things: what is burning, and who the hell is fighting. Don’t let yourself be seen, then hightail it back here before dawn.

  “We’re in dangerous waters, Richard. I expect you to find out what the danger is and get back alive.”

  Richard, stunned, said nothing. A night launch was rare enough. A night landing, except for some practice runs on the Inland Sea, had never been done.

  To his surprise, Gracchi offered his oversize mug of tea to him. Cromwell’s knees instantly turned to jelly. Yet he was even more afraid that Gracchi would see his fear, and he struggled to still his hands. He accepted the mug and took a long drink. He detected a hint of vodka in the drink.

  In the dim light he could see Gracchi smile at him in a fatherly way.

  “Sorry, lad, but it’s got to be done. Get your bearing from the helmsman. We’ll hold our course steady at five knots. Don’t do anything foolish, just get a good look, then come straight back. We’ll pluck you out of the water, you can count on it.”

  Richard simply nodded. Enlisting in the naval flying corps had presented a certain challenge. Why he had joined a service where his name was despised was tied up in his anger toward the race that had turned his father and then destroyed him. He had no real love for the Republic, but at least it had offered him a goal, a chance to rise above the ghastly poverty of those few who had survived slavery and now lived in a desolate land that would never recover from the occupation by the Merki. Now had come the moment to prove something, not only to those around him, but also to himself.