“Signal the fleet. Line abreast, storm formation.”
As he stepped back into the cupola, the signal flags went up. He doubted if the ships astern could see them since the wind was running almost due fore and aft so that the flags would appear edgewise to those astern.
The command, however, also went up to the signals officer in the enclosed maintop. The shutter telegraph would relay the order as well.
He felt the pounding vibration of the engines ease off slightly. Captain Nagama, who was in direct command of the ship, had passed the word to ease back to half speed. Behind them the other cruisers would surge forward, breaking in an alternating pattern to port and starboard of the flagship. Each cruiser would assume a position six hundred yards to either flank, while the frigates, running at flank speed, would cut through the line to assume a forward position half a mile farther out.
“Gentlemen,” Bullfinch shouted, trying to be heard above the whistling of the wind, which cried with a demented moan as it cut through the cupola, “we’ll head in line abreast till dark. That will sweep us ten miles out beyond the Shoals. We’ll rig for night running, hooded lanterns fore and aft. Then we turn, still maintaining line abreast, and cut speed to four knots. Once night falls, half the crew can stand down from battle stations to get some food and rest. We then alternate battle stations watch till an hour before dawn.”
“The heading, east or west?” Nagama asked.
“Which way is the wind bearing?”
“South, southwest. It’s beginning to back around to westerly.”
Running slowly with a following sea would be deadly, water crashing over the stems, driving the ships, pushing them in toward the shoals. If the Kazan were out here, he reasoned, they would be running into the storm as well.
“West.”
Nagama nodded in agreement.
He looked past Nagama and could see the Spotsylvania coming up at flank speed, maneuvering to take position.
Then several things seemed to happen at once. One of the lookouts on the bridge, the boy along the starboard railing, turned, glasses dangling around his neck. With his hands cupped, he screamed something unintelligible. A speaking tube shrieked, the one from the foretop lookout. The communications officer uncapped it, leaning over to listen, eyes suddenly going wide…and a geyser of spray erupted a hundred yards off the Spotsylvania’s port bow. It almost seemed like an illusion, a column of water shooting up nearly a hundred feet, then gone an instant later, whipped away by the wind.
Everyone seemed frozen in a tableau as the words of the forward lookout drifted over them.
“Ship off starboard bow. Range one mile!”
Bullfinch pushed his way past Nagama, ducking through the hatchway and out onto the open bridge. The lookout was pointing directly forward. “See ’em, see ’em” he was screaming.
With one eye gone, his vision was not the best. Bullfinch squinted until he saw them. Three ships, starting to turn to the west, bow wakes planing up. They seemed to have simply materialized out of the mist. He could see smoke boiling away from the first ship to fire. There was another flash, a brilliant hot light, then another.
Bullfinch turned back to the cupola. “Signal hold course! Close for action!”
He felt the engines going up to flank speed. The forward turret with its massive fourteen-inch gun fired with a thunderous report, and smoke completely blanketed his view for several seconds.
A high whistling shriek cut overhead, went astern, and detonated two hundred yards aft in the foaming wake of the Spotsylvania. The two forward below-deck guns, one of them a five-inch breechloader, went off, creating more smoke.
He could see other ships emerging from the mist. Frightfully, the ones appearing now were bigger, vaster than anything he had ever seen afloat, with a huge tower perched forward rather than a mast. The forward guns of the monster fired. Scant seconds later he heard their thunderous roar and actually caught a brief glimpse of a streak of darkness, one of the shells, clipping a wave crest off his port side, tumbled end over end, howling like a banshee.
Looking past the shell, he saw where another of his cruisers was maneuvering in alongside, the Atlanta, its forward gun firing.
His charge pressed in. The enemy’s forward cruisers were making ninety-degree turns, and for the next few minutes he was at a disadvantage. The enemy was crossing his T, able to bring all guns to bear, fore and aft, while only his forward guns could fire.
He turned back, facing the cupola, and cupped his hands.
“Signal all ships. Fire on largest target!”
As he turned back, he instinctively flinched at another howl. A huge plume of water surged up less than fifty yards off the port side amidships.
Another shell passed, this one high, disappearing. His own ship was frustratingly silent. The crews were still reloading. Even in the best conditions it would take the massive muzzle loader another five minutes. Finally, the breechloader fired again. He looked forward and roared with delight when the shot slammed into the side of one of their cruisers, at a range of less than fifteen hundred yards. Seconds later great gouts of smoke cascaded out of the cruiser’s aft smoke stack.
The great ships, screened by the cruisers, were turning as well. He counted four of them now, two thousand yards farther back than the cruisers. If not for their bulk they would be all but invisible in the rain and deepening twilight.
One of his own frigates, running at flank speed, sailed between him and the Spotsylvania, inching forward, its rapid-fire three-inch gun pumping out a round every twenty seconds.
As more shells came in, the battle spread out. His own cruisers were maneuvering, trying to form a line, but looked instead like an inverted V, with the flagship in the fore, while to the south two great lines were forming. Between the lines frigates were coming forward as if charging.
Shot was flying in both directions. Already he could tell that they were at a severe disadvantage. Not only were they completely outgunned, but the rate of fire of the Kazan’s heavier weapons was superior as well. The only thing that seemed to be saving them so far was the violence of the sea. The fifteen-foot swells made it all but impossible to fire at an even keel.
So instead everyone just seemed to be madly firing, trying to let off their individual guns as best they could, and the air was alive with fire.
At eight hundred yards he saw another shot hit an enemy cruiser. Cursing, he looked back again at the command cupola, shouting for them to repeat the order to concentrate on the largest ships.
There was a brilliant flash to his right. It was the Spotsylvania. A heavy shell had detonated just forward of its bridge, directly into the topside turret. The shell had penetrated the armor and blown inside the narrow confines of the five-inch armor surrounding the heavy gun. It burst asunder, the massive bulk of the fourteen-inch barrel half lifting out of its mount, fragments of armor hurdling a hundred feet into the air. He ducked as another shell came in, clipping through the masts overhead, severing the mainmast just above the maintop. The impact caused the shell to explode with a thunderclap, and fragments slashed outward in every direction, causing sparks to fly off the cupola directly behind him.
A different sound erupted. Looking back forward, he saw that the two forward gatlings had opened up. Their tracers arced out across the stormy sea. The stream of fire rose and fell as the gunners tried to compensate for the roll of the ship, walking the stream of fire across the water and straight into the nearest enemy cruiser, which was now less than a quarter mile away.
The range was insanely close, what he had hoped for, but now that it was here he struggled to control his terror. As admiral there was little more that he could do. He had brought the fleet, and he had given the final orders to close. Now it was up to the individual captains to fight their ships.
The battle had not played out as he hoped. If luck had held, they might have culled one or two of the enemy’s capital ships in the darkness and smashed them at close range. It was obvious now t
hat they had been anticipated and spotted first as well. As they steamed southward at flank speed, more and yet more enemy ships were coming into view. Flashes of light rippled across the sea from the dozens of guns firing. The roar commingled into a maelstrom of sound that nearly rivaled that of the storm’s.
The Atlanta died first. He was looking over at her when a shell slammed directly into the bridge, crushing the command cupola. Fire blazed out in every direction. Several seconds later another round splashed into the water but a few feet off her bow. The blow was close enough, however, to lift the ship half out of the water, shaking it the way a terrier would shake a rat.
The water around the Atlanta was lashed to a foam as half a dozen more rounds of various calibers impacted. An enemy frigate, having rushed through the line of cruisers, came straight in, passing between the Atlanta and his own ship, all guns firing. Gatling gunners on the Republic’s cruisers stitched the frigate, and sparks detonated where the explosive rounds slammed into their target.
Suddenly the Atlanta was lifted out of the water by a massive explosion erupting just aft of the bridge. The back of the cruiser was broken, bow and stern ends instantly settling.
He looked forward again. The line of enemy cruisers was less than two hundred yards off, Nagama steering straight between two of them. For a few brief seconds he had the advantage. The heavy ships beyond dared not fire for fear of hitting their own, while only half of the cruisers’ guns could be brought to bear.
He felt the ship surging beneath him, wondering for a second if the engine had been hit, then realized that Nagama, in a mad, audacious move, had ordered all engines backed, to slow down and give the gunners maximum opportunity to hit their targets.
The topside forward turret containing the fourteen-inch gun began to turn, lining up on a target to starboard that was presenting its stern, normally the most vulnerable part of a ship. The range was ridiculously close, less than one hundred yards. He could almost sense the gun commander in the turret shouting, standing to one side, hand on lanyard, judging the roll, waiting for the precise moment on an upward sweep when the target appeared to be just above the sight.
A brilliant flash of light snapped out from the turret, and the concussion flattened the water. The round slammed into the stern just at the waterline and blew. The entire aft end of the enemy cruiser seemed to disappear in boiling smoke and flames.
A wild cheer echoed through the ship. The other two heavy guns below deck fired seconds later. Another round struck the superstructure. The three guns aft fired as well, scoring yet another hit, which tore into where the first round had hit.
He could feel the engines starting up again. The flagship was heeling back, digging in. Then the entire vessel seemed to jerk sideways, as if struck by a giant hand.
Bullfinch was knocked off his feet. He cracked his forehead against the railing and it split open. He lay there stunned for a moment, then pulled himself back up. Black smoke and flame poured up through the aft vents and ventilation hoods. Something must have struck them through the hull, exploding inside and astern.
He looked back at the cupola. Nagama was on his feet, leaning over, shouting into a speaking tube. A tracer slashed past, and then another. He looked to his right and saw an enemy frigate barely two hundred yards off, heeling hard over to swing in alongside them. As he saw a forward gatling firing, the thought struck him that the gunners were aiming at him personally.
Another tracer, ricocheting off the cupola, passed within inches of his face.
He ducked down and then saw that the lookout by his side was dead, a fist size hole in his back, face looking up, still a shade of green from the seasickness.
Another explosion overhead sheared off the foremast. Heavy debris rained down, forcing him to run to the shelter of the cupola. He ducked inside as steel and wood slammed into the deck.
Nagama barely spared him a glance. “Still forward?” he asked.
Bullfinch took a deep breath. They were in the middle of a fight now. To even get signals out in all the confusion with the fore gone and the main signal station in the maintop most likely gone as well was impossible. If he tried to turn out, the other ships might see, might think that the flagship was out of control, or worse yet, running.
“Forward!” Bullfinch cried. “Close with that big bastard directly ahead.”
The big bastard, as he called it, was less than a thousand yards off.
Even as he looked at it, the ship’s forward gun fired, followed several seconds later by one of its aft guns.
Some instinct told him they were aimed straight at him, and a couple of seconds later, even inside the cupola, he heard the shriek as the round came in. The first one passed within feet of the deck, plowed into a wave cresting off the port side, and blew; close enough that fragments tore across the deck, taking out a gatling crew. The second one hit a wave just forward, failed to detonate, tumbled, and slammed into the bow, penetrating the armor, and went crashing through the main gun deck.
Through one of the speaking tubes he could hear the tearing of metal, followed almost instantly by screams of agony. Up on the deck steam vented out from a severed line.
Another blow hit and then another, slamming him to the deck. He pulled himself back up, saw Nagama kneeling, mouth a smear of blood. The captain was coughing, spitting out broken teeth, wiping his face, then standing back up. Bullfinch looked out through the viewing slit. The bow was a mass of crumpled wreckage. The steam catapult for the scout plane, which had been left behind, was standing nearly straight up and then twisted back like a bent piece of wire.
The ship was shearing off. Nagama, coughing and gagging, tried to shout orders through a speaking tube. The wheelman was down, hands over his face. The signal officer took over the helm, struggling to bring the ship back to a bearing straight at the battleship ahead, less than seven hundred yards away.
He looked to starboard and felt a swelling of pride that brought tears to his eyes. Two of his armored cruisers were still with him, the Spotsylvania and the Sumter. Both were trailing fire and smoke, Spotsylvania with all three masts shattered, forward turret a smoking ruin, Sumter its entire aft end wrapped in flames.
Behind them he could see several of the enemy cruisers were turning, but at least two others were aflame. One of them was listing heavily to starboard. Its railing was already below the water, and antlike figures were falling into the raging sea. Frigates, both his and the enemy’s, crisscrossed back and forth across the foaming sea, trading shots, gatlings firing, light guns flashing. The wreckage of a frigate, one of his, drifted past to port. Its fantail rose out of the water, propeller still turning; from the bow all the way up to the superstructure it was submerged. Just beyond it an enemy frigate was burning furiously and then disappeared as its magazine detonated.
“Forward gun, can it still fire?” Bullfinch shouted. Nagama looked over at him, eyes wide. Bullfinch shouted the question again, and still Nagama didn’t respond. Bullfinch realized the man was deaf, eardrums shattered by the last explosion.
He gently moved him aside, found the speaking tube to the forward turret, and uncapped it.
“Bullfinch here,” he shouted, “can you hear me?” Curses and the sound of steam vents echoed with a tinny shriek through the brass tube that snaked down from the bridge and then up into the turret.
“Here, sir.”
“Can you still fire?”
“Reloading now, but steam for the rammer is dropping.”
“Get it done and aim for the battleship straight ahead. Hold fire till I tell you to shoot.”
“We’re trying, sir.”
“Just do it!”
He left the tube uncapped, looked over at the signal officer at the helm and simply pointed ahead.
He could do nothing now but ride out the storm and pray they’d survive the next few minutes.
A drumroll of exploding shells marched across the wind-tossed seas, visibility dropping from the smoke. With the sun setting, a surreal
gray-green twilight engulfed Bullfinch’s world, punctuated by brilliant thunderclaps of fire.
“Sumter!”
He didn’t know who had shouted, but turning, he saw the valiant cruiser breaking apart. A shell had torn into the burning stern and exploded, tearing off the aft end. The ship skidded around, fantail breaking off, bow beginning to rise as tons of water poured into the bowels of the ship.
He looked forward. His target’s two aft turrets fired almost in unison, and he braced for their impacts. One of the shells passed so close to the cupola that the turbulence staggered him. An instant later it felt as if the entire aft end of the ship was rising. The concussion slammed him against the side of the cupola. Stunned, he lay there for a second, trying to sense what had happened to his ship. One of the speaking tubes whistled, and he pulled himself up and uncapped it.
“Who is this?”
“Engine room. Something hit us. The plates are buckled, and we’re flooding…” The words were cut off by an explosion that he felt in the soles of his feet even as it blasted through the speaking tube. He could hear screaming and what sounded like steam venting. Even as he tried to shout a question, smoke came boiling up out of the tube.
They were losing speed and he looked over at the signal officer. He was turning the wheel, but it was no longer attached to anything. It was spinning freely.
“Can you go below and steer with the main cables?” Bullfinch shouted.
“I’ll try, sir.”
He sensed it was useless, but sent him anyhow. The ship was beginning to die, and the target was so tantalizingly close, four hundred yards off.
Another of its forward guns fired. Another geyser shot up just forward of the bow an instant later. Damn, was their gunnery that bad? But even as he wondered about it, he saw the Spotsylvania take a devastating hit amidships. The smokestack tumbled overboard, and the mid deck superstructure peeled back. The blow had detonated deep inside the ship, fire soaring upward.
“Forward gun.”
“Still here, sir.”
Down to the Sea Page 34
