Ironclad

by Daniel Foster

  Greely was stumping down the deck, aiming for Garret and Theo, but yelling for Twitch. Twitch didn’t slow, didn’t turn as he jumped on the ladder to the upper deck. Greely grabbed Garret’s shoulder. When he did so, Garret flinched back against the bulkhead and sucked in his breath.

  As quickly as the pain had come, it was gone, but it had been sharp and real as a knife blade. Chief Greely had grabbed the collarbone the creature had broken, and it had panged again, as it had when it was healing. Garret leaned back against the bulkhead, still holding Theo to his side and tried to steady his breathing.

  Suddenly, Garret thought he was standing back in his smithy again, his hammer hanging from his hand, tears streaming down his face from the pain in his broken collar bone. He had to work. Had to keep forging, somehow. Had to feed his family.

  Had to work. Had to provide for his family. Had to feed Molly and his baby.

  Garret, the Hollow Man said. Time’s running out.

  Then the memory and the pain were gone, and Garret was leaning against the bulkhead amid rising wind and waves while Chief Greely yelled at him over top of the storm.

  “Are you listening to me, sailor? Both of you get down to the engine room and help them secure all the spare parts. On the double!”

  “But Chief,” Garret protested, “Theo can’t—”

  “Yes he can, and he will. He’s had all the time we can give him. Cracked ribs hurt like hell, but they won’t kill him. We all work or we all die. Now go.”

  Theo tried to go, and Garret helped him. Another sailor was just getting ready to slam the door into the citadel. Garret waved for him to wait.

  Garret helped Theo across the threshold and inside the ship. The sailor slammed the door behind them. Garret rubbed his collar bone. It was pain-free as always. He pushed on the big knot in the middle where the bone had reknit. It was solid and he felt nothing from it.

  Theo stumbled. Garret sat him down on the deck, not far from Nancy. Down the inside of the citadel, the rest of the guys were reaching through the gun ports, slamming the hatches around the barrels, turning brass dogs to batten them down. Five inch guns were too big to be withdrawn into the ship, or “trained in,” but the hatches that covered the ports would keep out most of the water.

  They were also taking down hammocks. Garret froze, transfixed, as he watched Sweet Cheeks’ hammock lowered for what would be the last time.

  Pun’kin took a knee beside Garret and Theo. “What’s he doin’ here,” Pun’kin said so loudly that the Captain probably heard him on the flying bridge.

  “I don’t know,” Garret replied hastily. “Twitch brought him up. Theo?” The smaller boy was slumped over, head on his knees. Garret briskly rubbed the back of Theo’s neck. “Theo, are you okay?”

  Theo raised his head. He was pale as a ghost, eyes half lidded. A suspicion hit Garret. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

  Fishy knelt down beside them, elbowing Garret out of the way, and held out a canteen. Fishy was covered with soot and reeked of fire. “Drink this, Minnow.”

  Theo took the canteen and tipped it to his lips. He coughed, eyes opening. He sputtered and looked up at his older brother.

  “It’ll put hair on your chest, just drink it,” Fishy said.

  Theo choked some more of it down. It got easier as he went. Garret caught a whiff when the canteen came away from Theo’s lips.

  “Whiskey?” Garret muttered to Fishy. “You brought whiskey on board?”

  “Not me, Chief Walker.” Fishy quirked a crooked half smile. “I just borrow a little now and then.”

  “Fishy, you can’t give him alcohol,” Velvet hissed.

  Fishy shrugged. “It’s mostly water.” He patted the side of his brother’s head. “Broken ribs hurt pretty bad.”

  Pun’kin had disappeared. Ii was the first time Garret hadn’t heard Pun’kin coming or going a hundred yards ahead of time.

  Burl sat down next to them and patted Theo’s knee so lightly he probably didn’t feel it. Pun’kin returned and held out his hand. In it he held a corned beef sandwich, with a single bite out of it. He handed it to Theo. Garret could only guess what Pun’kin had said to talk a mess steward out of food when it wasn’t mealtime. Curtis, who was also covered with soot and reeked of fire, crossed his arms and stood over them like some kind of sentinel.

  Theo began to eat quietly, and it did seem to revive him.

  “I’m supposed to be helping in engineering,” Garret said. “Theo too. Can somebody else come with me to take his place?”

  They all looked at each other. “We’re supposed to be manning the gun,” Burl said quietly.

  “Not that we could fire it with the hatches closed around it anyway,” Fishy said.

  “Where’s Twitch?” Velvet asked, standing up.

  Garret stood with him. “Don’t know. Looked like he was headed for the flying bridge.”

  “Great,” Velvet said, “that’s just what we need.”

  They all waited for him to explain. Kearsarge rolled heavily and they all leaned with it. Down the citadel, on the other side of Nancy’s blast bulkhead, the last few hatches slammed. Kearsarge was braced, battened, and ready.

  “Well spit it out, Velvet,” Fishy said.

  Velvet looked at the deck and stewed. Eventually he said, “There’s something you all need to know about Twitch.”

  W

  At the same time, above on the flying bridge, Commander Andrew Sharpe had to focus to keep his foot from tapping on the deck as Mr. Carr reported.

  “My men found the communication problem, sir,” Mr. Carr said. Andrew tried not to frown down at the balding, stringy-haired man. Mr. Carr only claimed to have discovered a problem himself when he was able to pull off a fix that made him look good. If something couldn’t be fixed, he always said somebody else found it. “It’s the exchange. The whole thing’s fried, but it’s not our fault. Kearsarge’s internal telephones haven’t worked since we cast off.”

  “It can’t be lack of maintenance,” Maxwell said.

  “No sir, it was installed incorrectly in Philadelphia. They wired it up all wrong and it eventually overloaded.”

  Andrew’s stomach grew cold. This situation couldn’t get much worse. He had hoped the problem with the phones would be a simple one to fix. Now they wouldn’t be able to instantly relay orders to the other departments. Battles, especially ones stacked against you, often hinged on the power of immediate decision. Instead of a momentary phone call, passing orders had now become a protracted relay race. Most of Kearsarge’s old voice tube system was still hooked up, but it was difficult to hear under the best of circumstances.

  Maxwell didn’t spare a second for getting upset or even shaking his head. “Then all major departmental communication is going to have to be via runners,” he said. He turned to two crewman he’d summoned. “You and you, spread the word to each department chief to choose runners, then get back up here.”

  Both crewmen went quickly, revealing the ensign behind them who was still staring through his binoculars at the pursuing ship.

  “She’s flying the British ensign, sir,” he said. “Uh, she’s a St. Vincent class battleship.”

  “A St. Vincent?” Maxwell demanded from his position at the wheel. “Are you certain?”

  The ensign started to raise the binoculars to his eyes again when they were snatched out of his hand. It was Gunner’s Mate Colson, “Twitch” they called him. He’d just sprung up the ladder. Crewmen who were being held in the brig were released back to duty when combat was imminent. Which did not give Twitch any right to interfere with bridge operations.

  “Colson,” Andrew barked. “What in blue blazes do you think you’re doing?”

  “Sorry sir,” Twitch said, “I’m giving the Captain the information he needs.”

  Andrew could only see Maxwell’s back, but the Captain made no comment. He was leaving the situation to Andrew.

  Twitch stare
d through the glasses for not more than three seconds, just long enough to get a good look at the pursing ship as she crested a swell. His shoulders sank. “Superposed heavy guns forward, and one mast ahead of both funnels,” he reported. “That’s a King George V class, sir.”

  “Well what difference does it make?” snapped the embarrassed ensign. “They’re both battleships a lot newer than us.”

  Twitch grabbed hold of the bridge rail to steady himself as Kearsarge rose again on a swell. “The Lion was a battlecruiser, so she had almost no armor.” He nodded out over the water. “In this part of the Atlantic, that’s probably the HMS Audacious. She has triple our firepower, double Kearsarge’s horsepower—and because Audacious is a battleship, she more than matches our armor.” Twitch shoved the binoculars into the ensign’s chest. “We have no advantage now. That’s the difference.”

  “Enough, gunner’s mate,” Sharpe snapped over his shoulder. “Get back to your battle station.”

  Instead of obeying, Twitch came to attention. “Sir, we can’t trade punches with the Audacious.”

  Andrew gritted his teeth. “Firing at one another is how it works at sea, gunner’s mate. Get back to your station.”

  The first sprinkle of rain hit Andrew across the back of the neck.

  “We can’t win, sir,” Twitch said flatly. “Not against that. It’s bow and arrow against a rifle.”

  The ensign gaped at Twitch. They all reset their footing automatically as Kearsarge began to dip over the crest of a swell.

  “We’ll be fine gunner’s mate,” Andrew said. “Don’t let me hear you question the command structure like that again.”

  “No questioning sir,” Twitch said. “Just assessing the facts as best I see them.”

  Andrew gritted his teeth and turned away. He’d deal with smartassery later. Colson’s bow-and-arrow analogy wasn’t encouraging, but it wasn’t wrong either. Rain spattered fitfully across the decks. From Andrew’s vantage point on the bridge, it looked like the approaching storm was playing with them, flicking warning rain from its cloud-mountains, rushing down towards them like an avalanche from Olympus.

  Twitch stepped up beside Sharpe and came to attention again. “Sir, you’ve got to let me talk to the Captain.”

  Andrew blinked. Enlisted men didn’t get to talk to the Captain under the best of circumstances.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Andrew opened a hand to the storm that was spreading across the sky and mounting up before them like the gates of hell. Andrew pointed down at the main deck. “Go help them batten!”

  “Sir,” Twitch pleaded. “I know this is impertinent, but it’s imperative that I speak with him!”

  “Get off the bridge, that’s an order!” Andrew barked in Twitch’s face, then turned away towards a runner who had just bounded up on the bridge. The runner had several coils of manila rope over his shoulder. Rain slapped Kearsarge’s hull, and they all struggled to stand as she wrestled her way up a large swell.

  “Captain,” Twitch yelled. He wasn’t quite brazen enough to try to move past Andrew, but he did raise his voice to yell around him. “Captain Maxwell! You can’t use the Astra on that ship! If we die then we die, but please don’t fire—”

  “Go back to your post or jump over the side, Gunner’s Mate,” Maxwell said, without turning away from the wheel. “One or the other, right now.”

  After a tense moment, in which Twitch’s face stretched so tightly that Andrew thought it was going to rip, Twitch folded and went down the ladder. Fled down the ladder, really. Andrew huffed through his nose like an angry bull, then turned to the runner.

  “Sick bay reports ready, sir,” the runner said, handing over the coils of rope he was carrying. He paused. “Commander, they’re wrapping injured men up in hammocks and lashing them to the decks down there, sir.”

  Before Andrew could reply, the storm swallowed them. The black thunderheads rolled over them, the wind rose as if the earth herself was exhaling through the storm, and rain whipped across Kearsarge’s decks in torrents. The swells, which had been gentle oceanic humps, became huge whitecaps. Kearsarge rose on the first one. She fought her way to the crest, rising steeply all the way. Her bow broke the crest in a spray of foam that blanketed the forward main deck, then sluiced through the scuppers back into the sea.

  Andrew had to raise his voice to reply to the frightened runner. “They’re doing the best they can, same as everybody else, seaman. Carry on.”

  Andrew stepped up beside his captain and clung grimly to the rail. “Skipper, how did Colson know about the Astra? If he found out after we put to sea, then alright, but if he found out before, then who else might know?”

  “Calm yourself, Andrew,” Maxwell said as the rain pelted them both. Maxwell was grim, his usual energy transmuted into a burning single-mindedness that seemed to be pushing the old Kearsarge forward more quickly than her engines. “Lash yourself to the rail, Commander.”

  Andrew fumbled out the ropes he’d taken from the runner and began tying them to the rails along the flying bridge. The flying bridge was set high above Kearsarge’s center of gravity, so in extreme seas, the pitching and rolling could make the flying bridge live up to its name, tossing un-lashed men about the bridge, or even off of it. Being stopped by the rope would undoubtedly result in broken bones, but it was a fair trade for one’s life.

  “Where is Sokolov on those guns?” Maxwell demanded of a random gunnery ensign whom Andrew had not heard creeping across the bridge behind them.

  “The aft turret motor is acting up, sir,” the ensign replied, shifting a box full of wooden-handled tools to his other hand.

  “Define ‘acting up,’ ensign.”

  The ensign fumbled. “I’m not sure, sir. Something about the electrical connections getting wet because of bad seals.”

  “How long?” Maxwell demanded.

  “A few more minutes, sir. The electricians are on their way with replacements.”

  “Tell Mr. Sokolov he may open fire when ready, and unless I order otherwise, he has complete fire control. Dismissed.”

  The ensign went, stumbling and staggering as if he didn’t have his sea legs.

  “Ira,” Maxwell said.

  In addition to the ensign, Master Chief Ira Greely had just come up onto the bridge. Andrew glanced at the back of Maxwell’s head. He couldn’t see any eyes there. Maybe Maxwell kept his hair combed that way to hide them. Andrew finished up tying the makeshift rope tethers and then tied one around his waist.

  “Sir?” Chief Greely replied, raising his voice over the wind.

  “How’s your sailor?” Maxwell asked into a gust of rain.

  Sailor? Andrew wondered as a thunderous swell broke across Kearsarge’s bow, lifting the old ship up into the air. He leaned into it. Are we making small talk?

  Over the storm, Andrew caught the boom of a cordite detonation powerful enough to crack a continent. Four water spouts leaped from a swell to Kearsarge’s port, flinging tons of water up into the air. Audacious had fired both her forward turrets—four shells weighing over twelve hundred pounds apiece, moving faster than the eye could see. He glanced back at the immense battleship. Thick cordite smoke roiled out of her guns and over her bow. She hadn’t entered the storm yet, but she was gaining on them. She’d made up a quarter mile of the distance already.

  Andrew shook his head and said a prayer. Due to the breakneck technological advances of the last twenty years, gun ranges had increased at a greater rate than gun accuracy. Most naval battles were now fought with the opposing ships laying miles apart, and at that range, five percent accuracy was considered excellent. On the other hand, a single heavy gun salvo to a vulnerable point on the opposing vessel was often enough to break her in two.

  Tensely, Andrew surveyed the scene. This was going to be a maddening way to do battle. Every time Kearsarge rose on a swell, it would tip her decks back towards Audacious, turning Kearsarge into a nice, soft, ovalized target. Kearsarge
’s armored flanks might be able to deflect one of Audacious’s rounds, but her wooden decks certainly would not. If they took a salvo through the deck, it would break Kearsarge’s back. She would be torn in half. Sailors would drown, burn to death, and be ripped apart.

  On the plus side, big, heavy guns had big, heavy, moving parts, which meant that it took a while to reload after each shot. The inside of a battleship turret looked more like an industrial machine shop: cables, hoists, trolleys, and electric rams the diameter of tree trunks. The breech blocks alone weighed several tons. It took some time just to open them and swab out the breech.

  Furthermore, Audacious’s trigger men were having to do the same thing Kearsarge’s men would have to do, assuming Sokolov ever got the aft turret operational. The swells were moving the ships up and down far more quickly than the gun motors could compensate, so the only choice was to leave the guns zeroed and squeeze the trigger when the opposing ship floated through the gun sights.

  So though the men and mechanics required to fire the heavy guns were complex, the game they played was simple. The storm was throwing Audacious’s aim off wildly, which was why Maxwell had headed straight into it, but due to Audacious’s superior horsepower, she would continue to creep closer through the swells, and her aim would improve with each yard she gained on them.

  Greely was also staring back at Audacious. He hadn’t answered the Captain’s question. He shook himself, advanced up the sloping deck, and gripped the rail near Maxwell so they could talk in a nearly normal tone of voice.

  “Theodore McClatchey,” Maxwell prompted as Kearsarge slid down the back of a swell, burying her nose in the sea with a crash. “The man you asked me to take off the fire duty roster,” he said when the spray had settled.

  “Oh…” the Chief began, darting another glance back at the mountainous wedge of steel death slicing through the swells towards them. “Oh, McClatchey’s much better sir, thank you. Up and around already. His brother thanks you too, although he’ll never know it.”

  “Did Captain Shearer say anything to you?” Maxwell replied, guiding the wheel around to realign Kearsarge to an oncoming swell.