William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Five miles past the shoals to leeward, not a good position to ride out a storm at night.

He leaned over the railing and looked aft. The fleet was still running astern. The last of them had to be through the Three Sisters.

Come about? Put the Shoals between us and them during the night?

He felt a terrible loneliness. Suppose they aren’t here? Andrew said they might make a run for the Bantag coast. But nothing was there other than a bunch of savages. No, all doctrine ran toward hitting your opponent’s main base first by surprise, bottling him up, smashing him. Then they’d have the sea and could do as they pleased. If they were coming to Constantine, they would make for these shoals first, and get their bearing, rather than go blundering along an unknown coastline and then give the Republic warning.

For that matter, had they even arrived yet? Cromwell had said ten knots. Suppose, though, it was eight knots. Bullfinch thought. That would put them a good hundred miles still out. Or twelve knots, then they might very well have rounded the shoals this morning, we sailed straight past each other and even now they are closing to bombard Constantine.

He had sent scout frigates out at full steam to cover the flanks of each end of the shoals, but no reports. But then again, that could mean that they were already at the bottom of the sea, destroyed before they could return.

He knew he was tearing himself apart with all the variables and chance errors and decisions that made up a battle at sea. Make the plan as best you can, he realized, then stick to it until you get a solid fact that changes things. You figured they’d run first to the Shoals, perhaps slow there for at least a few hours to bring their fleet together, perhaps even weather the night here, then move along its length to gain a bearing, finally rounding it either to the east or west. We come in through the middle and hopefully hit them by surprise, then get the hell out.

So it’s here. But where the hell are they? In this storm they could be five miles off to port or starboard. Perhaps they’d already gained the shoals and had turned, running east or west to round them, moving cautiously to avoid running aground.

He looked back again at his own fleet, less than half of it visible. All of them were running now on engines, all sails furled as they plowed into the teeth of the storm.

What next, damn it, what next?

With the light beginning to fade, he had but two choices. Either come about, get to leeward of the shoals, and sit out the night; moving to pounce before dawn. If I do that, it will be a fifty-fifty chance-we either run east or west. Or we move straight on here into the night, gain about ten miles out, then turn either east or west and try to come in from behind.

Best possible choice, I’ve got to run with that.

He could sense that everyone inside the cupola was peeking out through the narrow view slit, watching him, knowing he was trying to sort out all the different elements, to come to a conclusion. They most likely knew his every idiosyncrasy, the way he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his scarred face and eyepatch when he was lost in thought. He realized he was doing that, and turned the gesture into wiping the rain from his face.

Another wave cascaded over the bow, sending up spray bits of spindrift flying back, sweeping the bridge.

He turned his back to it, saw the men peering at him through the viewing slit.

“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.