William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

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 that 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.