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.