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.”
“Ready?”
“In another minute.”
“Shoot when you can bring it to bear. Try to hit the bastard toward the stem, get its engines and steering. Can you do that?”
“Well try, sir.”
“Good luck.”
There was no reply.
An enemy frigate cut directly in front of them, all guns firing. Tracers walked up the deck, and a round shrieked through the view slit, pinging around inside the cupola like an angry bee. Everyone ducked and cursed until it fell spent on the deck floor.
Something exploded against the side of the cupola. A heavy fragment broke off on the inside, slicing across the narrow space, smashing the wheel to splinters.
Several seconds later the forward gun fired, startling him. He looked forward, and then howled with delight as a blossom of fire ignited just above the waterline of the enemy ship, astern of its rear turret. The force of the fourteen-inch shell visibly shook the behemoth, and a secondary explosion followed several seconds later, peeling back part of the deck.
The triumph, however, was short-lived, for his wounded foe now returned fire. Its four heavy guns fired in sequence. The first two shells missed but the third one landed a devastating blow.
For a moment he wondered if he were dead. The sensation reminded him of when he was hit at the Battle of St. Gregory’s, when an explosion destroyed one eye and left him temporarily blinded in the other. The world was black. He felt a building panic.
Then he saw fire, a wall of it billowing up just outside the cupola. He started to crawl toward the hatch and caught a glimpse of Nagama, lying on the deck, clutching his shoulder, arm gone, blown clean off.
He went back, grabbed him, and pulled him toward the hatch.
The deck started to tilt, slowly but noticeably to port, helping them along.
They slid out through the hatch and he looked forward. The bow was gone, as was the forward turret. Men were scrambling up from below, many of them wounded. A number of them had reddened faces and hands. The outer skin had been boiled off from the flesh underneath by a blast of pressurized steam.
There was no need for him to order abandon ship. Everyone knew it. Everyone was scrambling for their hves.
Someone grabbed Nagama from him, dragging him down the steps to the main deck, pushing the captain over the side.
Bullfinch looked around. It was hard to make sense of what was happening. Burning ships dotted the sea. It was impossible to figure which were his, and which had been kills. His men had been magnificent, and he felt a swelling of pride. Green boys really, precious few of the veterans of the old days, but they had fought like demons to the end.
And yet he knew that their effort had been in vain. Only one of the great enemy ships was burning. The armada would roll over them and keep on going. He had played the gambit and lost.
He saw the turrets of one of the battleships turning, barrels laying flat across its deck, aiming straight at his flagship.
He barely felt the explosion that swept him and what was left of the Antietam into the embrace of the sea.
The funeral pyres of dying ships dotted the night.
Emperor Yasim sat alone in his stateroom, stunned by the violence. He had survived half a dozen major engagements, but never had death whispered so close. At one point a shell fragment had punched through a viewing slit, decapitating the bodyguard standing next to him.
The thought of the blood spraying on his face caused him to go over to the silver basin and wash yet again.
Through an open porthole above the basin he saw a flare going up and detonating. Seconds later tracers lashed the water. One of his frigates was hunting down survivors in the water.
The eastern horizon was growing light, and the storm was beginning to break, though the wind still held and the seas continued to run. Occasional glimpses of the misty horizon revealed a dim red glow.
He returned to his bed and lay down, placing a cooling cloth over his forehead. He prayed that his stomach would settle, that the seas would settle, that he could somehow sleep. A spasm of nausea hit, and he sat up in anticipation, but then it passed.
Why am I here? he suddenly wondered. This could have waited. The humans were no real threat as of yet. Why did Hazin want this?
The ferocity of the human attack had been startling. They had charged straight in regardless of loss. Thanks to the vigilance of a lead frigate, which had hurried back with the report of their approach, they had been prepared. Plus, with his uncanny sixth sense, Hazin had made the suggestion to change formation before the frigate had even reported in. If not for them, the enemy ships would have struck straight into the van of his fleet when it was spread out across half a dozen leagues.
Instead, the lead of the van had slowed, the rearmost ships had come up, and together they had cautiously advanced through the storm, striking hard. But even then, two cruisers were sunk along with three frigates. Most amazingly of all one of the battleships was out of action. Come dawn, two cruisers would begin the arduous task of towing it across the vast distances back to Kazan.
A knock at the door stirred him. He was tempted to ignore it, but he knew who it was.
He stood up, looking down at his uniform. His guards had immediately washed and changed him after the incident on the bridge, but after the long night of sickness, he wasn’t sure if he had stained himself.
Satisfied that he looked presentable, he acknowledged the knock and the door opened. It was, of course, Hazin, excited about the battle. “Sire, let me congratulate you on this victory.”