Never Sound Retreat Part 6

"I want Ha'ark, and I half suspect that's where he'll turn up."

Ha'ark the Redeemer stirred in his sleep and sat up. Strange, the image was so clear. Again it was Schuder walking in his dreams, but this time it was as if Schuder was seeking him out rather than the other way around. Good, if that was what the human wanted, he would provide for it.

Standing, he stretched and stepped out into the moonlight. The guards who flanked his yurt were instantly alert, weapons snapping into place, and he saw his staff, who had been up through the night overseeing the deployment, waiting expectantly, ready to dash off and fulfill his slightest whim. He motioned for them to be still, to leave him alone, and he walked off toward the low rise of ground that looked out over the sea.

A gentle cooling breeze was blowing down from the north, the first harbinger of the autumn. How he loathed this climate, missing the bracing snow-laden air of home. Perhaps when this war was done he would move his capital northward into what had once been the Tugar realms, thus escaping the hot desert winds and dank tropical forests of the south.

A strange ocean this, he thought, no salt, the birds different, no crashing surf. Several miles out he could see the line of Yankee ships riding at anchor for the night, silhouetted by the light of the twin moons, not having moved since sunset. Perfect.

To his left, coming down into the bay, yet still invisible to the ships at sea, was the vanguard of his flotilla. Already the first of his surprises should be moving into position, ready to strike just before the first light of dawn. One of his staff approached and stood respectfully to one side.

"What is it?"

"My Qar Qarth. You ordered me to awake you when the signal was received that the first attack ships had deployed."

Ha'ark looked down again toward the sea and saw a bobbing flicker of light flashing on and off.

"My Qar Qarth, the pilot boat is reporting they are in position."

"Fine, you did your job. Now fetch me something warm to drink."

The officer bowed and disappeared back into the night, to return a moment later with a heavy mug of steaming tea. Ha'ark sipped at it, accepting as well a cold joint of meat. In the moments since he had awakened he could sense a rising of the light. Those gathered around the smoldering fire by his tent were now visible as shadows. The eastern horizon was beginning to discolor into a deep indigo purple. Directly overhead the Wheel was no longer a sparkling brilliance, its light fading.

Ha'ark turned to look down at the harbor. The beetlelike ships were slowly moving toward the outer bar. He knew that though he could clearly see them from his position, the Yankee ships would not be able to see their smoke rising above the spit of land enclosing the bay, but in another few minutes the light would increase enough to make them visible. The deployment was slow. All his ironclads should have been past the bar, but it was too late for that. If he delayed any longer, the first surprise would be lost.

"Signal the attack," Ha'ark announced.

Chapter Four.

"Sir, there's a light flickering up on the bluffs."

Admiral Oliver Bullfinch nodded.

"Already seen it, ensign."

"Think it means something, sir?"

Bullfinch did not reply. The ensign should know better than to ask a question of an admiral, but he could not bring himself to come down too hard on the boy, for only half a dozen years ago he had been an ensign himself.

The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten. In a few more minutes it would be time to order the pick-etboat in for a closer look at the harbor on the other side of the bluff. This was always the most worrisome moment of their watch. If a sally was coming out, it would be now, the enemy ships moving down into the bay during the night. Beyond that the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds might have run some of their galleys out under cover of darkness to lay a few torpedoes or even attempt a boarding raid.

Bullfinch turned his attention to the lookout, who was posted on the catwalk which spanned between the twin smokestacks aft.

"Any sign of airships?"

"No, sir, nothing yet."

That, at least was a relief. A wooden picketboat had been lost to them shortly after Hans was rescued, and two more damaged. The airship gunners were already up on the deck, manning the light two-pounder breechloaders which were used to keep the airships away, and as he paced the top of Petersburg's Petersburg's gun housing he nodded to the men who had been silhouetted by moonlight only minutes before but were now becoming visible in the pale light of early dawn. gun housing he nodded to the men who had been silhouetted by moonlight only minutes before but were now becoming visible in the pale light of early dawn.

He returned his attention to the light up on the bluff. It was still winking on and off in a rhythmic pattern, obviously a signal, but to what?

Down below on the gundeck he could hear the ringing of the bell signaling the end of the midnight-to-dawn watch. In a few minutes the ship would come to life, boiler pressure brought up again, gun ports thrown open to air the ship, breakfast served, then a cautious run into the edge of the enemy torpedo field for another long tedious day of waiting and hoping that something, anything, would happen to break the boredom. There were times when he actually envied Pat, Vincent, and the others for the excitement they were most likely enjoying. Everyone talked of the Battle of Hispania, but few noted his own campaign in support of the Cartha when they rebelled against the Merki and then held back a foray by the Bantag. Without that action, the victory at Hispania might very well have been a hollow one. Except for the rescue of Hans, he had seen no action since, only endless months of patrolling.

He walked over to the ensign. In a few more minutes it would be time to signal the other five ironclads of the fleet to start moving back in closer to sh.o.r.e. The ensign's back was turned, and as Bullfinch approached, the boy looked over at him and pointed off toward the starboard bow.

"Sir, what is that?"

Bullfinch looked to where the boy was pointing but saw nothing.

"There, sir. Looks like a log; there's some water breaking around it."

"I still don't see it."

Though he would not admit it, he feared that the vision in his remaining eye was starting to slip a bit. Maybe it was time to go to Emil and see about gla.s.ses, though he hoped that wouldn't be necessary. Gla.s.ses would certainly ruin the dashing look that his black eye patch created and which made him easily recognizable to the fine young ladies when he was in port. Having to wear a monocle would certainly ruin the effect.

"There's something out there, sir, I'm convinced of it."

The ensign started down the length of the upper deck, still pointing to starboard, and Bullfinch followed. One of the antiairship gunners was now pointing as well. Bullfinch stopped, straining to look, and at that instant a flash of light burst across the ocean.

Startled, he turned to his right as a boiling cloud of fire erupted from the ironclad Constellation. Constellation. Stunned, Bullfinch watched as the fireball expanded and a deep, rolling thunderclap washed over him. The light began to subside, and Bullfinch heard the ensign shouting, grabbing hold of his sleeve, still pointing. Stunned, Bullfinch watched as the fireball expanded and a deep, rolling thunderclap washed over him. The light began to subside, and Bullfinch heard the ensign shouting, grabbing hold of his sleeve, still pointing.

Time seemed to distort and move in slow motion. He was still mesmerized by the sight of the ironclad blowing up, wondering if it had been an infernal machine that the Bantag had laid during the night to drift into his line. He shifted his gaze back to where the ensign was pointing. There was something out there. At first glance, in the dying light of the exploding ironclad, it looked like a pole or log jutting out of the water, a thin rippling wave washing out to either side. It was moving, but moving against the breeze, coming straight at them.

A second explosion ripped through the Constellation, Constellation,this one even more violent than the first. . . The magazine was going, Bullfinch realized. The flash of the explosion illuminated the ocean, and he could see that the pole was still coming toward them . . . and was mounted on top of a dark round object which just barely jutted out of the water.

TheHunley. It was like the Confederate submersible ship It was like the Confederate submersible ship Hunley. Hunley.He spared a quick glance back at the Constellation Constellation-the second explosion had broken the back of the ironclad, bow and stern rising out of the water, the sound of the explosion washing over him. Debris was raining down, sh.e.l.ls from the magazine detonating in the air.

Bullfinch realized that only a score of seconds had transpired since the ensign had first pointed out the strange object, and already it had drawn twenty, perhaps thirty yards closer.

"Beat to quarters!" Bullfinch roared as he turned and raced toward the bridge. "Ensign, get a crew forward, cut the anchor!"

The deck was still illuminated by the explosions wracking the dying ship as another light flared up. Sickened, Bullfinch saw that one of his wooden picketboats was exploding. How many of the d.a.m.n things did the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have?

Scrambling up the ladder to the exposed flying bridge, he shouted for the helmsman to signal the engine room for full speed astern. His executive officer came up out of the hatchway from below, shirtless and barefoot.

"Get the guns cleared below and order the antiair-ship gunners starboard to start shooting at that submersible!"

"What, sir?"

"The pole, that pole out there!" Bullfinch roared. "It's a periscope for an underwater ship. They're hitting our fleet with them!"

"Sir!"

Bullfinch looked up to the lookout, perched twenty feet above him.

"I think I see puffs of smoke from behind the bluff, looks like it might be from ships coming out."

Bullfinch spared a quick glance to sh.o.r.e but could see nothing, his vision still dazzled from the explosions wracking Constellation Constellation and the picketboat. and the picketboat.

The first of the antiairship guns opened up, and Bullfinch, who had momentarily lost sight of the periscope, saw where the geyser from the sh.e.l.l kicked up. The shot had missed it by a dozen yards. The target was so d.a.m.n small, he realized, a thin pole maybe half a foot across and ten feet high, and then what looked to be a small rounded dome maybe three feet across and only a foot or so out of the water. It most likely had a spar torpedo mounted on a pole twenty or more feet forward. A minute, maybe a minute and a half, Bullfinch realized, his stomach knotting with fear.

The other three antiairship guns on the starboard side fired, plumes of spray erupting to either side of the submersible, but it continued to bore straight in. The deck lurched beneath his feet as the anchor line parted. A speaking tube whistled next to him, and he uncorked it.

"Engine room here. Don't have much steam up but getting under way now, sir!"

"Hurry, d.a.m.n it, give it everything you've got, engines full astern."

Bullfinch looked back at the periscope. Maybe eighty yards.

"Helm hard aport!"

"Helm hard aport it is, sir."

He could feel the first shuddering bite of the paddle wheel as it slowly started to turn, the steam pressure barely enough to gain purchase against the weight of the wheel and the resistance of the water. Petersburg Petersburg ever so slowly started to back up. On the gun deck below he could hear shouted commands as gun hatches were flung open and crews strained to run their pieces out, but he knew with a grim certainty that they could never bring their guns to bear in time. ever so slowly started to back up. On the gun deck below he could hear shouted commands as gun hatches were flung open and crews strained to run their pieces out, but he knew with a grim certainty that they could never bring their guns to bear in time.

The first gunner to fire on the topside antiairship gun had finished reloading, his a.s.sistant slamming the breechblock shut and stepping back. The gunner sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked back on its friction slider, the water erupting just forward of the periscope.

It was now less than fifty yards away, and Bullfinch realized that given the probable length of the submersible and the spar torpedo, the weapon was most likely less than thirty yards away.

The helm was beginning to answer, Petersburg Petersburg drawing away from the enemy, but the submersible was still gaining. drawing away from the enemy, but the submersible was still gaining.

The other three guns fired again, one of the rounds detonating halfway up the side of the periscope. A triumphal shout went up from the crew, and for an instant Bullfinch thought they were saved, but then saw that it was still continuing to bore in. It was down to twenty yards, then ten ... he felt a faint jarring blow.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity. Did the weapon have a percussion head, or was it fired from inside the submersible by a trigger? He waited, holding his breath, and as Petersburg Petersburg continued to back up, he could almost sense the d.a.m.n thing banging against the side of his ship . . . but still nothing happened. continued to back up, he could almost sense the d.a.m.n thing banging against the side of his ship . . . but still nothing happened.

Ever so slowly the submersible seemed to rise out of the water, and Bullfinch could see that a hole had been drilled in the vessel. The shot he thought had struck too far forward had, in fact, punched clean through into the hull.

The ship, which Bullfinch thought looked to be nothing more than a boiler with the ends covered over, rose lazily, wallowing on its port side. A hatch just aft of the periscope mount popped open and a Bantag tried to scramble out. One of the antiairship guns fired, nearly tearing him in half. The submersible slipped back beneath the water and disappeared.

Amazed that they had survived, Bullfinch started to turn to his exec, ready to express relief, when another flash of light flared up. Sickened, he watched as Saint Gregory, Saint Gregory,a heavy monitor and the newest addition to his fleet, exploded.

He turned away with head lowered. He had allowed the enemy to catch him by surprise. Ferguson had talked about submersibles, and was even testing one, but never had he thought that the Bantag would have leapt ahead of them with such a thing.

"I can see them now!" the lookout cried. "Sir, the first ship, it's a d.a.m.n big thing. Looks like a monitor! Also see three, make that four airships coming up from the east, southeast."

Bullfinch turned to his executive officer.

"Petronius. Get a boat crew. I want you to get over to the picketboat"-he hesitated for an instant, scanning to see which of his light wooden ships was closest-"Defiant. Then you are to get the h.e.l.l out of here at best possible speed and make for Port Lincoln. You are to report everything you see here. Now get going!" Then you are to get the h.e.l.l out of here at best possible speed and make for Port Lincoln. You are to report everything you see here. Now get going!"

The exec hesitated.

"d.a.m.n it, Petronius. We're going into a h.e.l.l of a fight, and I've already lost a third of my ironclads. I want someone to get out with a warning now, before it's too late."

He turned back to look at his bridge crew.

"Signal the fleet," Bullfinch announced. "Form on the flagship, we're going in."

Chomping on the b.u.t.t of a cigar, Pat O'Donald wondered if this was how Grant felt during the Battle of the Wilderness. That had been one fight the Forty-fourth New York had sat out, for there was simply nothing to shoot at in the dense forest. Deployed to the rear at the burned-out ruins of the Chancellor House, he had spent the battle with a precious bottle of rye watching the smoke rise out of the tangled jungle where 150,000 infantry fought it out.

It was the same now, artillery deployed to the rear, his infantry spread out in an arc, right flank on the sea, left flank curving back through five miles of forest anchoring his left on a broad stretch of bogs and swamp. It had been going on since dawn, and so far the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on the other side had been getting the worst of it, charging against well-dug-in troops.

If this is the way the Horde wanted to fight its war then so be it. He estimated they were trading casualties at four, even five to one. At this rate, by the time they fell back to the Shenandoah, there wouldn't be a Bantag left standing.

Looking up he saw an enemy airship circling several thousand feet above. d.a.m.n, if only we had a few of those, I'd know what was really going on behind their lines, he thought with bitter frustration. There was still no telling just how strong this punch was. Were there forty or more umens backed up into the steppe, or was this the ploy that Hans kept insisting it was?

A steady rain of leaves and small branches kept raining down around him, plucked from the trees by Bantag fire that was too high. A renewed roar of volley fire erupted to his left, and he c.o.c.ked an ear toward the thunder, gauging the sound. It was the new Sharps, rapid fire. Must mean another charge, and even above the thunder he could hear the throaty roar of the Bantag as they closed in. He waited. No sense in getting excited about it yet. The sustained thunder rippled down the length of the line until it was directly in front of him. All of Ninth Corps was being hit. He could see his staff looking around in an agitated manner. Spitting out the b.u.t.t of the cigar, he fished in his breast pocket for another, pulled it out, and lit it, working hard to display an outward calm.

"Relax, gentlemen," he said, while puffing the new cigar to life. "The day's only started."

"Hard astarboard!"

Squinting through the narrow view slit of the armored bridge, Bullfinch tried to see through the clouds of smoke obscuring the ocean. As Petersburg Petersburg slowly pivoted, he caught a momentary glimpse of slowly pivoted, he caught a momentary glimpse of Ironsides, Ironsides, flames pouring out of her gun ports, yet still the ship fought, turning to ram the Bantag ironclad on its port side. flames pouring out of her gun ports, yet still the ship fought, turning to ram the Bantag ironclad on its port side.

A thundering jar rang through his ship, followed a second later by high, piercing screams. Pulling open the hatch which led down to the main gun deck, he stuck his head below. Another shot had blown clear through the starboard side of his ship. Men twisted in agony, torn apart in the shower of iron and wooden splinters. It was the third shot to pierce their side.

He closed the hatch, trying to block out the horror of what he had just seen, and returned to commanding what was left of his fleet.

"d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, I can't see anything!" Reaching up, he popped open the hatch to the unprotected flying bridge.

"Sir!"

He ignored the protests and scrambled up the ladder and out into the open, grateful for the cooling breeze after having spent five sweat-drenched hours locked up inside the armored command bridge. A rifle bullet snicked past, and, looking toward the monitor which they were aiming for, he saw several Bantag snipers arrayed along the top of the gun-house. Answering fire came from his own contingent of marines firing out of the gunports and the Bantag dropped. Going to the starboard side, he leaned over the railing of the flying bridge and was horrified to see the damage inflicted on his beloved ship. The entire side was shredded, pieces of armor buckled and bent at right angles. He turned away to scan therest of the battle.Roumwas still in the fight, as was the turreted ironclad Fredericksburg. Fredericksburg.

Another bullet snapped past, plucking at the coat-tails of his uniform. Cursing, he ducked low and looked back to port.Ironsideswas down at the bow and listing heavily. Two Bantag ironclads were off its stern, both of them pouring in a broadside at nearly the same instant. Ironsides Ironsides visibly shuddered from the blows. It seemed to hang in the balance, then ever so slowly rolled up on its port side. Its propeller was still turning as it continued to go over, men scrambling out of the gun ports. An instant later the ship disappeared in a thunderclap explosion. Sickened, Bullfinch lowered his gaze, ignoring the snap of a bullet striking the deck by his feet, half-wishing the d.a.m.n thing had hit him. visibly shuddered from the blows. It seemed to hang in the balance, then ever so slowly rolled up on its port side. Its propeller was still turning as it continued to go over, men scrambling out of the gun ports. An instant later the ship disappeared in a thunderclap explosion. Sickened, Bullfinch lowered his gaze, ignoring the snap of a bullet striking the deck by his feet, half-wishing the d.a.m.n thing had hit him.

Petersburg lurched beneath his feet, the entire ship j recoiling as the ma.s.sive hundred-pound Parrott gun forward fired on the Bantag ship a hundred yards ahead. The shot struck directly amidships, and he had the grim satisfaction of seeing some damage done as the solid bolt sliced through the enemy armor and plowed into the interior of the ship. He looked around at the battle. Three ironclads left-the enemy had lost three, but there were still eight in action. The two that had finished off lurched beneath his feet, the entire ship j recoiling as the ma.s.sive hundred-pound Parrott gun forward fired on the Bantag ship a hundred yards ahead. The shot struck directly amidships, and he had the grim satisfaction of seeing some damage done as the solid bolt sliced through the enemy armor and plowed into the interior of the ship. He looked around at the battle. Three ironclads left-the enemy had lost three, but there were still eight in action. The two that had finished offIronsideswere now turning toward him, looking like ugly black beetles crawling across the sea. If his ships had one advantage in this fiasco, it was better engines. They had speed, and that was it.

From the corner of his eye he saw the gun ports of the enemy ship directly ahead swing open, and he flung himself down on the deck. An instant later the broadside of four guns fired. A shower of sparks and debris erupted around him as the heavy boltsslammed into the side of his ship. From the renewed screams and curses below he knew at least one of them had again penetrated.

"Sir!"

One of his bridge crew was sticking his head up from the armored bridge below. "They've dismounted the forward Parrott, sir!"

"d.a.m.n all to h.e.l.l!"

He stood back up, scrambled down below, and looked over at his signal officer. His voice tightened. He could not believe what he was about to do, but there was nothing left.

"Signal the fleet. Disengage, withdraw to the north," he whispered.

The crew looked at him, stunned.