Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "At least they float," Andrew replied.

  "Barely," Emil said. "And remember, there's not one boy in ten aboard those ships who can swim a lick."

  "Don't worry, Emil, we'll be running close to shore the entire route, and every soldier has a life preserver."

  "A dry board," Emil said, shaking his head.

  At least it's better than aboard this ship, Andrew thought. There were only three hatches up from below, one into the gunhouse, the other aft next to the ventilation shafts into the engines, and a larger one forward to take on wood. If it was rammed this ship would go down like a bullet.

  "All engines stop!" Bullfinch shouted. "Helm to the left, linesman forward, prepare to take tow into the canal."

  Bullfinch looked over at the circle of men who stood around him.

  "Now, all of you are going to be captaining a boat like this in another day or two. We're not going to have any time for lessons. We're not even going to allow you to pilot them on the river down to the canal."

  Andrew could see the looks of relief on the faces of nearly all the men.

  "Remember, you've got quite a few hundred tons of mass moving along. It's the same as those railroad engines you drive. Turn the power off and she'll still keep going. In an emergency you can go into reverse, but we don't know if these ships will handle the strain, so be careful. Remember as well, you've got to keep headway—if you just float with the current you'll have no control at all.

  "And another thing. You've got clear visibility standing on top of the pilothouse like this, but under fire you'll be inside the pilothouse," and he pointed to the four-foot-high projection that ran the width of the gunhouse. "It's going to be cramped in there. You'll be sitting, and sealed off from the gunhouse directly below you, except for the speaking tube. You've been inside it already. It's an oven, and you'll only be able to see the action through the two-inch-high slits. It's going to be an entire other world. I'd suggest for starters you learn to handle your ships out here like this, using the extra speaking tube installed outside. But as soon as possible, start doing all your work inside."

  The captains in training, nearly all of them former railroad engineers along with the three former sailors in the 35th, nodded, most of them furiously taking notes.

  Lines snaked out from shore as Bullfinch conned the ship in on the last gentle burst of speed from the engines. The galley, having dropped astern, pulled a hard maneuver, the starboard rowers backstroking while the portside rowers dug in, spinning the ship about inside its own length. The men let off a hearty cheer and then turned to race back up the river.

  "They're learning pretty well," Andrew said encouragingly.

  "Faster than I believed possible," Marcus replied.

  "Each oar is shared by one of my men and one of yours," Andrew said. "It's a good arrangement. Our people will learn a lot from each other that way."

  Marcus nodded.

  "Still leery about giving them their freedom?" Andrew asked.

  "When you consider the alternative," Marcus said dryly, "I had precious little choice in the matter."

  "When this is all over with, we can talk about government," Andrew ventured. "I served as a military dictator for well over a year, but we made the transition to a different form."

  "Your Vincent's already been lecturing me on it," Marcus said with a wry smile, nodding over to the side of the gunhouse where Vincent sat alone.

  Andrew looked over at the young man. He had a gut feeling about what had happened to Vincent back in the forum. But Vincent simply did not want to talk about it, so there was little Andrew could do but wait until he opened up.

  "Get those lines out here!"

  Bullfinch, leaping down from the gunhouse, raced forward, Ferguson by his side, shouting imprecations at the lock operators. The deck crew worked nervously under the gaze of Bullfinch as the canal operators tossed out cables, which were secured to the Suzdal. Dozens of men armed with long poles that were padded at one end waded into the water, fending the boat off from the rocky side of the channel.

  Shouting and swearing, Bullfinch paced the deck, leaning over the side, watching as the boat inched into the narrow confines of the lock. The teamsters on shore started to whistle and snap their whips, and the long line of oxen moved forward. The lines went taut, the oxen digging in, and then like a long spring recoiling the boat slid forward again, the lines going slack. The boat drifted down the channel at a slow walk, the cut through the rocks rising up and nearly forming a tunnel, and after fifty yards dropping away.

  "This is something we never dreamed of—raising and lowering ships through closed rooms filled with water," Marcus said, watching as the Suzdal drifted past the outer lock gate, which swung shut behind the ironclad.

  "I'm just glad we helped you make it last year," Andrew said. "Otherwise we'd be stuck trying to build all of this in the ruins of Ostia."

  He had not sensed any movement, but already the shore seemed to be rising and the men that he had been looking down on were now at eye level, gazing at the ship with gap-mouthed amazement. On the far side of the lock he could hear the cascade rushing out. The sheer rock side of shale alongside him dripped with water that glistened with the sunlight.

  After twelve feet of drop the outrush of water slowed. The lockkeeper, looking down from above, waved, and his crews swung the heavy doors open, the Suzdal gently flowing out with the last of the running water. Another team of oxen were waiting, lines were hooked on, and the last two hundred yards of the tow led the ironclad back out to the river, the rapids now behind them.

  "All ahead slow," Bullfinch called, climbing back up onto the gunhouse. The paddles dug into the water, the shuddering vibration started to run through the ship, and as they turned into the main channel the shore to either side drifted by. To his right, Andrew could see the long line of abandoned railcars, stretched out along the rough-laid track. It was a strange sight, as if he had cast off the devices that had helped him for so long, to leave them in the growing weeds.

  If this campaign fails, he thought sadly, they'll most likely stay there forever, slowly rusting and falling back into the earth that they were forged out of.

  The flame-scorched walls of Ostia were passed, and he could see the grim features of Marcus as he gazed upon the ruins of what had once been his main port.

  "With the canal open to Roum, you don't need to rebuild here," Andrew said. "You could put docks up on the left bank of the river across from your capital, and we could even help you build a bridge across. An arrangement like that would be a lot easier to defend in the future."

  "You mean they'll be back?"

  "From the looks of things, we'll be fighting them, the Merki and God knows who else, for some time to come."

  "Next time I'll be ready for them," Marcus snapped.

  They passed close to a bar at the south side of the channel and left the river behind as the shoreline turned away to the right, revealing the broad open stretch of the Bay of Tiber and the Inland Sea beyond.

  A light chop started to develop, and for the first time Andrew felt he was truly aboard a ship again as the deck started to roll ever so slightly beneath his feet.

  "It's most likely running about two feet a bit farther out. Let's see what she can do before we get into some waves," Bullfinch said, looking around at the neophyte captains, who smiled anxiously and said nothing.

  Bullfinch blew into the speaking tube.

  "All engines, ahead half speed. Keep the helm steady as she goes."

  "I'm going down below to keep an eye on things," Ferguson said, and with a salute to Andrew he climbed on top of the pilot house, pulled the iron lid open, and squeezed through, descending into the gun deck and from there on into the engine room below.

  The vibration picked up noticeably. The water astern foamed, and the breeze from forward started to pick up. Bullfinch knelt down on the deck, putting both hands down, and after a moment looked over at Andrew.

  "Pretty rough vibration for half s
peed. It's what I was afraid of. Over a period of time it could really start to shake things loose, spring leaks. We're going to have to be careful."

  He stood up and looked astern and then faced back to the captains.

  "We're sliding to port as well—the engines are nowhere in synch. With this kind of rig we'll have problems like that. You're going to have to learn how to inch your RPMs up and down on one engine or the other to keep her moving in a straight line. Remember, there's one advantage. If your rudder gets blown away, you can always steer with your screws or paddles. If you lose an engine you can use the rudder to still keep yourself going straight."

  Bullfinch leaned over and blew into the tube again.

  "Bring up the revolutions on the port—excuse me, you lubbers, I mean left—engine. Do it slowly and I'll tell you when to stop."

  Moving over to stand directly in the middle of the ship, he watched as the slip to port gradually corrected. He raced back to the tube.

  "Hold it there! Mark your gauge on the left engine. That's your half-speed setting."

  Bullfinch looked back up.

  "That's how you do it. It feels like we're doing a good three knots, maybe even four."

  The boat cruised along for some minutes, and Andrew felt the tension start to run out of him. The damn thing was actually working!

  Bullfinch edged them up to three-quarters speed, and the vibration turned into a pounding shudder. The seas started to rise a bit, and a spray of water rose up every time the Suzdal slammed into a wave.

  A galley, one of the small twenty-oared vessels of Marcus's original fleet, came running down from farther up the channel, the crew pulling hard, the forward prow plowing up twin furrows of foamy white. The boat swung around wide with a gracefulness that spoke of practice far longer than the four weeks the army had had on the beach.

  Coming in alongside, the galley kept even with the ironclad.

  "Any reports from the sentries?" Marcus shouted, cupping his hands to be heard above the pulsing thunder of the ship.

  "That same ship was out there again, but we chased it back over the horizon!"

  Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. The picket ships had been covering the area out for nearly thirty miles. A week ago a fast Cartha galley had been sighted. They could never close with it, and it had always refused battle, retreating when the squadron approached. At least it was out of sight this morning. How much longer can we keep Cromwell in the dark? he wondered. If he should come back with the Ogunquit, he could plug up the canal entrance and their whole plan would be for nothing.

  "There's our target!" Bullfinch shouted, pointing in toward shore.

  Taking up his field glasses, Andrew saw the raft anchored several hundred yards out to sea, a large square structure built up on one side with several layers of railroad ties faced with a double row of rail iron.

  "Here comes the reason we're doing this," Andrew said a bit nervously.

  "I'm going down to the gun deck," Andrew announced, climbing awkwardly up on top of the pilothouse.

  "You know, we're still not sure of those guns," Emil shouted.

  Andrew smiled but said nothing as he inched his way down the ladder.

  He paused for a moment inside the cramped pilothouse, looking straight up at the cloud-studded sky above. Taking a deep breath, he hung on with his one hand, letting his legs drop through the hatchway into the gun deck below.

  He fumbled for the ladder set into the aft side of the gunhouse and then slowly made his way down to the lower deck. Once through the hatch, he stood back up, forgetting the clearance, and cursed soundly as his head slammed into the ceiling.

  The men looked over at him and smiled but said nothing.

  "Ready to try a shot?" Andrew asked, annoyed at himself and trying to regain his composure.

  "That's what the boys have been looking forward to, sir."

  Andrew smiled at O'Malley, one of the old gunners of the 44th, a battery commander now who had come back to his old job of manning a single piece.

  The carronade, the first one off the line, had been proofed four days ago, almost before it had cooled from the rough improvised turning that John had worked out, from a cylinder boring machine taken out of the Hispania shop.

  Andrew walked up to the weapon and looked at it appraisingly. It was a short, squat, ugly affair, lacking the grace of O'Donald's treasured Napoleons. The barrel was only four feet long. The inner tube was built up with bands of heated iron that had been wrapped around the breech for reinforcement. The outside of the barrel had not been turned, and its surface was pocked with roughnesses that were already starting to gather rust.

  The weapon lacked trunnions and was secured to its crude carriage by a large ring, fashioned out of a rail and forged into the barrel underneath. Inelegant as it was, the entire affair had a deadly look nevertheless.

  Andrew leaned over, looking through the forward gun port. In the narrow square he saw the target raft standing slightly off to port.

  A whistle sounded next to him, and he reached over and uncorked the speaking tube.

  "I'm going to steer straight at it," Bullfinch announced. "When you people are ready to fire, signal me. From then on your gun crew will swing the piece to train on the target."

  "Let's try one at four hundred and see what happens," Andrew announced.

  "Run out!" O'Malley shouted. The gun crew leaped to their stations and hauled in on the block and tackle so that the carronade rolled forward, the mouth of the gun barely projecting out of the port.

  O'Malley crouched down behind the piece, sighting down the barrel. Grabbing a handspike, he levered the breech of the gun up.

  "Pull out the quoin a notch!"

  A gunner stepped forward, took hold of the heavy triangular block under the breech, and slipped it back. O'Malley nodded and let the barrel down.

  "Stand clear!"

  Taking hold of a linstock that was passed up to him, he stepped to one side and brought down the flaming taper attached to the end of the pole, touching the small pile of powder at the breech.

  A shot of flame snapped straight up, scorching the ceiling. With a thunderclap the carronade leaped back, smoke instantly filling the entire deck.

  Choking, his ears ringing, Andrew stepped in front of the gun, peering through the gun port. O'Malley shouldered up alongside him.

  A fountain of water shot up a hundred yards forward of the target and more than fifty yards to the right. A chorus of groans could be heard topside.

  O'Malley looked back at him sheepishly.

  "Point-blank range, sir—that's what we'll have to go for."

  Gasping for air, Andrew nodded.

  "Load her up!" O'Malley shouted.

  A gunner pulled up the hatch set in the middle of the deck. A boy stuck his head up from below and passed up a powder charge, which the gunner ran forward. The boy closed the hatch as he returned to the darkened magazine below.

  The Suzdal continued forward, the target growing ever larger.

  This was one hell of a lot slower than four-pounders, Andrew realized. A land battery could get off six or seven rounds in the time it took them to load one.

  The sponging done, the powder charge was rammed in, a heavy shot was taken from a rack set into the wall, and two men lifted it into the breech, the rammer pushing the round into the bore.

  The gun was finally loaded and run out again.

  The target was less than a hundred yards away.

  Andrew went over to the speaking tube.

  "Stop the engines. I want to see what we can do up close."

  The pounding from below dropped away, and the Suzdal drifted forward silently.

  "Clear the topside," Bullfinch shouted. "We might have fragments."

  There was a scurry of feet above as the men dropped over the side and ran for cover behind the gunhouse.

  "All clear!" Bullfinch shouted.

  The Suzdal was less than fifty yards from the target.

  Andrew nodded to O'Malley.


  "Fire!"

  The gun leaped back, and even over the explosion Andrew heard a reverberating crash. Eagerly he ran up to the gun port. The raft was rocking back and forth as if ready to pitch over.

  At the comer of the target he saw a tangle of rails slammed into the wood backing, the end of one sticking straight out like a broken straw.

  The Suzdal continued to drift in.

  Andrew stepped over to a side gun port and crawled out, Marcus helping to pull him through.

  "It's terrifying," Marcus whispered.

  Andrew ran down the length of the ship as the bow brushed past the bobbing raft.

  A mist of steam was rising off the smashed-in side. The bent rails were twisted in, and the two in the middle that had absorbed the brunt of the impact were snapped in half.

  The Suzdal floated past the raft, and its back side came into view.

  Several of the crossties were buckled inward, huge cracks laced the timbers, and a light shower of splinters lay across the raft and floated in the water beyond.

  "It didn't punch through," Andrew said, his voice displaying his disappointment.

  "Well, thank God for that," Emil said. "Remember that's a model of our armor."

  "Suppose his is the same?" Andrew replied. "And don't forget we've got carronades—he's got long guns that punch a hell of a lot harder."

  "It's too late to change it now," Emil said. "We're planning a sea fight, and he wasn't—his armor could be a lot thinner."