Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "We could try to hit them at one point at night. Once we break in, it's ours."

  "Four thousand men," Hans said, shaking his head, "and they're behind the finest fortifications in the world. We'd be slaughtered charging it even at night. We could muster up twenty thousand militia, but we've got only one good brigade of men. The militia on a night assault would be more hindrance than help. It'd be like Cold Harbor again—we'd be piled up dead in front of the trenches."

  "If only we had some people on the inside the same way Mikhail betrayed us. If we could force a single gate and pour the militia in, at least in those streets spears against muskets will stand a better chance."

  "We've got two days at best before the first of the Merki appear."

  The three sat in dejected silence. O'Donald finally stirred and stood up.

  "Well, if you gents don't mind, I've got something to attend to. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

  Hans looked over at O'Donald, and a grin of delight crossed his features.

  "Good old Emil! His pet project's the answer."

  "I've heard the doctor called a lot of things," O'Donald snapped, "but never 'good old Emil.' I wish the bastard was here right now to give me a little blue mass. I sure as hell need it."

  "That's just it—it's our way into the city."

  O'Donald looked over at Hans as if he were mad, and then ever so slowly a smile lit his face.

  "Of course, my good general. You'll be the one to lead them in."

  "Not this time," Hans said with a grin, "I'll be running the militia on the outside. You're the only one I could trust with this, and besides, O'Donald, I've just made it an order."

  O'Donald looked at Hans with disgust.

  "I'll be back in a minute," he said sharply. He opened the door, then looked back.

  "Shit," he said, and he slammed the door behind him.

  Tobias looked up at the flagman standing atop the high rock, which he suddenly realized bore a slight resemblance to a human face with a long beard. The flagman held up two red pennants, waved them in circles, and then let them drop. On the decks of the other ironclads he saw the ships' captains acknowledge the signal and then disappear into their pilothouses.

  Tobias slipped back down the ladder, pulling the hatch shut behind him, and nodded to the pilot.

  "All engines ahead full."

  "Range to the galleys is eight hundred yards, sir. You'd better get below," Bullfinch announced.

  Andrew hesitated. Once inside the gun deck he'd be sealed off from the rest of the world. He spared one final look at his fleet. The ironclads were still holding a ragged line, the ships farthest out to sea lagging a little behind. The galleys were now a good quarter mile behind, the double line of boats moving forward like a line of calvary cantering forward, waiting for the call to charge.

  "The gunboats just fired!"

  Andrew looked forward. Two puffs of powder smoke snapped away from the ships, curling out to sea.

  Two geysers of water shot up a couple of hundred yards forward.

  "They're skipping them!" Bullfinch cried.

  Andrew could see the shot bounding up out of the water like a flat rock skipping across the surface of a pond. The shot screamed past, the first one slapping the water off the port side of the Antietam, skipping back up, tumbling end over end, then slamming into the water behind the first row of galleys.

  Almost lazily the second ball arced over the Suzdal, and he turned to watch it pass.

  "Merciful God," he gasped.

  The shot slammed into the bow of a galley almost directly behind him, and a shower of broken wood sprayed into the air. The boat slid out of line, heeling over on its side and wallowing in the choppy water. Ever so slowly it started to settle at the bow.

  Men staggered up over the railing, jumping into the water, and he could hear the high distant cries of the wounded.

  "They're coming out!" Bullfinch shouted.

  Andrew looked forward, and from behind the high rock marking the point he saw plumes of smoke climbing into the air.

  "Get below!" Bullfinch shouted.

  "In a minute," Andrew replied calmly, raising his field glasses for a better view.

  The air around the high rock was swirling with smoke, and then he saw it, a black smokestack moving out, disappearing behind a fold in the rock, and then all at once the great mass of the Ogunquit slid into view. Another ship slid out beside it, and then two more.

  "Enemy galleys are coming about, swinging in behind him," Bullfinch cried, his voice edged high with excitement. "Signalman, run up ahead full."

  Leaning over the outside speaking tube, he shouted out a command, then looked back up at Andrew.

  "I'm buttoning this ship up, sir. Now goddammit, get inside!"

  Five snaps of light winked from the Ogunquifs broadside battery. Andrew stepped over to the pilothouse and started to lower himself inside. Geysers of water shot up ahead of and behind the line of ironclads.

  "Coming down!"

  Without waiting for O'Malley, he dropped his legs through the hatchway into the gun deck and let go, falling through the hole. Bending down, he stepped away from the hatch and looked back up as the signalman jumped through behind him and went to his station, where through a narrow hole in the ceiling he could continue to run up flags. Bullfinch looked down at Andrew from above, saluted, and then slammed the hatch shut, sealing himself off inside the tiny cubicle.

  The deck beneath Andrew's feet shuddered, a pulsing vibration running through the vessel as Ferguson pushed the engines to full ahead.

  "It's like fighting inside a coffin!" Emil shouted, coming up to Andrew's side.

  "A hell of a statement at a time like this, doctor," Andrew shouted. "And what the hell are you doing up here? Get below where you belong."

  "I've got a confession to make, Andrew. I can't swim. I'll be damned if I'll be stuck below if this thing goes down."

  "Well, I haven't tried swimming since I lost the arm," Andrew replied, shaking his head. "We'll make a damn fine pair in the water."

  Andrew went over to a narrow viewing slit alongside the gun position and looked forward.

  Water was breaking up over the bow of the ship, sending up a fine spray that was whipped to windward. The Ogunquit had slowed, its broadside exposed, while the ironclads and the enemy galleys were approaching at an oblique to cut into the left flank of his advancing fleet. He debated changing the orders but knew it was useless. Battle would be joined in another couple of minutes, and to change plans now would simply cause his ill-trained sailors to become completely confused.

  "We'll fire at a hundred yards!" Andrew shouted, and he felt his pulse starting to race.

  "Jesus," O'Malley shouted, motioning to the still-open gun port on the starboard side, "can you hear it?"

  Andrew went over to the opening.

  "The madmen, he thought, and his pulse quickened. Across the waters he heard the high clarion cry of a bugle sounding charge, its notes picked up by yet other bugles, the regimental drummers countering in with the long roll. It sent a shiver down his spine.

  O'Malley looked over at Andrew with a wild grin, even as he reached over and slammed down the gun port, sealing them into a near-funereal darkness, lit only by the thin shafts of light streaming through the viewing ports.

  Going forward, Andrew looked through the view slit.

  A whistle shrieked next to him, and he unplugged the speaking tube.

  "Two hundred yards," Bullfinch shouted. "Run 'em out at a hundred. I'll try to ram the bastard. If not, we'll go under her stern, come about, and try to fire on her from our right side."

  "Prepare to open gun port," O'Malley shouted.

  "She's opening her gun ports!" Andrew yelled.

  "Open port and run it out!"

  A gust of cold air raced through the gun deck as two of the crew pulled down on the cables attached to the armored port and raised the barrier.

  The gun crew, straining at the cables, ran the carronade
forward, the muzzle protruding out of the port.

  O'Malley stood behind the gun, crouching down, sighting over the barrel.

  "To the left, to the left!"

  Straining, the gun crew heaved on the lines, inching the gun over.

  "She's firing!"

  It felt as if a giant had slammed the ship with a hammer. One moment he had been leaning against the heavy cross-ties, looking through the firing slit; an instant later he was on his back, his head ringing. A cloud of dust hung in the air.

  Dazed, he looked about. Some of the men were on the deck; others were already rising back up. Kneeling, he saw O'Malley, still crouched behind the gun, suddenly leap back, grabbing the linstock.

  "Stand clear!"

  The carronade leaped back, smoke geysering into the room. For an instant Andrew saw a shower of sparks snap up from the side of the Ogunquit, as it started to pick up speed, sliding across the gun port.

  "Where were we hit?" Emil shouted.

  Still shaky, Andrew looked around.

  "Reload, dammit!" O'Malley roared, even as the crew slammed the gun port shut. Andrew went back up to the viewing slit. The Ogunquit was moving to their left, and swinging out from behind her a gunboat was turning to run straight at them. The Suzdal continued to run straight ahead, passing wide under the stem of the enemy ship.

  "What the hell is Bullfinch doing?"

  "Andrew!"

  He turned and saw Emil standing at the aft end of the gun deck looking up.

  Andrew came over to join him.

  Something wet splashed his glasses as he looked up at the closed hatch.

  "It's blood," Emil whispered.

  Standing under the hatch, Andrew pushed up. The doorway edged up a notch and a spray of blood came down.

  "It's jammed."

  "Somebody open the aft gun port!"

  "Andrew?"

  "Shut up, Emil!"

  Two riflemen came over and hoisted the cables. Before Emil could say another word, Andrew crawled out, rolling onto the open deck.

  He felt as if he were in the middle of a hurricane of sound. Heavy shot screamed through the air, and a musket ball hissed past, striking the gunhouse by his side. Looking up, he saw the stern of the Ogunquit fifty yards away, the rear hatch open. An explosion kicked off and a spray of metal hissed past, one of the Suzdal's smokestacks flipping end over end into the water behind him. The other gunboats of the fleet were already starting to turn, even as the Suzdal steamed straight ahead. Antietam, cutting across the stem of Suzdal, continued its swing. Its gun fired, the shot striking the side of the Ogunquit. A section of iron plate buckled in, boltheads rebounding out like bullets.

  Andrew scrambled up the outside ladder, landing atop the pilothouse. Shards of rail iron were lifted up over the side. An enemy gunboat was still bearing down less than fifty yards ahead, gun port open, smoke pouring out of its stack.

  Desperately he started to yank the hatch open.

  The gunboat fired. The shot screamed past, striking the side of the Antietam aft on the waterline. An instant later a scalding plume of steam shot up the Antietam's stacks and an explosion ripped out the side of the ship. The ship started to slide around, its stem dropping below the water.

  A ventilation hatch shot straight into the air, fire blowing up from below.

  "Get out!" Andrew screamed. "For God's sake, get out!"

  The enemy ironclad steamed straight past him, not fifty feet away. Wild with impotent rage, he pulled out his revolver and fired at the enemy ship, realizing at the same time how insanely stupid he must look.

  The Antietam continued to settle, lying over on its starboard side, the bow rising into the air. Relentlessly the enemy ship bore down on its crippled foe. Above the roar of battle the sound of iron striking iron reverberated across the water as the ship slammed into the Antietam amidships.

  Realizing that he was fast going out of the fight, Andrew leaped back up on the pilothouse, pulled the hatch open, and crawled inside.

  Bullfinch was sprawled against the back end of the pilothouse, blood pouring from what was left of his face. His mouth moved spasmodically. Beside him the signal officer lay over the hatch. Horrified, Andrew looked at the decapitated body, and in the cramped quarters realized that he was leaning against a wall which was covered with blood, brains, and fragments of bone. The viewport forward was crushed in, the entire side of the pilothouse buckled.

  Andrew uncorked the speaking tube.

  "Engine room!"

  "What the hell's going on up there? Is that you, colonel?" it was Ferguson.

  "Helm hard over!"

  "Which way?"

  "Left!"

  He pushed the pilot's body away from the hatch and yanked it open.

  "I need help!"

  O'Malley looked up through the hatchway.

  Andrew grabbed hold of Bullfinch's legs and pushed them through the opening.

  "I can't see," the boy gasped. "My eyes!"

  "You'll be all right," Andrew cried, trying to brace him up as O'Malley grabbed his legs and then pulled him down.

  "Another one," Andrew shouted as the hatchway was cleared. He pushed the dead signalman's body forward through the hatch, wishing he could lower him feet first, but there wasn't the room to turn him around.

  Cries of shock came up from below as the body tumbled through the hatchway and hit the deck below.

  The ship was still turning, he realized. He looked forward, and realized again it was impossible to see that way. He stood straight up, sticking his head and shoulders through the upper hatch, and then leaned back into the pilothouse.

  "Straighten out the helm!"

  It was going to be awkward, ducking in and out to issue commands.

  The Suzdal had cut a wide arc through open water. Several hundred yards ahead, a terrible melee was underway, the Cartha ironclads circling around his own ships, trading shots. The Ogunquit was several hundred yards away, turning eastward, cutting into the galleys, the Cartha galleys ranging out alongside the heavy ship.

  The bow of the Antietam seemed to hover in the air, the ship over on its side, the water pouring into the gunhouse, men scrambling out through the hatches, its killer backing away.

  "Ferguson, give us everything you've got! Inch the helm a little to the left."

  Just stay there one more minute, damn you! he thought.

  "We're going to be rammed!"

  Vincent looked up, and through the swirling confusion of ships he saw the enemy vessel come through the pack, oars digging in, water curling over its bow, heading straight for the center of their ship.

  "Helm over!" Marcus roared. A geyser of water snapped up alongside the ship, and splintered oars tumbled through the air. Stunned, he turned to see an enemy ironclad churning the water on his right. Cutting through the line, the galley alongside of him tried desperately to turn, but was hemmed in on either side. The ironclad smashed straight into it, slicing clean through the bow, lifting the stern end of the ship into the air. The vessel rolled over, the ironclad pushing relentlessly forward.

  "Keep turning!" Marcus shouted. "Left rowers stop rowing!" Most of the men lifted their oars out of the water, but some, caught in the confusion, continued to labor on, even as the vessel heeled over, the right-side rowers spinning the galley around.

  The enemy galley slid past. Musket shots rang out, spears arced over the water.

  "Stem corvus, cut it now!" Marcus screamed.

  The heavy plank slammed down, smashing into the mid-section of the Cartha ship. There was an explosion of wood as the iron spike snagged into the deck, the heavy board twisting as the two ships, now caught, spun around. The bolts securing the corvus snapped. The board sliced across the deck and then went over the side, dragging in the water alongside the Cartha ship as it continued past, now turning about from the drag of the corvus hanging off its side. The heavy pole holding the corvus snapped and went over, dragging its cables with it.

  "Musketmen on the left, pour it in! Right-
side rowers, keep rowing!"

  A ragged volley slashed out from the side of the Roum. The volley slammed into the enemy ship, and Cartha rowers collapsed at their oars. The Roum started to slide over toward the enemy ship, bow closing in on stem.

  "Forward corvus!"

  The heavy board dropped down, this time securely anchoring the two ships together.

  "Board!"

  Roum sailors leaped up and started to race toward the corvus, while along the side of the ship the Rus infantrymen continued to pour in a deadly hail of bullets.

  "Come on!" Marcus shouted, drawing his sword and pushing his way forward through the confusion. Caught up in the lust of battle, Vincent pulled out his revolver and followed. A rain of spears continued to pour out from the Cartha ship. The first wave was already over the corvus, men pitching into the water between the two ships.

  Another volley slashed into the enemy ship, the range so close that bullets which did not strike flesh and bone slammed through both sides of the vessel.

  Gaining the edge of the swaying board, Marcus jumped up, joining the press, Vincent by his side. At the far end of the plank a vicious battle of cut and slash was being fought out. The man before him tumbled over, a spear in his side. Crouching low, Vincent pressed in. Suddenly there was a Cartha before him, coming in high with sword already arcing down.

  Laughing, Vincent fired into his face, and the man pitched over.

  "Come on, goddammit!" Vincent shrieked, leaping on the deck of the enemy ship.

  "Now, O'Malley, fire!"

  The deck rocked beneath his feet.

  "A hit!"

  The aft end of the enemy ship blew inward in a spray of metal.

  "We can punch through them!" Andrew yelled. "We can do it!

  "Helm, more right!"

  The stem of the enemy ship slowly continued to swing around. He wanted it edge on. His own bow started to swing, tracking on the enemy turn, and then ever so slowly the opposing vessel started to lurch forward.

  Grabbing hold of the side of the pilothouse, he braced himself.

  The bow slammed in, catching the enemy ship with a glancing blow. The bow skidded off, tearing up a sheet of iron from the side, and they started to slide down the length of the ship.