1636 Commander Cantrell in the West Indies: Chapter Sixteen

St. Kilda archipelago, North Atlantic

    Eddie transferred Anne Cathrine’s hands from him to the rail — “Hold on, Anne Cathrine, and be ready to take the ladies below” — and made for the stairs to the observation deck atop the pilot house. “Orderly?”

    “Yes, sir?”

    “Glasses topside, please. And call Mr. Bjelke back on deck. Smartly.”

    “Yes, sir!” The response was dwindling aft already.

    As Eddie made his way up the stairs — damnit, can’t this leg go any faster? — he heard Gjedde’s voice behind him. “No point in breaking your neck, Commander. Things do not happen quite so quickly in this century.”

    As Eddie thumped his prosthetic down upon the observation deck — another change from the Hartford — he turned to offer a smile to the older captain, whose mouth looked a little less rigid than usual. It might have even had a faint upward curl at one side. If he hadn’t spent so much time with Simpson, he might have completely missed that hint of a smile. So, Gjedde doesn’t hate me. Either that, or he’s hoping I’ll get offed in the next hour or so…

    Eddie went straight to the speaking tubes, popped back the covers, and toggled the telegraphic command circuit. “Circuit test,” he shouted.

    “Tests clear,” came the muffled shout from under his feet where the intraship telegrapher was stationed.

    The orderly bounded up the stairs, passing a new-pattern spyglass to Gjedde, and holding a case out toward Eddie, who snapped it open and lifted out the precious up-time binoculars. The signalman hustled past with a hastily muttered “Verlot!” and was immediately ready, pad to his right, left index finger poised on the telegrapher’s key. “Comms manned, Captain Gjedde.”

    Who shook his head. “You will make your reports to, and take your orders from, Commander Cantrell. He will direct this ship through her first combat.”

    Eddie turned, stunned, “What?”

    Gjedde bowed. “Your command, Mr. Cantrell. Compliments of your father in law, Christian IV.”

    Why that old son-of-a — “Then Captain Gjedde, I say three times: I have the bridge. What’s the word from the foretop crow’s nest? What manner of ship, flying what colors?”

    After a pause, the report came back. “A carrack sir. Old design. Spanish colors.”

    Spanish colors? Up here? What the hell were they –?

    Apparently, telepathy was a strong trait in the Danish; now it was Gjedde who seemed to read his mind. “Not so unusual. They supply the Irish with guns and powder, from time to time. Sometimes the Scots, too. There is no shortage of rebels against English occupiers up here, and Spain is only too happy to provide them with assistance.”

    Eddie nodded. “I understand, but why ever they happen to be here, it seems that they’ve seen us. They ran between Crown of Waves and Courser like they were waiting for that opening. I suspect they saw our smoke, peeked around the northwestern point of Hirta — at Gob a Ghaill — saw our flotilla, measured the breeze, and realized their only way to avoid us was to run before the wind after our advance picket had passed them, but before our main van drew too close.”

    Gjedde nodded, the visible slivers of his eyes sharp. “Ja, that is how I see it, also.”

    “Very well. Signalman, relay this to intership telegrapher for immediate send. ‘To Captain Mund aboard Resolve. Message starts: Have spotted –”

    “Sir,” said the radioman, “incoming message from Captain Mund.”

    Well, speak of the devil — “Read it as you get it, Rating.”

    “Captain Mund commanding Resolve to Commander Cantrell, presumed to be in temporary command of Intrepid. Message begins: By joint order of Emperor Gustav Adolf and His Royal Highness Christian IV, I relinquish operational command of Reconnaissance Flotilla X-Ray to you for duration of first engagement. Stop. Awaiting instructions. Stop.”

    Oh, so all the heads of state are seeing if I have the goods when the shit starts flying. Well, no reason not to give them a good show — “Radioman, send the following under my command line. To Captain Mund, on Resolve: message received and acknowledged. Stop. To all ships: general quarters. Stop.” He turned to see Bjelke pound up the stairs to the observation deck. He nodded at, and gave him an order, in the same instant: “Sound general quarters, Mr. Bjelke. Orderly, make sure our passengers understand that ‘general quarters’ means ‘battle stations.’ Only duty personnel on deck.”

    “And if they don’t understand that, sir?”

    “Then correct their misunderstanding. With main force, if necessary. No exceptions. Including my wife. Especially my wife. Is that clear, mister?”

    “Very clear, ja, sir!” And again the young orderly was off, with a rising tide of coronets and drums carrying him on his way.

    Bjelke returned to his side. Gjedde watched from the rear rail of the observation deck. Eddie thought for a moment, turned to the signalman, “Forward mount, get me range, bearing, and speed of the Spaniard. Then send to Crown of Waves and Courser: I need their precise heading and speed.”

    “What are you thinking, Commander?” asked Bjelke.

    “That whatever the Spanish do or do not understand from having seen us, we can’t let them escape and report. Just knowing that a flotilla of USE ships is on a course that would suggest a New World destination is bad enough. Anything else could be disastrous. They might have seen the smoke and presumed that one of our ships was on fire, or that we have whalers with us who were putting blubber through some of the new shipboard try-works. But someone with better information on the USE’s activities is likely to figure that this carrack spotted our steam warships. Word of this encounter can not — not — reach people with that kind of knowledge.”

    The radioman called out. “All messages acknowledged, except Crown of the Waves. I think something is wrong with her radio-set, sir. Lots of lost characters. And they seem to be losing some of ours, too.”

    Well, now it’s a real military engagement: we’ve got commo snafus. So without the radio — “Send to Courser: Radio on Crown of Waves inoperable. Stop. Your position gives best line of sight and shortest range. Stop. Relay command signals to Crown of Waves via semaphore and aldriss lamp. Stop. End of Message. New message to Resolve starts. Drop to rear of formation. Stop. Remain at one mile distance. Stop. Deploy balloon ASAP. Stop. Maintain close rear watch. Stop. Message ends.”

    Bjelke’s left eyebrow raised. “Rear watch, sir? A trap? Up here?”

    “Traps are most effective where they’re least expected, wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Bjelke?”

    “Aye, sir.”

    “So we eliminate that admittedly slim possibility first, then take the next steps.”

    Gjedde folded his arms. “And what steps are those?”

    “To box the Spaniard in. Radioman?”

    “Just received acknowledgment from Courser now. Captain Haraldsen passes along word that Major Lawrence Quinn sends his compliments and will oversee technical coordination on that hull.”

    Eddie felt his heart rate diminish slightly. It was good to know the other — the only other — military up-timer in the flotilla was out there, lending a hand. The down-timers were competent, eager, and obedient, but sometimes, they just didn’t get how all the parts of a steam-and-sail navy worked together. In all probability, the most important test during this shakedown cruise would not be of Simpson’s new ships, but of the crews of his new navy. “Send Major Quinn my greetings and thanks. And have him relay this to the Crown of Waves: set course north by northwest, paralleling the Spaniard. Course for the Courser, the same.”

    “Speed, sir?”

    “What God and sail-handlers will allow, radioman. We are not raising steam.”

    Bjelke made a sound of surprise. Eddie turned to look at him. “You can speak freely, Rik.”

    “Sir, I thought combat was exactly the time when you would order steam. Is that not one of the main purposes of this cruise, to see how the steam ships fare in actual combat, under power?”

    “Normally, yes, but this time, I’m worried about detection. If this ship is not alone then, trap or no trap, raising steam means sending a message to any and all of the rest of an enemy formation about where and what we are.”

    The radioman cleared his throat politely. “Message from Resolve, Commander.”

    “What does Captain Mund have to say?”

    “Sir, he points out that in order to deploy the balloon, he will have to clear his stern of canvas. And if he does so, if he slacks the sails on the mizzen and swings wide the yard to clear the deck for air operations, he will slow down and fall further behind.”

    “Send that this is not an operational concern. He’ll still have better speed than either Patentia or Serendipity, whom he must remain behind and protect. More importantly, please remind him that decreasing his ship’s speed makes it a better platform for the balloon. When you’re done sending that, send to the Serendipity and Patentia that they are to crowd sail. I don’t want them lagging behind too far, and stretching out our formation. And have the Tropic Surveyor close on us as she is able, crossing our wake when we clear Gob a Ghiall.”

    “Aye, sir. Sending now.”

    Bjelke frowned. “You want the bark to the south of us, closer to the island?”

    “Absolutely, Lieutenant. Because if the enemy has more ships behind that headland, I want to give them something to deal with while we bring round our rifles and teach them just how long our reach is.”

    Gjedde may have nodded. “And so, what will Intrepid be doing?”

    Eddie smiled and, by way of answer, waved Svantner over. “Lieutenant, do we have solutions for range, bearing, and speed of the Spaniard?”

    “Yes, sir. Mount One has rechecked first findings and confirms the following with highest confidence: the Spaniard is now just under a mile off, making two and a half knots and heading north by northwest true.”

    “Crown of Waves and Courser?”

    “Now on parallel courses with the Spaniard, sir. Crown is making three knots and a bit, Courser is almost at six.”

    Eddie made a mental map plot. The Spanish carrack was in a tight spot. If she turned to either port or starboard, she’d be turning into the paths of faster, better-armed ships, and losing the wind in doing so. And since the ships boxing her in — Crown of Waves to the south, Courser to the north — could sail closer hauled and faster, their speed and maneuverability would be even less affected if they made a matching course change. He had the Spaniard straitjacketed. Now to shorten the chase —

    “And our speed, Mr. Svantner?

    “Five knots, sir. We can make a bit more if we steer a half point to port, and put the wind just abaft the starboard beam.”

    “Do so, but keep me out of a direct stern chase. I don’t want to shrink the target profile.”

    “Sir?”

    “I don’t want to have to shoot straight up that Spaniard’s narrow ass; I want a little more of his side to aim at.”

    “Aye, aye, sir!”

    “Mr. Bjelke, send the word to Mount One: stand ready.”

    “At once, Commander!”

    Gjedde unfolded his arms as Bjelke hurried down the stairs. “About fifteen minutes then.”

    Eddie turned. “I beg your pardon, Captain?”

    “Fifteen minutes before you start firing. The range will have dropped to under half a mile, by then.”

    Eddie smiled. “Less.”

    Gjedde narrowed his eyes. “How?”

    Eddie felt his smile widen. “I would be delighted to demonstrate, sir.”

    Gjedde crossed his arms again and frowned. “Please do.”

    Eddie gave a partial salute and turned to his First Mate. “Mr. Svantner, has the Spaniard reacted to our course change yet?”

    “A bit, sir. She shifted course slightly to the north, keeping us at distance.”

    “But closing on the Courser, yes?”

    “A bit sir, yes.”

    “Then send to Courser: change heading one point to port. Full sheets on the spencer masts. Give that Spaniard a reason to run the other way.”

    “Aye, sir.”

    Eddie turned — and caught Gjedde smiling. His face became stony in an instant. “So. You’ll scare him into tacking. Each turn of which costs him time and momentum.”

    Eddie shrugged. “It’s what you taught me, second day on ship. Seems like the right plan, here.”

    Gjedde nodded. “Seems so.”

    The radioman uttered a confused grunt, checked an incoming message a second time. “Sir, signal from the Courser. But it doesn’t make sense.”

    “Read it, radioman.”

    “From Major Quinn, technical advisor aboard Courser, to Commander Cantrell on Intrepid. Stop. Regarding course change. Stop. Aye, aye, Commander . . . Hornblower?” The radioman’s voice had raised to an almost adolescent squeak. “Stop. Message ends. Sir, is Commander ‘Hornblower’ code, sir?”

 

---

 

    Eddie smiled. “In a manner of speaking, rating. In a manner of speaking. Svantner?”

    “Yes sir?”

    “Tell me when that Spaniard starts to come around to port. As soon as he does, we’ll crowd him from the south with the Crown.”

    Eddie checked his watch. And in about ten minutes, we’ll end the chase. For good.

 

---

 

    Nine minutes later, Commander Eddie Cantrell called for the range.

    After a moment’s delay, the intraship communications officer piped up, “Seven hundred yards, sir.”

    “Mount One, acquire the target.”

    The intraship piped up so quickly that Eddie suspected he was in constant conversation with the mount’s commanding officer. “Acquiring, sir!”

    “Send word to load with solid shot.”

    “Aye, sir.” A pause. “Gunnery officer requests confirmation on that last order: solid shot?”

    “Solid shot. Tell him we’re not going to waste an explosive shell until we have a proven targeting solution.”

    “Solid shot, aye, sir. And Mount One reports a firing solution. Range now six-hundred fifty yards.”

    Perfect. “Fire one round and continue tracking. Svantner, reef sails.”

    The wire-wound eight-inch naval rifle roared, flew back into its recoil carriage, smoke gouting out its barrel in a long, sustained plume. A moment later, a geyser of water shot up about thirty yards off the Spaniard’s port quarter.

    Eddie raised his glasses. He could see arms waving frantically on the deck of the carrack. While they had no idea exactly what kind of gun was shooting at them, it was a certainty that they knew it was like no gun they’d ever encountered before. And that it was also far more deadly.

    “Reload,” Eddie ordered as he felt the Intrepid‘s forward progress diminish, its sails retracting upward, “and adjust. Watch the inclinometer.”

    From where he stood, Eddie could watch the gun’s crew go into its routine like one well-oiled machine in service of another. The handle on the back of the gun was given a hard half turn and the interrupted-screw breech swung open, vapors coiling out and around the crew. The cry of “swab out!” brought forward a man holding what looked like, at this range, a gargantuan Q-tip. He ran it into and around the interior, ensuring no embers or sparks remained to pre-detonate the next charge. Meanwhile, a half-hoist brought up the next shell — akin to a short, somewhat pointed bullet eight inches at the base and sixteen inches long — and the loaders swung it out of the cradle and into the breech, where another man promptly pushed it in until it was snug. Powder bags were loaded in next and then the breech was sealed while the second gunner inserted a primer in the weapon’s percussion lock.

    “Loaded!”

    “Primed! Hammer cocked and locked.”

    “New firing solution,” called out the chief gunner. “Right two, up one!”

    The second gunner hunkered down, made a slight adjustment to a small vertical wheel on the side of the mount, and another to a small horizontal wheel. “Acquired!”

    The intraship pipe at Eddie’s elbow announced, “Mount One reports ready, Commander.”

    “At the discretion of the gunnery officer,” — watch the inclinometer more closely! — “fire.”

    There was a pause, the gunnery officer studying the levels that indicated roll, pitch, and yaw, and then he shouted, “Fire!”

    The second gunner pulled the lanyard, and the long black tube roared again.

    Eddie saw the shot go into the water only ten yards in front of the carrack’s bow. And he also realized why the gunnery officer was always a fraction off on measuring the roll: because from his position on the deck, he could not watch the sea close to the Intrepid. Standing only seven feet higher, Eddie had a much better view. He could keep an eye on the inclinometer even as he read the proximal swells and troughs.

    One of which was coming. The Intrepid came off the crest of a two foot riser, slid down into a long trough — and Eddie knew the inclinometer was going to be perfectly level the moment before it was.

    “Fire!” he yelled forward over the weather deck at the same moment that the inclinometer showed level.

    The eight-inch rifle spoke a third time as Eddie jerked the binoculars back up to his eyes –

    – Just in time to see the shell tear into the carrack, just aft of its bow on the starboard side. Planks and dusty smoke flew up and outward — and, puzzlingly, from the portside bow as well. Which, Eddie realized an instant later, had been caused by the round exiting the hull on the other side.

    The Spanish ship reeled, first to port, then tottered back to starboard, the bow digging into the swells heavily. She wasn’t taking water, but it was possible that her stem — the extension of the keel up into the curve of the prow — had been damaged and her forecastle was starting to collapse, riven by the tremendous force of the shell. As the smoke began to clear and the human damage was revealed — bodies scattered around the impact point, others hobbling away, several bobbing motionless in the cold northern waters — Eddie barked out his next order through a tightening throat. “Load explosive shell. Maintain tracking.”

    He waited through the thirty seconds of reloading. The Intrepid was now moving slowly, so her position was barely changing. And the carrack, which had already lost a great deal of her headway by being forced to tack back and forth in response to the harrying ships to either side, had been moving at barely one and a half knots before she was hit. And now, with her bow damaged and her crew panicking —

    “Mount One reports ready.”

    Eddie kept his eyes just far enough from the binoculars to watch the inclinometer. “Fire,” he ordered calmly.

    Perhaps he had become so used to the sound and buffeting of the big guns that he didn’t notice it. Or perhaps he was simply too fixated on the fate of the ship that he was about to kill. Either way, he could not afterwards remember hearing the report of his own gun. Instead, burned into his memory, in slow motion, was the impact of the shell upon the carrack.

    There was a split-second precursor: a light puff of what looked like dust. That was the shell, slicing through the starboard corner of the stern so swiftly that it was inside the vessel’s poop before the shock waves sent rail, transom, and deck planks flying in a wide, wild sphere of destruction.

    But in the next blink of an eye, that was all wiped away by the titanic explosion that blasted out from the guts of the ship itself. The poop deck literally went up in a single piece, discorporating as it rose, bodies shooting toward the heaven that Eddie hoped was there to receive them. The mainmast, the rearmost on the two-masted carrack, went crashing forward, tearing the rigging down with her and stripping the yard clean off the foremast. Black smoke and flames spun up out of the jagged hole that had been the ship’s stern, and the men on her decks were a moving arabesque of confused action. Some were trying to fight the fires, others were making for the rail, others were trying to give orders, several were trying to get her dinghy over to the port side. None of them were achieving their objective.

    “Check fire,” Eddie croaked. “Crowd sails and move to assist.”

    Ove Gjedde, as still and silent as a forgotten statue, now reanimated. Suddenly at Eddie’s elbow, he asked, “Commander, you are planning to assist?”

    Eddie stared at the men who were now in the water. Their cries were audible even at this distance. He nodded. “We have to.”

    Gjedde made a strangely constricted noise deep in his throat. “Commander, I do not wish to intrude upon your prerogatives –”

    The radioman looked up. “Commander, message from Resolve. Coded urgent, sir.”

    “Read it, please.”

    “Aye, sir. Message begins. Captain Mund of Resolve to Commander Cantrell of Intrepid. Stop. Balloon at three hundred feet has spotted three, possibly four ships fifteen miles south of Gob a Ghaill headland. Stop. Heading is due north. Stop. Currently making slightly less than three knots. Stop. Awaiting instructions. Stop. Message ends.’”

    Eddie could sense Gjedde standing uncommonly close to him. He wants me to break off, but that isn’t right. We can save those men. “Send this reply, my command line. Message starts: to Captain Mund, Resolve. Stop. Lead flotilla north by northwest on heading parallel to Crown of Waves and Courser. Stop. Intrepid will effect rescue operations and follow all haste. Stop. Secure balloon immediately to minimize possibility of enemy sighting it. Stop. Message ends.”

    Gjedde was frowning. For some reason, Eddie imagined himself as Bilbo Baggins at one of those moments when he had pissed off Gandalf mightily. Avuncular Gjedde continued to stare at him, seemed to be weighing his next choice of words very carefully.

    Finally he began, “Commander, this is not wise. I must point out –”

    “Commander Cantrell,” the radioman muttered, “another message from Resolve. Again, coded urgent.”

    Eddie held up a hand to pause Gjedde, nodded at the radioman. “Go ahead.”

    “Message starts. CO Resolve to acting CO Intrepid. Stop. First action is concluded. Stop. Command changes are now terminated. Stop. Secure from general quarters. Stop. Captain Gjedde resumes direct command immediately. Stop. Rescue operations hereby countermanded. Stop. Flotilla X-Ray immediately heads north by northwest true, at best speed of slowest ship. Stop. Compliments to Commander Cantrell for successful first engagement. Stop. Message ends.”

    Eddie was still watching the men struggling in the chill grey waters, saw that some of them seemed to be weakening already. Those who had been clustered around the dinghy got it into the water, where it promptly foundered. Probably some splinter or shrapnel had punched a hole in it and they had not noticed that damage in their frenzied attempt to escape their ship. Which was a prudent course of action: the carrack, her stern savaged as if some kraken of the deep had taken a vicious bite out of it, was settling back upon her rudder, and listing slightly to starboard. At the rate she was going down, her decks would be awash within the hour. And her crew —

    Gjedde put a hand on Eddie’s arm, drew it and the binoculars it held down slowly. “There is nothing to be done, Commander. If we stayed to rescue those men, the Spanish would see us before we could get away again. We must break off now, at best speed, to remain undetected. You must know this.”

    Eddie didn’t want to know it, but he did. “Perhaps they’ll be picked up by the Spanish then.”

    Gjedde didn’t blink. “You know better than that, too, Commander. They may see the smoke or they may not. If they do not, it is unlikely they would come close enough to see wreckage or hear cries for help. And even if they do, it will be fifteen hours from now. There will be no one for them to rescue and few enough bodies to see, should they chance to come so close to the site of our engagement.”

    Eddie looked over the bow. Only three hundred yards away, now, the Spanish were struggling in the water, and the first were already losing the battle to stay above the cold grey swells of the North Sea. He nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. You’re the captain.”

    Gjedde’s eyes fell from Eddie’s. Suddenly, he looked even older. Then he turned on his heel and began giving orders. “Mr. Bjelke, secure from general quarters and give orders to unload battery and personal weapons. I want no unnecessary or accidental discharges as we run from the Spanish. Pilot, set us north by northwest true. Mr. Svantner, pass it along to crowd all sail. There will be no rescue operations.”

    As the crew of the Intrepid scrambled to set about their duties, Eddie noticed that the Tropic Speculator, which had been traveling under full sail the whole time, was drawing abreast of them. Lining the starboard gunwales were more of the Irish mercenaries, who peered ahead at the wreckage and the ruined carrack.

    The Spanish, seeing the ships approach, called out for quarter, for aid, for mercy for the love of god.

    Passing them at two hundred yards off the portside, their cries were half swallowed by the sound of the wavelets against the Intrepid’s hull.

    But the Tropic Speculator passed them at a distance of only one hundred yards to her starboard side. The Spanish cried out to the men lining her rail, perhaps seeing the facial features and even the tartans and equipage they associated with their traditional Irish allies.

    But the Irish made no sound, and watched, without expression or, apparently, any pity, as more of the Spanish began to sink down deeper into the low rolling swells of the North Sea.