"Where Angels Fear to Tread" and Other Stories of the Sea Part 6

Heading as they were, the fleets would pa.s.s about a mile apart. Led by a black, high-sided monster, the left column of the enemy was made up of four battle-s.h.i.+ps of uncouth, foreign design and murderous appearance, while the right column contained the flag-s.h.i.+p and three others, all heavily armored cruisers. Flanking each fleet, far to the rear, were torpedo-boats and destroyers.

"We're outcla.s.sed, Dalrymple," said Captain Blake. "There are the s.h.i.+ps we expected--_Warsaw_, _Riga_, _Kharkov_, and _Moscow_, all of fighting weight, and the _Obdorsk_, _Tobolsk_, _Saratov_, and _Orenburg_.

Leaving out the _Argyll_, we haven't a s.h.i.+p equal to the weakest one there. This fight is the _Argyll's_."

"And the _Argyll_ is equal to it, captain. All I fear is torpedoes. Of course our ends and superstructure will catch it, and I suppose we'll lose men--all the quick-fire men, perhaps."

"Those in the tops surely," said the captain. "Dalrymple, what do you think? I don't feel right about Finnegan. He belongs in the turret, and I've sentenced him. Have I the right? I've half a mind to call him down." He pushed a b.u.t.ton marked "Forward turret," and listened at a telephone.

"Mr. Clarkson!" he called. "I've put your man Finnegan in the upper top; but he seems all right now. Can you use him?"

The answer came:

"No, sir; I've filled his place."

"Die, then. On my soul be it, Finnegan, poor devil," muttered the captain, gloomily.

His foot struck the bottle under the binnacle, and, on an impulse due to his mood, he picked it up and uncorked it. Mr. Dalrymple observed the action and stepped toward him.

"Captain, pardon me," he said, "if I protest unofficially. We are going into action--not to dinner."

The captain's eyes opened wide and shone brighter, while his lip curled. He extended the bottle to the lieutenant.

"The apologies are mine, Mr. Dalrymple," he said. "I forgot your presence. Take a drink."

The officer forced a smile to his face, and stepped back, shaking his head. Captain Blake swallowed a generous portion of the whisky.

"The fool!" mused the navigator, as he looked through the peep-hole.

"The whole world is watching him to-day, and he turns to whisky. That's it, dammit; that's the bond of sympathy: Blake and Finnegan, Finnegan and Blake--dipsomaniacs. Lord, I never thought. I've seen him drunker than Finnegan, and if it wasn't for his position and obligations, he'd see spiders, too."

Mr. Dalrymple was not the only one on board who disapproved of "Dutch courage" for captains. The j.a.panese servant, whose station was at the forward-turret ammunition-hoist, reported the service of the whisky to his mates, and from here the news spread--as news will in a cellular hull--up to turrets and gun-rooms, through speaking-tubes and water-tight bulkheads, down to stoke-hold, engine-rooms, and steering-room; and long before Captain Blake had thought of taking a drink the whole s.h.i.+p's company was commenting, mentally and openly, and more or less profanely, on the story that "the old man was getting drunk in the conning-tower."

And another piece of news traveled as fast and as far--the whereabouts of Finnegan. Mr. Clarkson had incidentally informed his gun-captain, who told the gun-crew; and from them the news went down the hoist and spread. Men swore louder over this; for though they did not want Finnegan around and in the way, they did not want him to die. Strong natures love those which may be teased; and not a heart was there but contained a soft spot for the helpless, harmless, ever good-natured, drunk, and ridiculous Finnegan.

The bark of an eight-inch gun was heard. Captain Blake saw, through the slits of the conning-tower, a cloud of thinning smoke drifting away from the flag-s.h.i.+p. Stepping back, he rang up the forward turret.

"Mr. Clarkson," he said to the telephone when it answered him, "remember: aim for the nearest water-line, load and fire, and expect no orders after the first shot."

Calling up the officer in the after-turret, he repeated the injunction, subst.i.tuting turrets as the object of a.s.sault. He called to the officers at the eight-inch guns that conning-towers and superstructure were to receive their attention; to those at the six-inch guns to aim solely at turret apertures; to ensigns and officers of marine in charge of the quick-fire batteries to aim at all holes and men showing, to watch for torpedo-boats, and, like the others, to expect no orders after the first shot. Then, ringing up the round of gun-stations, one after another, he sang out, in a voice to be heard by all: "Fire away!"

The initial gun had been fired from the flag-s.h.i.+p when the leading s.h.i.+ps of the two fleets were nearly abreast. It was followed by broadsides from all, and the action began. The _Argyll_, rolling slightly from the recoil of her guns, smoked down the line like a thing alive, voicing her message, dealing out death and receiving it. In this first round of the battle the fire of the eight opposing vessels was directed at her alone. Sh.e.l.ls punctured her vulnerable parts, and, exploding inside, killed men and dismounted guns. The groans of the stricken, the crash of steel against steel, the roar of the turret-guns, the rattling chorus of quick-fire rifles, and the drumming of heavy sh.e.l.ls against the armor and turrets made an uproarious riot of sound over which no man above the water-line could lift his voice.

But there were some there, besides the dead,--men who worked through and survived the action,--who, after the first impact of sound, did not hear it, nor anything else while they lived. They were the men who had neglected stuffing their ears with cotton.

A fundamental canon of naval tactics is to maintain formation. Another is to keep moving, at the full speed of the slowest s.h.i.+p, not only to disconcert the enemy's fire, but to obtain and hold the most advantageous position--if possible, to flank him. As these rules apply equally well to both sides, it is obvious that two fleets, pa.s.sing in opposite directions, and each trying to flank the rear of the other, will eventually circle around a common center; and if the effort to improve position dominates the effort to evade fire, this circle will narrow until the battle becomes a melee.

The two lines, a mile apart and each about a mile in length, were squarely abreast in less than five minutes from the time of firing the first gun; and by now the furious bombardment of the _Argyll_ by eight s.h.i.+ps had ceased, for each one found it more profitable to deal with its vis-a-vis. But there was yet a deafening racket in the _Argyll's_ conning-tower as small projectiles from the rear battle-s.h.i.+p abreast impinged on its steel walls; and Captain Blake, his ears ringing, his eyes streaming, half stunned by the noise, almost blinded and suffocated by the smoke from his forward guns, did not know that his s.h.i.+p had dropped back in the line until the signal-officer descended and shouted in his ear an order signaled from the admiral: "Move ahead to position."

"Hang the man who invented conning-towers," he muttered angrily. "Keep a lookout up there, Mr. Wright," he shouted; "I can see very little."

The officer half saluted, half nodded, and ran up the stair, while Captain Blake rang "full speed" to the engines. The indicators on the wall showed increased revolution, and he resumed his place at the peep-hole. In a few moments Mr. Wright reappeared with a message from the flag-s.h.i.+p to "starboard helm; follow s.h.i.+p ahead."

"All right. Watch out up there; report all you see," he answered.

Peeping out, he saw the _Lancaster_ and the _c.u.mberland_ sheering to port, and he moved the lever of the steering-telegraph. There was no answering ring. "Shot away, by George," he growled. He yelled into a supplementary voice-tube to "starboard your wheel--slowly." This was not answered, and with his own hands he coupled up the steering-wheel on the binnacle and gave it a turn. It was merely a governor, which admitted steam to the steering-engine, and there was no resisting pressure to guide him; but a helm indicator showed him the changed position of the rudder, and, on looking ahead, he found that she answered the wheel; also, on looking to starboard, he found that he had barely escaped collision with the _Montrose_, whose fire he had been masking, to the scandal of the admiral and the _Montrose's_ officers.

A little unnerved, Captain Blake called down a seven-inch tube to an apartment in the depths,--a central station of pipes and wires, to be used as a last resort,--directing the officer on post to notify the chief engineer of the damage, and to order the quartermasters in the steering-room to disconnect their wheel and stand by. This was answered, and the captain resumed his lookout, one hand on the wheel.

"Reduces the captain of the s.h.i.+p to a helmsman," he muttered.

The navigating officer approached, indicating by gesture and expression his intention of relieving him, but was waved away.

"I want the wheel myself," shouted the captain. "Devil take a conning-tower, anyhow! Keep a lookout to port. But say, Dalrymple, send up for Finnegan. I'll not have him killed. Get him down, if he's alive."

Mr. Dalrymple ascended the stair to pa.s.s the word for Finnegan, but did not come down. He had reached the signal-platform, where one quartermaster lay dead, and was transmitting the order to Mr. Wright, when a heavy sh.e.l.l struck the mast, above their heads and below the lower top, exploded inside, killed the three men on the platform, and hurled the upper part of the mast, with both tops full of dead men and living, high in air. The conning-tower was filled with gas and smoke; but Captain Blake, though burned and nearly stripped of clothing by the blast of flame, was uninjured by the flying fragments of the sh.e.l.l.

Smarting, gasping, and choking, fully aware of the complete destruction above, his mind dwelt for an instant on the man who had once saved his life, whom he had sentenced to death. He looked up the hollow within the wrecked staircase, but saw nothing.

Mr. Clarkson, however, happened to be looking through an upper peep-hole in the sighting-hood at this moment, and saw the upper half of the mast lift and turn; also, dimly through the smoke, he noticed, among the dozen of men hurled from the tops, the blue-s.h.i.+rted figure of one whom he knew to be Finnegan, clinging at arm's-length in mid-air to a Gatling gun, which had been torn from its fastenings. Then the smoke thickened and shut out the view; but a moment later he heard the rattling crash of the mast as it fell upon the superstructure beneath.

"The whole mast's gone, boys," he shouted to his crew--"both tops.

Finnegan's done for."

And the story of Finnegan's finish went down the hoist and through the s.h.i.+p, everywhere received with momentary sorrow, and increased malediction on the drunken captain, who thought no more--and knew no more--of a blue-jacket than to masthead him with the marines.

The tactics of both admirals being the same, and the speed of both fleets--that of their slowest s.h.i.+ps--being equal, they turned, and, like two serpents pursuing each other's tails, charged around in a circle, each s.h.i.+p firing at the nearest or most important enemy. This fire was destructive. A s.h.i.+p a mile distant is a point-blank target for modern guns and gunners, and everything protected by less than eight inches of steel suffered. The _Argyll_ had lost her military mast and most of her secondary guns. The flag-s.h.i.+p _c.u.mberland_, raked and riddled by nine- and eleven-inch sh.e.l.ls, surrounded herself with steam from punctured boilers shortly after the signal to turn, and swung drunkenly out of line, her boilers roaring, her heavy guns barking. A long, black thing, low down behind the wave created by its rush, darted by her, unstruck by the sh.e.l.ls sent by the flag-s.h.i.+p and the _Marlborough_.

A larger thing, mouse-colored and nearly hidden by a larger wave, was coming from the opposite direction, spitting one-pound shot at the rate of sixty a minute, but without present avail; for a spindle-shaped object left the deck of the first when squarely abreast of the helpless flag-s.h.i.+p, diving beneath the surface, and the existence and position of this object were henceforth indicated only by a line of bubbles, a darting streak of froth, traveling toward the _c.u.mberland_. In less than a minute it had reached her. The sea alongside arose in a mound, and she seemed to lean away from it; then the mound burst, and out of it, and spouting from funnels, ventilators, and ports, came a dense cloud of smoke, which mingled with the steam and hid her from view, while a dull, booming roar, barely distinguishable in the noise of battle, came across the water. When the cloud thinned there was nothing to be seen but heads of swimming men, who swam for a time and sank. The flag-s.h.i.+p had been torpedoed.

But the torpedo-boat followed her. Pursued by the mouse-colored destroyer, she circled around and headed back in the endeavor to reach her consorts; but she had not time. Little by little the avenger crept up, pounding her with small shot and sh.e.l.l, until, leaking from a hundred wounds, she settled beneath the surface. She had fulfilled her mission; she was designed to strike once and die.

No armored cruiser may withstand the fire of a battle-s.h.i.+p. The _Lancaster_, leading the _Argyll_, received through her eight-inch water-line belt the heavy shot and sh.e.l.l of the _Moscow_ and _Orenburg_.

Nine- and eleven-inch sh.e.l.l fire, sent by Canet and Hontoria guns, makes short work of eight-inch armor, and the doomed _Lancaster_ settled and disappeared, her crew yelling, her screws turning, and her guns firing until the water swamped her. The following _Argyll_ sc.r.a.ped her funnels and masts as she pa.s.sed over.

Eight hundred feet back in the line was the _Beaufort_, armored like the _Lancaster_. Her ending was dramatic and suicidal. Drilled through and through by the fire of the _Riga_, she fought and suffered until the _Lancaster_ foundered; then, with all guns out of action, but with still intact engine-power, she left the line, not to run, but to ram.

The circle was narrowing, but she had fully four minutes to steam before she could reach the opposite side and intercept her slayer. And in this short time she was reduced to sc.r.a.p-iron by the concentrated fire of the _Warsaw_, _Riga_, and _Kharkov_. Every shot from every gun on the three battle-s.h.i.+ps struck the unlucky cruiser; but in the face of the storm of flame and steel she went on, exhaling through fissures and ports smoke from bursting sh.e.l.ls and steam from broken pipes.

Half-way across, an almost solid belching upward and outward of white steam indicated a stricken boiler, and from now on her progress was slow. She was visibly lower in the water and rolled heavily. Soon another cloud arose from her, her headway decreased, and she came to a stop, two hundred yards on the port bow of the onrus.h.i.+ng _Riga_, whose crew yelled derisively--whose quick-fire guns still punished her.

But the yells suddenly ceased and the gunners changed their aim. A small thing had left the nearly submerged tube in the cruiser's stem, and the gunners were now firing at a darting line of bubbles, obliterating the target for a moment with the churning of the water, only to see the frothy streak within their range, coming on at locomotive speed. They aimed ahead; two five-inch guns added their clamor, and even a Hontoria turret-gun voiced its roar and sent its messenger. But the bubbles would not stop; they entered the bow wave of the battle-s.h.i.+p, and a second later the great floating fort separated into two parts, with a crackling thunder of sound and an outburst of flame and smoke which came of nothing less than an exploded magazine.

The two halves rolled far to starboard, then to port, s.h.i.+vered, settled, turned completely over, and sank in a turmoil of bursting steam and air-bubbles. Three minutes later the _Beaufort_ lifted her stern and dived gently after her victim, still groaning hoa.r.s.ely from her punctured iron lungs. In her death-agony she had given birth to a child more terrible than a battle-s.h.i.+p.

The rear s.h.i.+p of the inner column, the _Atholl_, was officially an armored cruiser, but possessed none of the attributes of the cruiser cla.s.s. She was the laggard of the fleet, and her heaviest guns were of six-inch caliber; but, being designed for a battle-s.h.i.+p, she carried this temporary battery behind sixteen inches of steel, and had maintained her integrity, taking harder blows than she could give. With the going down of the _Beaufort_ she took a position astern of the _Sutherland_, and the double line of battle was reduced to a single line; for the _Argyll_ had left the column when the flag-s.h.i.+p sank.

And this is why the overmatched, battered, and all but demoralized cruisers received no more attention from the enemy; it were wiser to deal with the _Argyll_. The _Saratov_, blazing fiercely from the effects of a well-planted sh.e.l.l, had drawn out of line, the better to deal with her trouble. Her place in the line and that of the sunken _Riga_ were filled by the following s.h.i.+ps drawing ahead; but the fleet still held to double column, and into the lane between the lines the _Argyll_ was coming at sixteen knots, breathing flame, vomiting steel--delivering destruction and death.

She had rounded the _Moscow's_ stern, raking her as she came, and sending armor-piercing sh.e.l.ls through her citadel. Some exploded on impact, some inside; all did work. An eight-inch projectile entered the after turret-port, and silenced the gun and gun-crew forever. Before the _Argyll_ was abeam the _Moscow_ had ceased firing. Rolling and smoking, her crew decimated, her guns disabled and steering-gear carried away, she swung out of line; and the appearance in his field of vision of several rus.h.i.+ng waves with short smoke-stacks behind, and the supplementary pelting his s.h.i.+p was now receiving from the _Marlborough_, decided her commander to lower his flag.

On the starboard bow of the _Argyll_ was the armored cruiser _Orenburg_.

Her fire, hot and true, ceased on the explosion of a large sh.e.l.l at her water-line, and she swung out of the fight, silent but for the roar of escaping steam, heeled heavily to port, and sank in ten minutes, her ensigns flying to the last. Mr. Clarkson rejoiced with his gun-crew. He had sent the sh.e.l.l.

On stormed the _Argyll_. Her next adversary was the _Kharkov_, a battle-s.h.i.+p nearly equal in guns and armor to herself, but not quite--by an inch. And that inch cost her the fight. With her main turrets damaged, her superstructure, secondary guns, and torpedo-tubes shot away, she yielded to fate, and, while the _Argyll_ pa.s.sed on, hauled down her ensigns at the request of a torpedo-boat.

Ahead and to starboard was the cruiser _Tobolsk_, leaving the neighborhood as fast as her twin screws could push her. Her end was in sight; in her wake were two gray destroyers, and behind, charging across the broken formation, was the fleet _Marlborough_. The _Argyll_ ignored the _Tobolsk_; for slowing down to await her coming was the black and high-sided _Warsaw_, the monster of the fleet, bristling with guns, somber, and ominous in her silence.