Union Forever Page 38

  "We can always increase the powder charge and use the wrought-iron bolts," Bullfinch said.

  "That's risking the guns and the crews," Andrew replied. "We don't have a weapon to spare to proof out the heavier loads."

  "We might have to use them anyhow," Marcus replied.

  Andrew nodded absently, and forced a smile.

  "It'll do the job," he said encouragingly, looking back at the novice captains. "Now let's take her back in. Bullfinch, put her up to full speed. I'm going belowdecks."

  Andrew walked astern, passing the gun turret. The two smokestacks were still billowing white plumes, and as he stepped past the air vents he felt the sharp downward rush of air into the boilers, drawn by rough fans powered by pulleys.

  Reaching the aft hatchway, he took a deep breath and went below.

  The boilers to either side of him were shimmering with heat. The dark, smoke-filled confines were like a furnace. Before he was halfway down, huge leather belts to either side started to move slowly, picking up speed. A loud incessant chatter rumbled through the engine room, counter-pointed by the gasping bellow of the steam engines and the hissing whine of the drive belts. Reaching the deck, Andrew felt as if he had taken a bath; his uniform was already soaking.

  Ferguson came up out of the Stygian darkness illuminated only by the light from the open fireboxes and several dim lamps.

  "I thought the gun deck was hell," Andrew shouted.

  "That's just the front porch of purgatory up there," Ferguson shouted. "Now you're in hell."

  A whistle shrieked, and Ferguson uncorked the voice tube and put his ear to it.

  "Ahead full," Ferguson roared.

  Andrew looked over as the engineers, stripped to the waist and standing to either side of their now wheelless locomotives, slowly pushed their throttles forward. The firemen standing behind them were throwing in more wood.

  The sound started to climb, and Andrew looked around nervously. Driveshafts slammed in and out, spouting steam; the leather belts, hooked onto wooden wheels turned by the shafts, hummed and shrieked. Looking up, Andrew saw the belts disappear up either side of the ship into wells set into the stem, where the driveshafts for the twin paddle wheels were set.

  "Hang on!" Ferguson roared.

  The heat started to climb, and the thunderous pounding slammed into Andrew like hammer blows. He felt as if the world were shaking apart.

  The whistle sounded again, barely audible.

  Ferguson leaned in and then turned, cupping his hands.

  "Raskov, helm hard left. Charlie, throttle your engine back a notch."

  Between the two engines Andrew saw a short Suzdalian soldier spinning a steering wheel which was hooked into the rudder by two heavy ropes.

  The ship started to heel over.

  "Just what the hell is Bullfinch doing?"

  At the same time he noticed a distinctive up-and-down motion start to take over. Terrified that he would fall into the belts, he staggered forward, grabbed a heavy wooden upright, and hung on for dear life, desperately trying to hide the fact that he was scared half out of his wits.

  "Straighten the helm!"

  Raskov nodding and with a half-terrified grin spun the wheel back, and Andrew felt the heeling ease off. But now the up-and-down motion became even more pronounced.

  Sweat was pouring off him in puddles, and he felt his stomach start to tighten.

  A loud shriek cut through the engine room, and Andrew looked up.

  "It's the belt on the right side," Chuck shouted. "It's slipping—we'll have to tighten it. Throttle it back to half speed!"

  Chuck stepped closer, looking into Andrew's face.

  "I think you'd better go topside, sir!"

  Still hanging on to the post, Andrew looked aft to the narrow catwalk between the whirling belts. The deck rose up and then dropped away again.

  "Where's the other way out of here?" Andrew gasped.

  "Hey, Harry, take over the watch!" Ferguson shouted, as he grabbed hold of Andrew's arm. "Come on, sir."

  Leading the way, Ferguson started forward, walking between huge piles of wood. In the dim light Andrew saw several men laboring to haul the split wood aft, feeding the voracious appetite of the boilers. Reaching a heavy door, Chuck pulled it open and guided Andrew through, then pulled it shut behind him. The thundering of the engines dropped away, but the intense heat was still there. A dim light from a single candle, sealed into the wall and framed with glass, was the only illumination inside the narrow coffinlike room.

  "Powder room's on the other side of the door," Ferguson announced. "We built this double-door system in case a spark might be floating around from the engines.

  "You mean if something goes wrong the only way out for the men aft is either up between the engines or through this narrow doorway?" Andrew whispered.

  "That's about it, sir—we didn't have time for anything beyond that. There are openings on either side of the powder magazine that lead up to the forward wood storage and quarters, but that's the long way out.

  "If we get rammed aft or a shot takes us below the waterline, we won't need the escape hatches anyway. The moment that cold water hits the boilers, it'll flash to steam. If a boiler gets ruptured, everything inside will come pouring out." His voice trailed off and he shrugged his shoulders.

  Ferguson said it so matter-of-factly that Andrew could only stare at him. He leaned closer, looking up into Andrew's face.

  "Come on, sir, I think we'd better get you topside quick."

  He pounded his fist on the next door, and a moment later it swung open and the powder boy peered out at them.

  "Coming through!" Ferguson announced as he half-carried Andrew through the doorway.

  He could feel the deck swaying beneath him. In the dim glow of the single candle locked behind glass, Andrew saw the stacked pile of powder, each canvas-wrapped charge sealed inside a wooden bucket. The room was barely larger than a closet. There was a sour smell in the room, and the powder boy's face was a dull green.

  "Get me out quick!" Andrew gasped.

  Ferguson reached over and blew into the speaking tube up to the gun deck.

  "All flame secure?" he shouted. "All right, open that damn hatch—I'm bringing the colonel up."

  The doorway above flew open and O'Malley looked down, his hands reaching into the darkness. Andrew grabbed hold of the ladder and tried to step up, but with the rolling of the ship, after the first couple of steps up he found he simply couldn't let go with his one hand to grasp the next rung.

  "My God, I'm in hell," he groaned.

  "Hang on, sir," O'Malley said. Andrew could sense the slightest touch of amusement in the artilleryman's voice.

  Leaning into the hatch, O'Malley grabbed hold of Andrew's wrist.

  "I've got you, sir. Come on up."

  With trembling legs, Andrew half climbed and was half lifted out. On the gun deck, the air which he had thought was so damn hot hit him like a cold shower.

  "Look out!" Andrew gasped as he raced for the starboard gun port. He stuck his head out the hole, and everything came tumbling up in one convulsive heave.

  "Goddammit, you idiot, watch where you're puking!"

  Groaning, Andrew looked up.

  "Even though I'm a doctor, I still hate it when someone pukes on my good shoes."

  "Well, look out," Andrew gasped as the next wave hit.

  "Haven't got your sea legs yet?" Emil said with a bemused voice.

  "Shut the hell up," Andrew groaned as the convulsion passed and he collapsed forward, half in, half out of the gun port.

  "Come on, son, let's get you out of there. You're a pitiful sight."

  Struggling feebly, Andrew tried to crawl through the gun port, until O'Malley pushed him from behind and he slid down onto the still-rolling deck. Disgusted with himself, Andrew came up to his knees realizing he had landed in his breakfast.

  From either side of the gun turret, he saw a crowd looking at him.

  "Goddammit, don't all of yo
u have something better to do?" he roared.

  The deck cleared in an instant, but from the other side of the turret he could hear whispered laughter.

  "Jesus Christ," Andrew sighed, standing up and leaning against the armored siding.

  Emil, shaking his head, pulled out a handkerchief, and, started to wipe Andrew's face.

  "You're a hell of an infantryman, but you'll never make a sailor," Emil said, chuckling and shaking his head.

  "Emil, it was hell down there. It must have been a hundred and fifty degrees."

  "Well, I heard in the old Monitor it'd get up to a hundred and ninety."

  "Anyone who signs aboard an ironclad must be insane."

  "Somebody's got to do it," Emil said. He went over to the side and rinsed out the handkerchief.

  Like a father worrying over a sick child, Emil unsnapped Andrew's uniform and helped him out of his wool jacket, vest, and shirt. With a look of mock disgust, he tossed them into the gun port.

  The cool wind hit Andrew with a shock, and he started to shake.

  "Let's get you around aft out of the breeze."

  Putting a solicitous arm around Andrew, Emil walked him back around the turret and helped him sit down. At his approach the men who had been gathered there drew respectfully around to the port side. Kneeling alongside Andrew, Emil rubbed the back of his head with the handkerchief.

  "How the hell am I supposed to lead a battle when I don't dare go belowdecks?"

  "You're the general, the admiral, whatever you want to call yourself. Men like you stay topside and strut around in your dress uniform. Let the boys who can handle it work below."

  "I've never led like that before," Andrew sighed. "I've always done what I expected the lowest private to do."

  "Some things you just can't do, Andrew. This one will be different. There's no charging line, with you running out front. Hell, I've always thought you were a madman for fighting like that anyway. You're lucky you only lost this," and reaching over, Emil patted the stump of Andrew's left arm.

  "Ever since I signed on with the 35th I was always afraid you'd be carried in dead on me some day. There weren't many colonels who survived more than one or two fights doing what you did."

  Andrew smiled weakly.

  "And I was usually scared half to death," he whispered. "But it's the only way I knew. I'd be terrified and I'd see that same terror in some young boy's eyes, like Vincent's when he first fought, and I had to try to take that terror away from him."

  "And you always won."

  "Even at Gettysburg," Andrew said absently. "The arm was worth it for what we did there."

  "Don't worry, you'll do all right in this one too."

  "I damn near pass out and then throw up, and we're in a near-flat calm sea. Suppose the ocean's kicking up when we meet him? I'll be puking my guts out. And another thing. I got inside that closed-in turret, the heat was damn near maddening, and I couldn't stand it. The thought of fighting from in there is terrifying.

  "I'll be cut off from all my men, the 35th will be scattered across all these ships, and I won't be able to see them, to look into their eyes, to know what they are thinking, and to judge from that whether they can stand what I want them to do."

  He paused for a moment.

  "I don't know a goddam thing about ship fighting, and Cromwell knows everything."

  "Ah, son, so that's it as well," Emil said, sliding down to sit alongside his old friend.

  "Checkmate," Andrew whispered. "So far he's beaten me at every turn. He's forcing me to fight him on the one field where he'll hold all the pieces. Even against the Tugars I had a good idea of how they'd fight. After a while I felt as if I could even get inside the head of their general, that gray-coated one."

  The deck rose up and then dropped away, and Andrew groaned.

  "This, this is all a mystery."

  "It's just something new," Emil said quietly, leaning over to wipe Andrew's face again. "You've got Bullfinch, and thank God he came over to us from Cromwell. He'll be aboard with you. The boy's a good one, a bit high-strung perhaps, but I think he'll hold together.

  "And you've got Marcus as well. Remember, there'll be nearly a hundred galleys behind us, and he's grim-faced for vengeance. The boys will fight all right when the time comes."

  Emil stood up and leaned over.

  "The same way you will, son."

  A loud cough followed by a deliberate clearing of a throat came from around the side of the turret.

  "Give me a hand up, doc," Andrew whispered.

  Emil leaned over and pulled him up.

  "Do I look all right?"

  "A bit green," Emil said, shaking his head. "And lord, you do smell, but otherwise you're all right."

  Emil stepped away and walked over to the side of the turret and nodded.

  Bullfinch peeked around the corner.

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir,"

  "It's all right. Bullfinch. What is it?"

  "Just wanted to report, sir, we're getting back into the river."

  Andrew looked up and saw the bar had been passed and the shoreline was closing in. Suddenly he noticed that the rolling had dropped away.

  "It did get a bit rough out there, sir," Bullfinch said.

  "How rough?"

  "Oh, maybe three feet or so."

  Andrew shook his head.

  "Boy, I'm from Maine, I've stood on the shore and seen men sail in fifteen-foot seas. But thanks anyhow."

  "Well, sir, this certainly isn't the Atlantic. You'll get your sea legs in a day or two. Besides, in this tub I wouldn't want to try anything much beyond six feet at the most."

  "Thanks," Andrew said woodenly. "Now how did we do?"

  "Ferguson said we're really slipping the belt on the starboard engine. She shakes like hell at anything over quarter speed. I figure though at half speed we were running at just under four knots. If we keep it at that setting we should be able to reach Suzdal in just under six days. Since the galleys are going to have to row all that distance, it should match up all right."

  "You did well, son," Andrew said, reaching out to pat Bullfinch on the shoulder.

  "Thank you, sir." Bullfinch beamed.

  "Emil, tell the rest of the men to come back here. Bullfinch, pilot the ship in."

  The boy drew up and snapped off a salute, and with chest puffed out he scrambled up the outside ladder to the pilothouse above.

  The men started to file back, looking at Andrew cautiously.

  Andrew felt somehow naked without his uniform jacket on and his shirt off. He had always been embarrassed by his pale, narrow chest, with ribs showing, and suddenly he felt extremely self-conscious. He saw that more than one of the men were sneaking looks at the stump of his left arm, which had been cut off just above the elbow. His right hand slipped up to cover it for a moment, and he saw the men avert their eyes. Drawing himself up, he let the hand drop.

  "Colonel Mina, what's our situation?"

  "Eleven ironclads are outfitted, with all stores aboard. The boilers have been run up and brief tests have been run in the river.

  "Seven are having the finishing touches put in now. They're just waiting for the guns to be mounted so we can seal off their turrets. They'll be ready over the next two days.

  "The last three are doubtfuls, colonel. The hull cracked on one of them and it's leaking like a sieve, the second is so out of balance I'm afraid she'll roll right over, and an engine on the third one was mounted in the wrong position. We're going to have to rip the deck off, hoist it up, and reset it. It might be ready in five days—if so it'll sail and try and catch up."

  "The galleys?"

  "Number seventy-two was coming off the ways as we left. We'll finish twenty-eight more over the next two days—eight more than originally planned for, but we had the extra parts. Stores are being loaded aboard the ships as we finish them."

  "Thanks, John. As always you make miracles look commonplace."

  "You can thank Ferguson and Bullfinch," John re
plied. "I'm just logistics. They're the ones who figured out how to do it."

  Andrew nodded and looked over at the novice captains.

  "Gentlemen, tonight we'll start to run the rest of the ironclads down the canal, and you'll anchor them along the ruins of the Ostia port. There'll be teams of galleys to tow you, since I'm not trusting any of you to run these ships in the river. You're going to be on your own. I'm giving you one day to practice with your ships out past the bar. Again you'll be towed out and then back in. Shake them down and find out how to handle them and also to repair anything that goes wrong.

  "Now don't go busting anything," Andrew said, forcing a smile, and the men laughed nervously.

  "Because if you do, it means you're going to be left on the beach," he said forcefully, "and I'll have one less ship. One ship might mean all the difference when we finally meet Cromwell."

  The smiles were gone from the men.

  "We sail for Suzdal in three days."

  Crawling back down behind the stand of bushes, the scout slipped into the hole he had fashioned for himself, pulling some loose branches down around him.

  The last patrol had been close, far too close. If one of the men walking through the low dunes had not turned aside to relieve himself, surely they would have stumbled right over him.

  The scout smiled at the memory.

  Why the hell they were doing all of this was beyond him. The only sense he could see in it all was that at least his family would not face the feasting pits of the Merki. At least now he could leave this place once night fell and run the long miles down the beach to the place of rocks. When the Wheel of Heaven reached its highest place in the night sky the galley would be there again. With the news he had of the ship that looked like the devil devices Cromwell had made, perhaps now they could go back to the Rus city.

  He smiled at the thought of the loot to be taken there, and slipping deeper into his hole, he went to sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "It is good to feel the fresh wind on one's face again," Tamuka said softly, looking up at the pine trees that swayed gently with the night breeze.

  "The ship of the cattle is a hellish place," Hulagar replied. "Such things were never meant for such as us."