Chapter 94
Chapter 94
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 94
Chapter Title: Potemkin Mutiny (2)
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The first to notice the disturbance in the Russian fleet was the French Mediterranean Fleet's armored cruiser Gloire, positioned closest to the Russians.
The crew of the Gloire were enjoying their usual morning meal when a deafening cannon roar jolted them to their feet. They all rushed to the railings without a second thought.
What they saw was the fleeing Potemkin and the waterspouts erupting around her.
"The Russian fleet is under attack!"
Someone among the crew shouted at the sight of the geysers blooming near the escaping Potemkin.
It was a clear misunderstanding, but the situation made it inevitable.
News of the Potemkin's mutiny hadn't reached the French fleet yet. So, they hoped it was the British or Germans striking the Russians—never dreaming that the Russian fleet itself would fire on one of its own warships.
In reality, the scene before them showed the Potemkin under fire from the British or German fleets, while the Russian fleet floundered in chaos from a sudden ambush.
In a way, the Russians were in chaos.
If the French had calmed down and looked closely, they could have seen the Russian fleet's actions weren't normal.
But the prolonged standoff had frayed nerves across the board—not just the Russians. The constant dread of imminent battle clouded their judgment.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
"Battle stations! Battle stations!"
"All hands to action stations!"
Soon, the Gloire's decks erupted in chaos as the alarm bells rang and crewmen dashed about.
Her captain abandoned his precious breakfast with a heavy heart and issued battle orders to the crew.
He swiftly reported to the Mediterranean Fleet flagship, the Charlemagne-class battleship Saint Louis, that the Russian fleet was under attack.
Under normal circumstances, it would have earned praise for quick handling. But now, it only worsened the mess.
"The Russian fleet is under attack?"
Meanwhile, Mediterranean Fleet commander Admiral Palma Gourdon, receiving the report from Gloire, squinted and raised his binoculars.
True to the report, waterspouts rose around a distant Russian battleship, captured in his lenses.
"Merde! It's real!"
The other Russian ships were firing nonstop, though he couldn't tell at what.
They seemed to be resisting a sudden ambush.
Whether British or German doing, Russia was France's ally. He didn't know why they'd struck first, but he couldn't stand by.
"Signal the fleet: From now on, the French Mediterranean Fleet aids the Russians! Vive la France!"
"Vive la France!"
The French officers saluted Admiral Gourdon with resolute faces.
Moments later, at his command, the French fleet—oblivious to the truth—opened fire on the British and German fleets, who were deep into their morning meals.
Boom! Bang!
"What in blazes is this?!"
"Admiral! The French fleet is attacking us!"
German Imperial Navy Atlantic Fleet commander Admiral Koester, quietly breakfasting in his cabin, bolted out at the sudden blasts and raced to the bridge.
But upon arrival, he got the baffling report that the hitherto idle French had suddenly attacked.
"The frogs are attacking us? Out of nowhere?!"
"I-I'm not sure, sir. We heard a big noise from the Russian fleet earlier, but..."
The German and British fleets, anchored off Tangier at a distance from the French and Russians, couldn't see exactly what had happened in the Russian Black Sea Fleet.
But reason be damned—if they threw the first punch, you punched back. That was the battlefield's courtesy.
"Battle orders to the fleet. We respond to the French aggression."
Admiral Koester straightened his disheveled cap from the rush and gave the command.
Soon, led by the Atlantic Fleet flagship—renamed three years early thanks to the Friedrich-class influence, the pride of the Kaiserliche Marine since the Venezuela Crisis, SMS Friedrich der Große—the German fleet trained their main guns toward the French.
"What the devil is this first thing in the morning...!"
"Destroyer HMS Thrasher moderately damaged! She's withdrawing from the line!"
"Admiral Domvile's orders!"
"Tch. Attack order to the fleet! Tell damaged ships to fall back to Tangier for now!"
The British Mediterranean Fleet's situation was no different from the Germans'.
Admiral Compton Domvile—now Mediterranean commander, succeeding the promoted John Fisher as First Sea Lord—grimaced and issued the order.
Both sides had been waiting quietly for the Algeciras talks to conclude, no engagements in sight.
Seemed the Mediterranean sun had baked the Russians and frogs, or the dragging conference had snapped their patience.
Of course, it was a mistake, a misunderstanding. But Admiral Domvile, ignorant of the truth, could only judge it so.
Bang! Boom! Boom-boom!!
As the British fleet, starting with flagship HMS Bulwark, returned fire against the "Rough" fleet, the accidental skirmish off Morocco ballooned into a chaotic melee between the Anglo-German and Russo-French fleets.
"SMS Wittelsbach lightly damaged! Combat effective!"
"Cruiser Kléber moderately damaged!"
"Fire on HMS Intrepid!"
Damage reports flooded bridges across all fleets. Within thirty minutes of combat, severely hit ships began withdrawing in growing numbers.
And the Potemkin—source of all this chaos—slipped away amid the confusion.
"Dvenadtsat' Apostolov sunk!!!"
The battle's fever peaked hotter than the Mediterranean sun when SMS Deutschland—second Friedrich-class battleship, following SMS Friedrich der Große, and first of the Dreadnought-built Deutschland-class unlike original history—sank the Russian battleship Dvenadtsat' Apostolov with a salvo.
Admiral Zinovy Rozhestvensky and his Russian officers watched dumbfounded, clutching their heads in silent screams.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!"
Zinovy Rozhestvensky bellowed at the bloodbath off Morocco, his eyes bloodshot, as if the peaceful morning had been mere illusion.
How the hell had it come to this?
He wanted to drag the captains who'd fired on the fleeing Potemkin without orders straight to a firing squad.
Those hotheaded idiots had fired on their own, botched the whole mess, and now let her escape.
True, the Potemkin survived the barrage and fled thanks to being the Black Sea Fleet's newest, highest-performing battleship. But Rozhestvensky couldn't care less right now.
I have to stop this madness now!
The Potemkin was trouble, but halting the battle took priority.
If the tide favored them, maybe. But the Russo-French fleets were losing to the Anglo-Germans.
The cause was obvious.
The Kaiserliche Marine's Friedrich-class battleships, led by SMS Friedrich der Große.
Britain, France, and Russia were still building theirs, but Germany—first to unveil the class, resetting global naval power—had since launched four more.
Here, only three: Friedrich der Große, Deutschland-class leads SMS Deutschland and SMS Pommern (built as Dreadnoughts unlike history). But that sufficed to dominate.
Prolonged fighting would doom the Black Sea Fleet like the Dvenadtsat' Apostolov, pitifully swallowed by the sea moments ago.
Spilled water couldn't be gathered, but he could prevent more spilling.
"Are the cease-fire signals still going out?"
"Yes, sir! But the French, British, and Germans are too busy fighting to notice ours!"
"This is insane."
Rozhestvensky squeezed his eyes shut at the report.
He was wrong. No fleet was listening to him or the Russians.
"We need another way."
A way to make foreign fleets halt instantly.
He pondered gravely, then his eyes lit up with an idea.
"Signal the fleet: Hoist white flags immediately."
"Sir?!"
"You're not surrendering, are you?!"
Every officer on the bridge gaped at him like he'd lost his mind, but Rozhestvensky was resolute.
Dishonorable, sure. Back home, blame would rain down. But no other way to stop the fight.
"In another scenario, I'd fight to the death. But I won't annihilate the fleet over this absurdity. And sure as hell not start a war over it!"
"But still..."
"Do as I say. I'll take all responsibility."
Of the four fleets gathered, only Dvenadtsat' Apostolov and a few destroyers were sunk so far.
Now, he could still avert this farce escalating to a four-way war.
Flutter...
Less than an hour into battle, at Rozhestvensky's order, every Black Sea Fleet ship hoisted white flags.
Spotting them on Russian masts, the British, Germans, and French—moments ago slaughtering each other—halted in stunned silence, as if it'd all been a lie.
"White flags? We risked our lives for them!"
Of course, Gourdon and the French captains—who'd jumped in to aid Russia—fumed at the Russians' "cowardice."
Anyway, the battle cooled swiftly. The four fleets turned to damage control.
"So, a single Russian battleship mutinied, you fired to stop her, and this mess happened?"
"...Embarrassingly, yes."
"God save us..."
But learning the truth late from Rozhestvensky turned Admirals Koester, Domvile, and Gourdon's faces ashen.
"You bastard—!!!"
Furious, Gourdon grabbed Rozhestvensky's collar, unleashing a torrent of French curses.
No wonder: The French Mediterranean Fleet had suffered the second-heaviest losses after the Russians.
Speechless, Rozhestvensky hung his head in grim silence. Koester and Domvile stared at the ceiling, hollow-eyed.
"...What now?"
"What do you mean, what? We're all screwed."
Domvile's soulless query drew Koester's bleak reply.
And true to his word, when full details reached Algeciras, the four nations' delegates flipped out.