Chapter 186: Our Sea (2)
Chapter 186: Our Sea (2)
Boom!! Boom!!
First came the thunderous explosions—loud enough that simply hearing them felt as though one’s eardrums might burst forever.
“Gun number three on the second deck is disabled!! Even when we pull the rope the cannon won’t run out!!”
“Damn it, the touchhole fuse is ruined! Pull the shell out and bring the emergency slow match!!!”
Then came the ceaseless shouts of the petty officers.
Crack!! Craaack!!!
And then the sound of enemy cannonballs hammering into the thick Scandinavian timber hull, a sound that made the sailors’ chests tighten in dread.
“Uaaagh!! Aaaagh!!! My arm!! My arm!!”
“Eric’s been hit!! Surgeon! Surgeooon!!”
“Where is the patient! …Damn it. Get this man to the sickbay immediately!”
“Wh-why? Is it that bad?!”
“A splinter’s lodged too deep to pull out. If we don’t take the arm off right now, he’ll die of infection. Corpsman! Bring anesthetic rum immediately! Force it down his mouth!”
“Wh-what? My arm?! No! No! I don’t want to be one-armed! Kill me instead!”
“…Gentlemen. Help this man lie quietly on the bed.”
“Understood. Eric… I’m sorry.”
“The saw and gag are ready, surgeon!”
“Give me the saw. Put the gag in his mouth.”
“You bastards! Get away from me right now!! Mmmph! Mmmph!! Uuugh!!”
The voices of the unfortunate sailor and the sailors carrying out their duty added yet another layer.
When all those sounds were added together, the scene beneath the deck of HMS Agamemnon appeared vividly in the mind.
“Lieutenant, what is the situation below?”
“Chaos.”
“I expected as much. The way they’re pouring cannon fire into the Agamemnon, that Russian admiral must have figured out where I am.”
“…It’s dangerous. Shall we abandon the line and move to the rear?”
“Nonsense. The lowest sailors are dying down there—how could the admiral turn tail like a coward? Maintain course and focus only on splitting the enemy formation.”
Boom!! Splash!!
At that moment, a cannonball that struck the sea nearby sent up a column of water that drenched Nelson from head to toe.
“Fleet commander! Are you all right?!”
“Bloody hell! These clothes were expensive!!”
Those damned Russians. Do they know how much money he spent on these clothes just to mingle with the high society? And now they wash them with stinking seawater?
“Signal ship four to prepare for boarding and ready the marines!! I’ll earn the cost of these clothes by capturing their ships!”
“Yes, Admiral!”
Once again, colorful signal flags climbed the mast of the Agamemnon.
Flagship of the Russian Imperial Navy.
St. Paul.
“It’s confirmed. The signal flags on the enemy’s second ship changed first.”
“Hmm.”
“Admiral Ushakov. What are your orders?”
“Where is their first-rate ship of the line?”
“It’s approaching from the rear, keeping distance from the lead ships.”
“…Why?”
Why would they hide their largest and best-armed ship of the line in the rear?
Even though the Russian fleet was slightly outnumbered, the difference in ships in this battle was only one.
Wouldn’t that difference be far too small to justify holding back a first-rate ship of the line as a reserve?
“Perhaps the enemy commander has some scheme?”
“But his own life is on the line. Would he gamble like that?”
“Enemy lead ship! Distance now 140 yards!”
“Admiral! Please give the order!”
“Admiral Ushakov!”
“Admiral!”
Even as voices urged him from every side, Ushakov focused—again and again—on the distant ships visible through his telescope and the image of the enemy’s first-rate ship lingering in his mind.
At last he spoke.
“Very well. I don’t know what the British are plotting, but the fact that their first-rate ship has not yet entered the battle is to our advantage, not our loss.”
“Yes, Admiral!”
For the ship at the end of their formation to join the fight, it would need at least fifteen minutes of favorable wind.
They had to escape the enemy’s grasp before that happened.
“Turn the bow east and circle. Adjust course twenty degrees southeast and withdraw from the battlefield with the wind.”
This naval battle was merely the result of assuming the enemy was the French rather than the British.
If they returned to Genoa or the Ionian Sea, they could revise the operational plan and operate the navy while avoiding engagement as much as possible.
“Signal all ships. While withdrawing, fire aimed shots with the port guns at the enemy’s second ship. Even as we leave, let’s at least smash a stone into their heads.”
“Yes, Admiral!”
It had been a fierce contest of tactics, but from a strategic standpoint Ushakov had already lost.
The only reason the defeat was not severe was because he could still preserve his fleet and retreat.
“The enemy ships are moving southeast, Admiral Nelson!”
“Tell the Culloden to block them no matter what! I’ve already ruined my clothes—I won’t lose my victory as well!”
Even sinking or capturing just one ship would cripple the Russians.
Their fleet was already smaller than their enemies’; if they lost even a single ship, Russia might never again show its face in the Mediterranean.
“Break the single-line formation in the rear and follow the lead ships in a double column! The Culloden will command the vanguard of the left wing, and I will command the right!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Each time Nelson issued an order, signal flags shifted positions atop the mast, and the ships following behind split off to form new formations.
But Ushakov was not the sort of man to miss the opening created when the enemy rearranged their formation.
“The enemy flagship has taken the lead of the right wing! Their rear ships will arrive in five minutes! For those five minutes, we have numerical superiority! All ships—open fire on the enemy right-wing flagship with port guns!”
“Ura!!”
Boom! Boom! Boom!
From the fourth to the tenth ships of the Russian fleet—six ships in total—portside broadsides poured toward the HMS Agamemnon as they sailed southeast.
The hull groaned unpleasantly as cannonballs struck it again and again.
“The enemy bombardment is too strong! Withdraw the ship until the rear arrives!”
“You Russian bastards! Do you think Horatio Nelson, soldier of the British Empire, fears death?! The second James Wolfe stands here!”
“Admiral!”
“Aaaaaargh!”
Twang!
Just as Nelson drew his sword and shouted like a berserker, a severed rope from the rigging—cut by a stray Russian cannonball—lashed across him.
“Ugh!”
“Admiral! Are you all right?!”
“Damn it all! That hurt like hell! Give me a hand, would you?”
Using Lieutenant Allison’s arm for support, Nelson rose again. Clutching his burning left arm, he shouted to the helmsman.
“Miller! Hard to port! Bring us broadside and open the starboard gunports! Let’s stuff some cannonballs down those bastards’ throats!”
“Aye aye, sir! Hard to port! Line abreast! Open starboard gunports!!”
The starboard gunports opened, and the rumbling sound of cannons being pushed into position echoed briefly.
Then HMS Agamemnon also began to spit fire.
Crack! Smash!
“Uaaagh!!”
“Blya-aat! Someone help me!!”
Unlike Britain, Russia could not afford to build ships entirely from the finest Scandinavian timber.
When the Agamemnon’s cannonballs punched through their hulls, the sailors of the Russian Imperial Navy screamed in agony.
But Ushakov clenched his fist and said coldly, regardless of the screams.
“The enemy flagship has turned broadside!”
Courage is one thing—but does that man think he’s Scipio Africanus?
“Signal ships eight and nine! Change course and pound the enemy flagship from multiple angles!”
“Ura!!”
You fool. Your courage is admirable—but I’ll turn it into reckless bravado.
Two ships of the line from the Russian rear formation began racing toward the isolated Agamemnon.
“…Remarkable.”
Not empty praise. It truly was remarkable.
Before ships were clad in steel and powered by engines, ships of the line were strategic weapons—concentrations of a nation’s science and wealth.
Watching those floating embodiments of national pride collide before my eyes made cold sweat gather in my palms.
Even from this distance I could see splintered wood flying, flames rising, and towering columns of water erupting.
Well… there is something about it that stirs a man’s romantic imagination.
Until now I could never understand why admirals poured so much money into ships, but now I was beginning to understand.
“Captain Villeneuve, how does the battle look to you?”
I asked Captain Villeneuve, who stood beside me observing the battle through a telescope.
Even though the battle had begun, speaking only with the adjutant would look rather strange to the sailors. It was a courtesy toward the senior officer responsible for managing them.
“We have the advantage. But the Russians are not in a hopeless position either.”
“Is that so?”
“They still have an escape route. I suspect they intend to retreat with the favorable wind.”
“I see.”
“Would you like to see for yourself?” Villeneuve asked, handing me the telescope.
“Thank you.”
I raised the telescope and filled the lens with the image of the Agamemnon in the distance.
“…Wait. Is it normal for an admiral’s flagship to be that far in front?”
“Well… the British tend to be aggressive. It’s not unusual for their admirals to lead from the front.”
Villeneuve scratched his face awkwardly.
Even he seemed a little embarrassed watching the British fight like that.
I raised the telescope again.
Wait a moment…
Wasn’t that dangerous?
I had only looked away for a moment. Now two Russian ships had closed in on the Agamemnon, exchanging cannon fire at close range.
“Captain Villeneuve! Look there!”
“What is it, Your Excellency? …Good heavens.”
Seeing the same thing I had noticed, Villeneuve cursed under his breath.
“The following ships must hurry up and reach him. Admiral Nelson will breathe easier then…”
The following ships did rush forward at full speed, but constant enemy fire slowed their approach toward the Agamemnon.
Even to my army eyes, this looked… precarious.
I turned and looked at the ship I was standing on—the Guillaume Tell.
A three-deck ship of the line armed with one hundred guns.
Probably the most powerful ship currently sailing in the Mediterranean.
If we plunged into the Russian ships of the line right now, we could rescue Nelson instantly.
“Captain Villeneuve. Full speed ahead. Let’s save the Agamemnon.”
“…Pardon?”
“Did you not hear me? Break from the rear formation and rescue Admiral Nelson.”
“Well… if we enter the battle now, there is a risk of friendly fire, and Your Excellency could be in danger…”
“What? My danger? Fine! I authorize it! Let us go rescue our ally immediately! Even if I die, it will not be your responsibility—I declare it here!”
“Uh…”
But Villeneuve hesitated, biting his lip.
At last, I exploded.
“Our allied commander is in mortal danger and you’re worried about your own safety?! You bastard! Have you no pride?! Captain Villeneuve, you are dismissed! Dismissed!”
I turned to Major Lucas, who had been nervously glancing back and forth behind us.
“Major Lucas!”
“Y-yes, Your Excellency!”
“I am giving this order personally. Even if I die it will be my responsibility. Bring this ship alongside the Agamemnon immediately!”
“Yes, Your Excellency! Raise the sails! Hard ahead! Our objective is the rescue of our ally, the Agamemnon!”
The last pride of the French Navy.
The massive hundred-gun ship of the line Guillaume Tell raised its sails, its enormous bulk surging forward.