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Ironclad; An American Civil War story.
Topic Started: 29th May 2007 - 09:55 PM (183 Views)
Frankensqueek
Doomwheel Driver
THE DARK SHAPE of the ship sat in the gently flowing current of the river. A soft creaking sounded with a steady rhythm as the hulking mass tugged on its mooring ropes, as though itching to get underway; like a hunting dog eagerly anticipating the chase; the diagonal stars and bars of its flag waving in the light breeze was its tail, flailing enthusiastically. To land troops the ironclad was ugly; a grey box sitting exposed in the water. But to the men who crewed her, she was a mark of unequalled perfection; the pride of the Confederate navy. It was too bad that she may never see dawn.
The young sailor cursed as the heavy crate slipped from his grasp and crashed down through the hatch at his feet. Angry voices hollered up from below as his comrades were forced to jump away from the falling ammunition case.
“Careful lad,” said the ship’s captain, standing a short way off. The sailor muttered his apologies and scurried back down the boarding ramp towards the horse drawn wagon laden with similar crates, each with “CSA” stamped across one side in peeling black letters. The captain smiled beneath his closely trimmed beard which was flecked with grey. This was his first command, and he was eager to prove his worth.
A shell landed nearby, startling the horses and sending mud cascading over the toiling crewmen.
“Hurry boys,” urged an overseer, “y’all wanna be here when the Yankees turn up?”
The captain looked to the north. Through the thick sheets of the falling April rain he could see the capital of the south clearly, despite it being shortly past midnight. The buildings in the near distance were silhouetted against the fires that were burning throughout the stricken city.
Richmond had been under siege by the invading Union forces for nearly a week. The southern forces were outnumbered and surrounded, and the veteran captain knew that the end of the Confederacy was near. Sherman was advancing steadily up through the Carolinas and Grant’s men marching in from the north had pushed the remaining southern soldiers into Richmond. Lee was surrounded; soon the Confederacy would fall and Jefferson would be forced out of office. It was a sorry end to a bitter struggle four years long.
The captain sensed a presence at his side and turned.
“Ship’s ready cap’n,” said the overseer, and indicated the group of sailors loitering around the now empty supply wagon.
The captain nodded and looked back at the burning city, the distant flames reflected in his eyes.
“Cap’n Starbuck, sir? What are your orders?”
“Get the men aboard,” Captain Starbuck replied, before striding towards the access hatch into the ship. Not for the first time he cursed the north; he had joined the Confederacy as soon as the news of the attack on Fort Sumter was announced four years ago, but he had nothing against the Union personally; he had joined up out of patriotic duty more than anything else. But now, seeing his capital in flames, anger filled him, along with contempt towards the northerners and their so called President Lincoln.
A sailor saluted him as Starbuck ducked through the hatch and entered the ironclad.
The CSS Charleston was brand new, and there was a lingering smell of freshly cut wood on the floor and of the recently oiled mechanisms that filled the crowded interior of the ship. Dozens of crewman filled main gun deck, piling boxes of ammunition and readying the ship’s cannon for the voyage ahead. A nearby crewman caught Starbuck’s eye. The youthful sailor was staring at his captain and was visibly trembling. Starbuck laid a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s your name son?” He asked.
“H-Harrison sir, Seaman Harrison,” the sailor stammered back. “Will we break through sir?” He continued, “Old Jones says the Union blockade is too strong.”
“Seaman Jones may be right,” Starbuck smiled, “but we’re going anyway.”
Harrison returned the smile nervously and the captain moved on, past a gun crew toiling over their cannon. Sweating men saluted him as he passed by; most were experienced men, veterans of many sea battles and bore scars on their grizzled faces. As he reached the hatch which opened up into the engine room below, Starbuck crouched down and called for the chief engineer. A middle aged man with a large red beard appeared at the foot of the ladder and looked up at his captain.
“Engine’s ready to go captain. Boiler’s cookin’ nicely and the fire’s stoked and ready.” The heavy accent betrayed the engineer’s Scottish heritage, and once more Starbuck wondered what led a European into this war.
“Very good Lieutenant,” the captain replied, “be sure that your men are ready, it’s sure to heat up soon enough.”
“It’s always hot down hear,” the engineer grinned, “my boys will do their job don’t you worry.”


* * *


It was a couple of hours after midnight when at last the CSS Charleston pulled away from the docks just two miles from Richmond, Virginia. The wide expanse of the James River prevented the Union forces on the far bank from seeing the ironclad whilst it was at berth, but as soon as the hulking mass reached the deeper water at the centre of the river, the northern gun crews caught site of the vessel and opened fire. Although the incoming fire was largely inaccurate, the less seasoned sailors within the Charleston winced and cowered as the occasional cannon shot struck the iron sides of the ship with a resounding clang that temporarily deafened the crewmen.
To conserve their limited ammunition and powder, Starbuck had ordered the crew hold their fire against the shore guns, and save their shots for the enemy ships; the light cannon fire was causing little damage to the thick armour of the vessel.
The Charleston was well built; the four inch thick iron armour, with over a foot of wood and compressed cotton beneath which covered the ship was all but impregnable to the shore batteries. The only threat was the Union ships and ironclads which blockaded the river, which lead from its source in the Allegheny Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean; the only route out of the besieged capital of the Confederacy; the route which the lone southern ironclad was now taking.
They had been sailing at the ship’s top speed of 6 knots for nearly three hours, when Starbuck heard what he had been dreading.
“Enemy ship ahead,” called the helmsman in the pilothouse.
The captain hurried to the prow of the ship, pausing only slightly to give encouragement to the men as he passed. Upon reaching the helmsman, the captain looked through the viewing slit at the dark mass ahead. From its shape he guessed it to be a turreted Union ironclad; not heavily armed, but was sat low in the water which made it harder to hit.
“Lieutenant Christensen!” Starbuck shouted over his shoulder. Almost instantly the impetuous first mate ran up behind him.
“Yes sir?”
“Tell Chief Engineer MacTavish that I want more speed, everything he’s got. We can’t hope to sink the Yankee ship. We need to out run it.”
The first mate sped off toward the stern of the ship, yelling at startled crewmen to get out of his way. Starbuck smiled despite himself as he recalled an overheard comment about Christenson from one of the men. He was widely disliked due to his aggressive nature, but was respected and no one would ever dare confront him. He will make an excellent captain one day, thought Starbuck, if they made it through this night.
Within a few minutes the captain of the Charleston could make out the Stars and Stripes fluttering from the low mast at the stern of the enemy ship. As the Confederate ship approached, the twin gunned turret of the northern ironclad rotated to face the oncoming threat.
“Open the starboard gun ports,” Starbuck shouted. The order was relayed by the gun crew captains, and the heavy clanking of the ship’s engine was momentarily drowned out by the grinding sound of gun ports scraping aside and cannon being heaved into position. Starbuck smiled proudly at the precision at which all this was done. The men had been well trained.
“Ready the guns!” He shouted.
With practised ease, the men sighted the cannon through the gun ports. They eagerly anticipated the effect of a volley from their guns on the currently out of sight enemy ironclad.
Without warning the Union ship opened fire. Two cannon balls slammed hard into the sloping front armour of the Charleston, but to the relief of its captain, the shots rebounded and ricocheted high into the air. The enemy vessel was now alongside the Confederate ironclad and Starbuck yelled the order to fire. The three guns along the Charleston’s starboard side roared and recoiled sharply as the balls left the barrels with a loud growl. Several cheers told the captain that at least one shot had found its target, but a moment later another barrage from the twin cannon on the Union ship hammered hard into the side of the southern ironclad. An ear splitting crash filled Starbuck’s ears, followed instantly by loud screaming. Looking back into the main gun deck, the captain saw huge wooden splinters scattered across the decking, smeared with glistening blood. One of the cannon balls from the Union ironclad had scored a direct hit through one of the gun ports on the Charleston, striking a gun crew in the middle of reloading their cannon. Starbuck could see the six bodies lying broken amongst the wreckage of their gun, and a gaping hole now stood were the gun port was once located. The rest of the crew recovered quickly from the carnage and feverishly returned to loading their guns. With a shouted order they fired their second salvo, but through the jagged hole in the side of the armoured wall Starbuck saw the shots rebound harmlessly off the drum shaped turret of the Union ship.
Starbuck cursed before making his way aft towards the engine room, passing the word to fire at will as he strode past each gun crew. The sailors who were assigned to the cannon on the port side of the ship could do nothing but shout encouragement at their comrades, as the enemy ironclad was out of the line of sight of their cannon. Some hefted boxes of gunpowder and cannonballs closer to the toiling gun crews; others began the grisly task of dragging away the bodies of the dead. One man took up a rifle and began taking shots at the Union ship through the blasted hole in the wall, but the small musket balls had no chance of penetrating the thick armour of the enemy vessel.
Reaching the hatch which led to the engine room, Starbuck called down to engineer MacTavish.
“What is it sir?” The Scotsman answered.
“I need more speed; we’ve got to pull away. This bastard’s killing us.”
“I’m sorry cap’n; I’m trying as best as I can. Its hell down here; I’ve already had two of my boys collapse from the heat already.” The engineer used his filthy shirt sleeve to mop sweat off his brow to prove his point. A shout made Starbuck turn around.
“What is it lieutenant?” He asked.
“Helmsman reports sea fog ahead, we must be near the river mouth,” Lieutenant Christensen replied.
Starbuck span back to the engineer, “give me all the speed you can get, I’ve heard you’re the best, now prove it!” He turned back to his first mate, “Christensen, how far away is this fog?” ‘
“Helmsman says it’s no more than a couple hundred yards sir.”
Hope filled the captain. Looking through the nearest gun port, Starbuck could see that the sky was an inky blue; dawn was only an hour or so away.
Running back to the helm of the ironclad, Starbuck opened the hatch over his head and hoisted himself up so that his head and shoulders were out of the ironclad.
“Careful sir, watch out for snipers on the riverbank,” warned the helmsman. Right on cue a musket shot whizzed past. Starbuck ducked back down inside and securely closed the hatch over his head, but he had seen what he needed to. Having noticed what the Confederate ship intended to do, the northern ironclad gave up the chase and was firing volley after volley at the Charleston. Christensen arrived at his shoulder.
“The northerners have given up the chase,” Starbuck said, “we can lose them in this here fog.”
The first mate’s lips parted to reveal several broken teeth, and he turned towards the gun deck and shouted “them Yankees are giving up! We’re getting away boys.”
Starbuck didn’t say a word. He stood silently beside the helmsman, staring out through the viewing slit at the cloud of thick fog, still a hundred or so yards away. A loud clang announced another hit from the Union ironclad striking the stern of the Charleston.
They were going too slowly, and the northern guns were getting more accurate with every shot. They weren’t going to make it. Behind him, in the main gun deck, the crewmen crouched down, no longer able to fire their cannon as the enemy ships were out of their arc of fire. Several were praying under their breath. They winced every time a shot struck the outer armour of the ship, knowing that any second a well aimed ball could hit a weakened section of the hull. Still they limped ever so slowly towards the fog.
“Come on,” Starbuck muttered, urging the fog to enclose them. “Come on!”
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Rusty
 
As for nominations: Frankie, of course, because I love to vote for him and watch him fail :unsure: 


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