1901

The horizon in every direction was dotted with ships of all shapes and sizes. Mostly they were the transports. The once-neat lines of the convoy were in total disarray as the American cruisers, gunboats, and other ships knifed in among them, firing and creating their own horrors. It appeared that many of the transports were unharmed and dead in the water. It then dawned on Terry that they were surrendering. Of course. Where could they go? Back to Germany? Even if they could outrun the American ships, what would they use for coal?

Now there was relative silence, and Schuyler counted ships. Of the Americans, he saw eleven of the original thirteen capital ships, including his own, and two of the three monitors. The Texas and Kearsarge were indeed gone. He counted the German ships and blinked. Five. Only five, and they were all dead in the water and burning furiously. The others were not in sight, and he could only conclude they had sunk. One of the remaining five-he thought it might have been the cruiser that had passed so close-rolled over and began to sink as he watched.

“Schuyler! Your report!”

“Sorry, sir, it’s just taking a little longer to sort this out. I know the captain likes things precise.”

There was another pause. “The captain’s dead, Ensign. You’re making your report to me.” For some reason the fact of Brownson’s death struck him, and he started to cry. It was stupid. He barely knew the man who had replaced Evans. “Schuyler, give me your report as you see it and do it now!”

Terry composed himself and began to rattle off the ships and their apparent conditions. When he was done, there was silence again. Then he heard the distant voice talking to someone else on the bridge. “Well, we really did it to them. We really cleaned them,” he thought he heard the voice say. Terry looked about him again. Death was near and death was far.

“Sir, can you get some help up here? We got some wounded who need medical attention.”

“On its way, Ensign. Just hang on.”

Terry sagged to the floor and tried not to touch the blind sailor who had stomped on him. He let the pain and the tears overwhelm him. He would need a lot of help climbing down the ladder with his lame arm. Even the blind man would do better. Happy birthday.

The armed yacht Chesapeake slid into the convoy proper while the cruisers and gunboats dueled each other on the perimeter. Along with the smaller ships, it darted in among the transports, sowing confusion and panic. Some of the transports tried to run away but quickly realized there was no place to run. Their way to New York was blocked by the titanic and thunderous battle to their front, and the gray Atlantic stretched for more than two thousand miles to their rear. They could never make it back to Germany.

The majority of the transports stopped and traded their German flags for the white ones of surrender. Some-those that looked to be of non-German registry-seemed almost eager to give up. However, a few had chosen to fight. Lieutenant Walsh, the Chesapeake ’s commanding officer, could hear the sound of smaller guns, pom-poms, and machine guns as they raked the transports. The Chesapeake ’s luck held and she quickly gathered up a covey of surrendered transports without firing a shot.

Then Walsh spied a large passenger liner that had not yet dipped its flag. He approached and fired a pom-pom round across her bow. As they drew closer, within a couple of hundred yards, the liner’s rails suddenly erupted with a wall of armed men who opened fire with rifles and machine guns at the tiny Chesapeake. Micah screamed orders swiftly as his men started to fall at their stations. The pom-poms and the 3-incher fired back, and the two machine guns raked the thick line of helmeted Germans.

The fire from the liner stopped almost immediately. The railings meant for passengers to lean on provided no protection for the German soldiers, who simply disappeared. Walsh wondered if the captain or commander of the infantry unit on board had felt his honor required an attempt at resistance before surrendering. If so, the stupid bastard should be hanged. The battle was over, yet someone had demanded that honor be satisfied, and young people on both sides had died because of it. Fucking Krauts.

The white flag was raised quickly on the liner and the Chesapeake ceased firing. Walsh could see blood running from the liner’s deck and could only visualize the carnage his guns had wrought. Using Morse, he signaled the liner that the German soldiers would have to pitch their weapons overboard. He watched grimly as they complied. He was realistic enough to know they probably still kept some, but at least he wouldn’t be bringing a thousand armed and pissed-off Krauts into Norfolk.