McLennan’s Revenge and a Suspect Meeting
Warning and Disclaimer:
Because of the context of the nation in this AAR, there may be topics and wordings that some may find offensive. Please be aware that these are only written as they apply to the history of the nation and are in no way my personal views or beliefs on the subject.
The roar of guns was dying in the dawn off the south coast of Cuba.
In the week since the battle of San Juan hill, as it had come to be known, the Confederate forces surrounding Santiago had begun a slow, grinding battle that was pushing into the ancient port. Aided by the liberal use of heavy artillery the Southern troops had broken through the last true fortifications and stormed the outskirts of the city proper.
Once inside, however, they had been given a sharp and horrible lesson on the rules of urban warfare. Every building, many of them heavy stucco on brick or thick timber, was a blockhouse that had to be cleared by hand or reduced by artillery. Infantry had to slog their way forward in deadly room to room combat. Hindering this process was the presence of thousands of Spanish civilians who had fled the from approaching army into the city. Each house had a chance of containing not Iberian sharpshooters, but frightened women and children. Some houses held both, a sobering fact that was often only realized after the dust and smoke from the rubble cleared.
After five horrifying days of heavy, grinding battle, the Confederate troops were a city block away from the Spanish headquarters at the central plaza. Only the Dolores Barracks stood in their way, a massive building of heavy stone and thick logs manned by the last surviving veterans of San Juan hill led by General José Toral himself. Its location in the city, within a stone’s throw from the Governor’s mansion and the ancient city cathedral, prevented the use of artillery. It would have to be cleared by hand. Combat swept back and forth from one end of the building to the other. Soldiers often found themselves defending against counterattacks from the floors above or below them.
It was at this point that the Spanish fleet, battered from the action off Gibara, attempted to sail out of the harbor. Aware that the situation in the city was hopeless, and that the presence of the warships was only worsening the already overburdened supplies available to the defenders, Admiral Cervera ordered his ships to action. Vizcaya, her aft turret destroyed and her machinery badly damaged, had what armaments that could be removed taken off for use by the army. She was then scuttled in the harbor channel to prevent its use by the Confederacy.
His flag shifted to Almirante Oquendo, Cervera led armored cruiser Cristobal Colon, the battered Infanta María Teresa and destroyer Furor out of the harbor in the last hours of night. Unfortunately, navigating a minefield at night, even a friendly one, is difficult for even the most skilled captains not to stumble. Infanta María Teresa, still damaged from her previous encounter with the Southern warships, stumbled. While trying to slip through what was thought to be a clear channel, she struck a mine just aft of her forward turret. The resulting explosion was shatteringly loud and lit the night with flames.
Needless to say, a burning warship that was shedding enough light to turn night into day is a noticeable sight. It was certainly noticeable to the Confederate fleet offshore. Crews scrambled out of their bunks and rushed to their action stations. Cervera, hoping that the darkness could save his three remaining ships, broke Furor and Cristobal Colon off and ordered his decimated squadron to disperse and run. Infanta María Teresa, her forward engine room flooded and burning around her foredeck, was left behind.
The chase was a confused and hectic mess. Spotlights speared the night, searching for foe among the friends. The Confederate fleet was hesitant to fire on a warship without being certain it was Iberian. The Spanish had no such qualms and fired on anything they encountered. Engagements were brief and frantic, with whoever fired first often scoring a hit and then fading into the darkness. One such engagement between Stonewall Jackson and Cristobal Colon left both warships reeling away into the night, Stonewall with toppled funnels and Colon with a shredded port side gallery. It was a wound she could not afford.
Cristobal Colon, built under contract in Italy, was hurriedly manned by a raw crew and rushed into service in anticipation of hostilities. Unfortunately, the Spanish were not satisfied by the 10” Armstrong guns she should have had and refused to have them installed. The replacement weapons were never mounted, forcing her to rely on the 6” guns in her gallery. With many of them disabled, Cristobal Colon was effectively left toothless. Her captain, fearing a second such fight would sink them, elected to run her aground and fight her as a shore battery.
Dawn revealed the Confederate fleet, scattered and singed. Stonewall Jackson had rigged temporary repairs but was still steaming slowly and her sister and flagship, Robert E. Lee, had taken a hit in the bows and was shipping water. The Spanish were in a much worse state. Almirante Oquendo had been found by the Chuckatuck and Eastport, a pair of protected cruisers, and was a smoking hulk foundering in the waves, but had she had gone down fighting and neither southern ship was unscathed. Cristobal Colon’s captain had succeeded in beaching her, but the incoming tide had shifted her broadside and then slowly worked the ship over, capsizing her in shallow water. Only Furor remained. Unlike her comrades she was not going to be given a chance to surrender.
Furor had become a marked ship in the Caribbean. She had been the one to torpedo McLennan, killing everyone onboard, and as such every sailor in the Confederate fleet wanted her dead. Unfortunately for the Spanish destroyer the temporary repairs they had rigged in Santiago had failed during the night, and the ship was already having trouble maintaining speed. The chase, a crippled destroyer leading crippled battleships, began.
Cripples leading Cripples
Keeping close to the shoreline, Furor attempted utilize her small size and high speed to evade Confederate fire, but the strain on her already failing engines was eventually too much and she began to falter. Resigned to their fate, her veteran captain, Fernando Villaamil, ordered his little destroyer around and charged the pursuing battle line. The designer and father of the first modern torpedo-boat destroyer and respected around the world for his tactics and designs, Villaamil was perhaps the man most suited to fight this last battle and fight it he did.
Furor steamed headlong into the momentarily stunned Southern fleet, whistle shrieking, sparks flying from her stacks and her small 2” and 3” guns putting out constant fire. While shells of such a small caliber couldn’t truly do damage to the much larger battleship monitors, they could punch through the thinner armor of the protected cruisers. But her teeth were still the two torpedoes she carried. If she got close enough to launch another warship might join McLennan on her tally. But the brief respite was over, and the Confederates opened fire.
To his credit Villaamil, manning the helm himself, skillfully avoided shell after shell that was fired at his tiny vessel. Closing to fast for the Confederate gunners to land a solid hit, Furor slipped inside the range of her torpedoes. In seconds she flushed both tubes at Stonewall but continued her headlong charge. The aim was good, and a towering column of spray shot up from the stern of the Southern monitor.
Unfortunately, the Spaniard’s luck ran out and shells began landing. The first struck just after the first funnel, blowing a gaping hole in destroyer’s flank and tearing into the engine room. Clouds of super-heated steam came billowing up from this wound, cutting the flagging speed further. A second shell impacted near the stern, ripping the aft deck gun and aft torpedo tube off the ship. A third and final shell tore through the bows and detonated just forward of the bridge. Fernando Villaamil, his legs shattered but still holding the splintered ship’s wheel, refused to leave his post. He was still onboard when the valiant destroyer slipped below the waves.
Boats were lowered to take on survivors while Lee took her sister, rudder jammed, and starboard shaft shattered, under tow. Among those pulled from the water was a young rating, the torn and smoke-stained Spanish ensign from Furor clutched in his hands. The tattered flag was presented to Admiral Gains on Lee’s bridge by a grinning Captain Breckenridge. It was at this moment a cry went up.
“Smoke on the horizon!”
That celebration died rather quickly, Gains mused, as he quickly walked to the windows. There certainly was the distinct plume of coal smoke a ship would give off. A quite considerable one too. Whoever it was, friend or foe, was in quite a hurry. “Captain, any word from the spotter in the mast? If it is another Spaniard, we’ll have cut the tow and I fear for Stonewall’s condition.”
“No sir,” Replied the bearded man next to him. “A crew is standing by at the stern just in case.”
Both men were grim as they waited for the call from the lookouts. Neither one wanted to abandon the heavily damaged battleship, but if they had to, they would take that chance. Better the loss of one ship than two. A runner, his job a suiting name for the activity he was doing, darted through the hatch. “Sir, report from the lookout. It’s a warship, coming in fast and flying the Stars and Bars. She has signal lines up too. King, yankee, whiskey, salt, terror on the first, king on the second, sir.”
“That’s Key West.” Exclaimed Breckenridge. “She was up at Portsmouth when we left, finishing her sea trials.”
“Yes, she was.” Replied Gains. “And if Portsmouth had news for us, they should have wired down to Pensacola and saved some time. There’s a destroyer flotilla there that could have easily carried the message here faster than she could. Or they could have sent a navy packet steamer. Either one is faster than sending a battleship down from Virginia.”
“Lieutenant,” Breckenridge called to a nearby officer. “Run up a confirmation but tell them keep their distance. We’re pulling a heavy cargo, and we don’t want to ram them.”
It took half an hour for the Confederate second ranker to get close. When she did, a ships boat was lowered and manned and quickly rowed over to Lee. A single, panicked looking junior commander climbed aboard, rushed through the traditional greetings, and all but sprinted up to the bridge.
“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Harper, sir.” He panted, hand up in the proper salute. “Urgent message from Richmond, sir. You and your command are to halt all activity and head to Charleston at all possible speed.” The young officer handed out a locked dispatch satchel and a key. “Further orders are inside and are only to be opened by you, sir.”
“Very well, Commander. Just what is the need for such a rush? Portsmouth’s orders can wait for a bit.” Gains asked, taking the satchel from the suddenly pale man.
“Sir.” Harper gulped. “Portsmouth blew up.”
The dining room of the mansion was normally a cheery place for these meetings. Knowledgeable servants would carry drinks trays, rich food would be eaten, and then everyone would retire for cognac and cigars before finally getting down to business. However, on this occasion the room was crowded with grim masked men, all of whom spoke quietly but vigorously of the recent disaster. Several seats at the table were empty, their usual occupants having been killed at Portsmouth. Something had gone horribly wrong.
The man at the head of the table rose, his cane supporting him. He dealt the sound block in front of him a pair of sharp raps. “I hear-by call this emergency meeting into order.” The words were slightly muffled by the red mask he wore. “The first item on our agenda, I have the solemn duty to announce the deaths Mr. Twelve, Admiral Zachery Smith, and Mr. Eighteen, Admiral Percy Millard. I return their seats to the floor. Nominations will take place at the scheduled meeting on the 1st of September. The second item on our agenda, the destruction of Portsmouth. With regards to his involvement in this event the floor is granted to Mr. Two.”
Attention shifted to the man in question. Everyone knew who he was behind the mask, but even here, safe and away from prying eyes, they would follow tradition and use only numbers. Even so, regardless of his status here or his power outside of the room, he was nervous. Whatever he had planned had failed horribly, and there would be drastic consequences.
“As you are all aware, the war with the Spanish had reached something of a standstill earlier in the month. Despite our efforts to arm the Cubans and sabotage the Iberians, our army had stalled outside of Santiago de Cuba. What some of you might not be aware of is the recent communications I have received from several European governments expressing their distaste with our conduct before the war and during it. Some of said communications accused us of fabricating the rebellion and the war and demanded that we begin peace talks with Spain immediately or they would be forced to intervene.”
That information set off uncertain mutters. While they had supplied materials and advisors to the rebels, the threat of other nations intervening would hamper their efforts severely. The pounding of the gavel quieted them.
“Thank you, Mr. One” Said Mr. Two. “Now, while this was going on, Navy Secretary Anderson had begun to investigate into the same issues, and from what I understand he was making considerable headway. Had he succeeded he would have exposed us and our actions, and we would all be in great danger. However, a Spanish spy ring had just been found operating in Portsmouth, with the intent to sabotage or destroy our Navy’s ability to fight.”
Another man in a blue mask interpreted. “I assume you attempted to use this spy ring to your advantage by letting them carry out their sabotage?”
“Not quite, Mr. Ten, but in that same vein. I had planned to act before they could. On the 25th, multiple groups of some of our junior members would attack several important locations at Portsmouth, specifically the shipyards and berths. They were given specific orders to cause havoc and confusion, as well as to sink as many foreign ships in the harbor as they could. While this was happening, a separate group would ensure that Mr. Anderson never made his breakthrough. Once that had been accomplished, government authorities made up of our men would sweep in and capture the Spanish spies. The resulting battle would have left no survivors.” Mr. Two glanced around at his fellow men. “Europe would blame Madrid for the attacks on their shipping, we remove a threat to ourselves, and a potentially dangerous intelligence network is destroyed. Three birds, one stone.”
“So, all the blame for the attack would be placed on the Iberians.” Spoke a fourth man. “Foreign ships sunk, a number of our warships damaged and the head of our Navy killed. To Europe it would look like the Spanish had done it, and with their spies dead we could fabricate whatever proof we needed. Everyone would accuse them of attacking their shipping and citizens, and for conducting dishonorable attacks and an assassination. Furthermore, we could ensure one of our members in the Navy brass was Anderson’s replacement. A well thought out plan.” He leaned forward. “So, what went wrong?”
Mr. Two spread his hands. “I do not know. I can only assume that something went wrong while the plan was being carried out, and that somehow the arsenal was destroyed in the process.”
“Well,” Replied Mr. Ten. “Regardless of how this came to be, we find ourselves in a far worse position than what you had hoped the outcome would be.” He looked up and down the table. “We now have a severely weakened navy, a completely ruined city, and several of our members are dead or presumed dead. Thankfully, we can still turn this disaster to our favor. I assume your offices still have the information on the Spanish spies, Mr. Two?”
“I have already prepared statements blaming the Spanish for the attack, as well as a release of the documents and proof that we gathered on the spy ring before the explosion. Both are set to be released tomorrow in time for the afternoon papers.”
A man in a green mask raised his hand for attention. Mr. One pointed with the gavel. “Mr. Sixteen is recognized.”
“Thank you, Mr. One. Mr. Two, with regards to the deaths of our colleagues, their loss has prevented them from stepping into the place of the Secretary of the Navy and I understand that Mr. Thirty-four is not senior enough to justify said placement. Who has received the command?”
“A recently promoted Admiral, a Johnson Gains. He has been in command of the squadron in the Caribbean.”
“Really?” Exclaimed Mr. Ten. “That is quite the coincidence. I happen to know his family. His father and I were quite close before his passing.”
“I assume there is no chance of persuading him to join us?” Queried Mr. Sixteen.
Mr. Two shook his head. “I do not know.”
The mood in Robert E. Lee’s wardroom was grim. The satchel had indeed carried urgent news from Richmond. If what the letters and dispatches had said was correct, then Portsmouth, and everything and everyone in it, was gone. The small Navy offices at Richmond had become the temporary administration headquarters. The suddenly overworked skeleton staff there had managed to send a lengthy message with estimates of just how badly mauled the Navy currently was. Included in that message was a list of warships that were in port at the time of the blast.
“…armored cruiser Savannah presumed lost with all hands, armored cruiser Chicora presumed lost with all hands, armored cruiser Teaser presumed lost with all hands, protected cruiser Clifton presumed lost with all hands.” Breckenridge paused in his reading, dryly swallowed, and then read the next entries. “Armored cruiser Charleston presumed lost with all hands. Battleship James Longstreet presumed lost with all hands. Battleship A. P. Hill presumed lost with all hands.”
The bearded captain sighed and placed the list back down on the table. “In total, sir, two battleships, four armored cruisers, three protected cruisers, and twelve destroyers and their crews are believed to have been lost.”
“What of the other ships based out of Portsmouth?” Asked the captain of Chuckatuck, a thin Texan in wire-rimmed glasses. “Key West is obviously here, but what about the Mallorys and the other Wests?”
“The dispatch states that they were all at sea at the time.” Answered Eastport’s captain, a rotund Georgian native. “They avoided the blast but are stuck in Newport News with empty bunkers and no hope of a resupply in the near future. They gave all the coal they had to Key West, so she could get down here.”
“Well, we damn well can’t do any good down here.” Stated the tired and soot-smeared captain of Stonewall. “And while the rest of you can make it back to the states, my ship will not be going anywhere without an extensive stay in a shipyard.”
“Unfortunately, none of our ships will be of much use at the current moment.” Breckenridge said quietly. “Lee will also need some time in a yard, and all of our ships need ammunition and coal. But the only yard and base that can service all of our needs is currently burning.” The battleship captain turned to his commanding officer. “Admiral, I suggest that we make for Guantanamo Bay and decide what our next actions will be from there.”
Gains looked up. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to do that gentlemen.” He picked up the opened envelope on the table before him and read. “Vice-Admiral Gains, Commander of Flying Squadron. With the deaths of your superiors, you are hereby appointed emergency Naval Secretary. You are to report to Richmond as soon as you are able. Your orders are to take command of the Navy and restore it to fighting capabilities by whatever means necessary. Signed Benjamin Garrison, President of the Confederate States.”
Placing the letter back down, Gains gave a helpless look to his fellow officers. “I appear to be the highest-ranking officer currently left in the Confederate Navy.”
“What about Admiral Smith?” Asked Tuscaloosa’s captain, a bulky grey-haired man from Florida.
“Dead, as are the men of the Navy Board and Admirals Millard and Hornficher. All of them were in the Administration buildings at the time of the blast, and none of them had been found alive at the time this order was written.” Gains put his head in his hands. “Leaving myself, a newly promoted admiral, as the last surviving ranking officer in the Navy.
The soft clinking of glasses brought him up. Breckenridge, like many captains, had his small pleasures and his was a love of fine liquors. A snifter with a sizable dose of brandy was placed in front of Gains. His captain gave him a sad smile. “I think this will help sir.” He looked around. “In fact, we all could use a drink after this news.”
Glasses were filled and placed before each man. “Gentlemen.” Breckenridge said, lifting his glass. “To the Confederacy. May she always endure.” Crystal rose in chorus. “The Confederacy.” The brandy was downed, a few men gasping at the strength of the spirit. “Dear God, Breckenridge.” Choked Stonewall’s captain. “Where have you been hiding that?”
Lee’s captain smiled. “My brother has a vineyard Georgia. This was one of his better batches.”
“Well then,” Came the reply. “Gentlemen, to the Navy. May she rise from the ashes.” Again, glasses were raised. “The Navy.”
Commander Harper, silent for the duration of the meeting, spoke. “To Secretary Gains.” At that the former admiral glared at the younger impishly grinning officer. “May he find luck in his new post.”
This time there was chuckling. “To Secretary Gains!”
The man in question stared at his glass. Gave it a swirl and watched as golden alcohol danced. “Oh, damn it all.” He muttered. “Gentlemen. I cannot say that I will lead you well. Nor can I say that we shall recover from this loss. But I shall do my best to make our nation and our service proud.”
He raised his glass. “To Portsmouth, gentlemen.”
“To Portsmouth.”
Still Flying