Eastern Seaboard, 30 nm off Savannah GA – January 17, 1907, 1245 Local
“Sir, Ohio signals that she’s having engine trouble again,” said Lieutenant Samuel Thompson. “Best she can do is sixteen knots.”
“Very good,” answered Rear Admiral Oliver Newberry, though 16 knots in a dead calm was anything but good. Ohio had been sent home from Europe in December with mechanical issues, the Norwegian ports didn’t have the facilities to handle her. She’d spent three weeks in the yard and should still be there but he’d been forced to bring her to fill out his sole battleship division. He’d considered leaving her behind and running with just New York and Missouri as his core force, but intelligence reports had warned of a powerful Russian force sweeping south from Iceland and he couldn’t justify the omission.
And that was all the battleships at his disposal to cover the entire US east coast. The remainder of the battle fleet, or at least all its modern ships, was patrolling the North Sea from bases at Stavanger and Bergen. Once the pack ice receded in the spring they would resume pushing past the Arctic Circle to also cut off any sea traffic from Archangel. The fleet had been able to largely blockade European Russia, but it left Newberry’s squadron severely under-strength for what it protected.
He'd scratched together a force from a couple different ports and gathered off Charleston. In addition to the three battleships he at least had a healthy cruiser force, including Indianapolis and Toledo, both less than four months in commission. Brand new cruisers, which was great, but Newberry was concerned the crews were more than a little green.
He had very little to go on other than the knowledge that a half dozen Russian cruisers had sortied from Reykjavik with orders to harass shipping between Cape Hatteras and Jacksonville. He’d arranged the squadron into two units to run parallel to the coast. The inshore column about fifteen miles off the coast centered on the three battleships, supported by three St Louis-class cruisers and two divisions of destroyers. He’d stationed armored cruiser Toledo, backed by Indianapolis and another destroyer division, another twenty thousand yards out to sea.
Given the dearth of usable intelligence he’d been forced to gamble and had first steered the squadron south. Naturally the early afternoon had seen his fleet off Savannah and had brought a vague report of Russian cruisers sighted off Myrtle Beach over a hundred miles away. On the second report he’d turned the fleet and for three hours they’d steamed northeast at their rather sluggish best speed.
“Sir, Toledo signals that they have contact to the east, unknown warship, but not American,” Thompson informed him.
Finally, thought Newberry, then out loud “Bring the fleet to maximum speed and turn to engage.” They probably still had two hours of daylight, if they could get in range before darkness they could do some damage.
********
Commander Henry Gorham descended from the Indianapolis’ mast to the bridge wing. “Turn to course three five zero and come to flank speed,” he ordered. “There’s a merchie to the north that I’d like to save if we can get there in time. Signal Toledo there’s at least six of them out there. The nearest is a Voedova-class, the rest look like other cruisers of various sorts.”
“Sir,” called Lieutenant Clarence Biggins, “Toledo’s telling us to fall in with her and lead the Russians south.”
“Dammit,” swore Gorham. So much for saving the transport. “Acknowledge. Turn about to one six zero and fall in ahead of Toledo.”
In truth it would have been a stretch to get north in time anyway, and the next twenty minutes revealed a much stronger Russian force than he’d thought they were dealing with, with multiple armored cruisers and his lookout claiming one of them was a battleship. They’d lead the Russians away from the coast and give their own battlewagons time to come up.
They closed the range with the big Russian ships and started exchanging fire, Indianapolis and Toledo pouring out shells from a combined twenty six- and eight-inch guns. They shattered the superstructure of the lead Russian armored cruiser, leaving it burning in the twilight as they turned back toward the battleships.
“Sir, Missouri is signaling flotilla attack,” Biggins informed him, and Gorham turned to look into the gathering night. Sure enough the O’Brien and Paul Jones swung out of line toward the Russian cruisers. The destroyers escorting the main force joined them in in a full-tilt sprint through the enemy formation. Russian and American spotlights and star shells provided some illumination as Russian explosives fell around the destroyers. Darkness, smoke, and American gunfire did their jobs, giving the Russians very difficult targets as the destroyers made their runs.
A tremendous flash tore apart the center section of one of the destroyers, Gorham couldn’t tell which one in the dark. Moments later a Russian cruiser was illuminated by a second explosion, followed by another. The remaining destroyers wheeled back to the American formation, their task complete. Two of the big enemy cruisers were drifting to a stop, one on fire.
“Concentrate on the one that’s not burning,” Gorham ordered. “The other one looks to be in trouble already.”
********
Thompson lowered his night glasses and turned to Newberry. “Sir, Toldeo said they’re mopping up two Russians, it looks like that brings us to three. We’ve lost contact with the rest of them, visibility is atrocious.”
“Excellent,” answered Newberry, “order a recall, and set course two seven zero. I’d rather we not stumble on them in the dark. What’s the condition of our destroyers?”
“One of them got mauled, Toledo wasn’t certain how bad but it didn’t look good.”
“Mark the location,” Newberry said, “we’ll send a search out at daylight. We’re only fifty miles off Charleston. There will probably be some Russian boats out here too.”
Newberry looked at the chart and turned to Thompson. “Signal the damaged destroyers and cruisers that when we reach port they’re to head in. We’ll take the battleships and the untouched ships to patrol further up the coast.” Newberry looked at his watch. “I’ll be in my cabin, please come get me when we’re in sight of Charleston.”
Over the next four hours the squadron regrouped and headed northwest as reports came in from the other ships. Toledo and Indianapolis were both a bit torn up, but not so much that Indy couldn’t lead the formation. Several of the destroyers were in pretty bad shape and the Roe had gone down after transferring the injured to another ship.
“Lieutenant Thompson,” called the watch officer. “Signal lamp from the Indianapolis!”
Incredibly, just after midnight they discovered a Russian cruiser limping along ten miles off the Charleston breakwater. Newberry came forward into the bridge, pulling on his jacket. “What are we looking at?” he asked.
“Admiral,” said Captain Noah Leslie, commander of the Missouri. “It’s hard to say in the darkness but she looks like one of their big protected cruisers, an Aurora or an Izmrud. We obviously did her some harm earlier, something on board is burning occasionally and she’s barely making eight knots. There’s no telling what she thinks she’s doing here though, and I don’t think she’s seen us.”
“Interesting,” he responded. “Put our freshest ships in the lead, we’ll push past her to get our wounded ships to port then come back and finish her off.
“Just a moment, sir” answered Leslie, looking at the plot. He considered for a moment and made a few measurements with the dividers. “Can I suggest a different option?” He made a couple marks on the chart and outlined his idea to the Admiral.
Newberry smiled. “Make it so. Signal the squadron to turn together to two two zero and prepare for additional instructions.”
********
“Did the skipper really say ‘away boarders’, sir?” asked Marine Gunnery Sergeant Willie Carter.
“I believe he did, Guns,” answered Lieutenant Eric Lawrence. “It fits the insanity of this whole scheme,” he added in a low voice that wouldn’t carry beyond Carter. The two men and another twelve Marines sat low in a packed cutter, jammed in with the sailors manning the oars. They’d been rushed from the pair of four-inch guns they were serving aboard Providence, grabbed their combat gear and a quick swig of water, and boarded the boats in all of about ten minutes.
The cutter, along with boats from the other cruisers and the squadron’s battleships, six in all, bobbed silently in the darkness. The fleet had dropped the boats to be towed by a pair of destroyers and then turned back northwest well ahead of the Russian cruiser, still lurching slowly to the southwest parallel to the coast. The injured American ships continued into Charleston, undetected and unmolested, while the fit ships turned onto a northeast tack, opposite the injured Russian cruiser and still unseen themselves.
It had taken thirty minutes after lowering the cutters but everyone was in position. The main body was closing rapidly with the Russian from landward, while the dark and crowded boats sat a bit ahead of the Russian and a thousand yards out to sea. Suddenly a gout of sparks leapt from the cruiser’s stacks as they poured on coal. Searchlights from her bridge stabbed out, searching for the American battleships. Evidently the flotilla had finally been spotted. With a smashing, near simultaneous crack the American unit’s twelve big guns opened up, and the Russian tried to answer while turning frantically away from the dire threat and slowing yet further as more shells went home.
Right astride the ship’s new path, still concealed in the gloom, were a hundred Marines and a few dozen seamen. The sailors bent to the oars and the coxswains steered them in, shrapnel and errant shells from the American bombardment crackling overhead, three boats aiming for the cruiser’s forward quarter and three for the aft. The Russians were slow to detect the small boats and even slower to respond to the new danger. Belatedly, sporadic rifle shots began to ring out from the cruiser and the Marines in the boats answered, firing over the oarsmen in an attempt to stem the Russian gunfire.
The cutter bumped against the cruiser’s hull and Lieutenant Lawrence fired a flare. Gunfire from the American fleet tapered and then fell silent as the cutters’ signals were seen. Sailors made the boats fast to the cruiser’s side and Marines swarmed onto the Russian’s ship. What should have been a six-foot climb was a simple step across onto the wounded cruiser’s gun deck, she rode so low. Carter threw a grenade into the nearest six-inch casemate while Lawrence took a moment to get his bearings, the ship illuminated by star shells and by the fires re-kindled by the squadron’s fusillade.
“There’s a ladder forward,” he called, “that’s our objective. Get up the ladder to the main deck, and then on to the bridge.”
The first Marines up the ladder formed a perimeter at the top, joined quickly by some of the more enthusiastic sailors. The team spread into a line, met by another coming up a ladder twenty yards aft, and started sweeping toward the center of the ship. Lawrence, Carter, and three others burst through the pilothouse door to find a charnel house. A major caliber shell had devastated the ship’s bridge. Two Russian officers and a half dozen sailors lay on the floor and another was slumped over the ship’s binnacle, all badly burned and immobile. A young officer and two sailors were busy destroying charts and codebooks. The officer started reaching for a pistol, and Carter brought his rifle to his shoulder.
The young Russian smiled crookedly and joined his two companions in raising their hands. Across the ship the US Marines found similar reactions, with occasional pockets of resistance among the surviving members of the crew evaporating quickly.