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Sky Above, Sea Below
A Capital Ship sequel
© 2025 by Walter Reimer
Four.
“Signal the frigates,” de Ville snapped. “Have them move west and support the coastal forts. The rest of the flotilla outnumber the British three to two.” Signal flags fluttered up the halyards in response to the bulldog’s orders.
One of the East Indiamen fired its Faraday-Armstrong electrocannons, the half-broadside arcing up toward the three third-rates. One shell struck Audace’s St. Elmo Field and bounced, while another shell exploded against the ship’s hull near its keel. The ship’s field held, although there was a small shower of burning splinters.
“Helm,” the Captain said, “hard about. Gunner, fire by section when you have a target.”
“Aye, Soor,” Gunner Ratsiraka replied.
The Temeraire banked hard as it slewed around, increasing the depression of the guns. On the decks, crewmembers scrambled to grab hold of something before they lost their footing.
“Ready, Soor!”
“Fire!
The Temeraire’s St. Elmo Field flickered as it was shut off.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ-KRAK! Ten electrocarronades spoke as one. Equipped with thirty to a side, the warship’s crews had been trained in salvo fire. Several of the shells trailed sparks from the powerful electrical charge imparted to them by the guns.
The St. Elmo Field snapped back on and the guns began to recharge.
Despite being at a disadvantage, the British ship tried to evade but still took six ten-kilogram explosive shells along its main deck and upper hull. Not being a French ship, it had no defensive field; its foremast toppled and fires broke out, the Indiaman heaving aside and circling as the ship’s crew began damage control.
A series of smoke trails erupted from the stricken ship. “Rockets, Sir,” the First Officer reported.
De Ville nodded. “Steer two points to port and raise us to twelve hundred meters.”
The British used Congreve rockets as a secondary weapon. Each was equipped with guidance fins and a lens and trailed wires that connected them to an operator. The usual defensive tactic was to evade, try to draw out of range, and rely on the ship’s marines, secured to the yards with safety harnesses, to use their rifles to good effect. Being higher in the air than the enemy, plunging fire could be a deadly hazard for rocket operators and damage control teams.
The French were still trying to reverse-engineer the British rockets but hadn’t released any examples to the Navy yet.
One rocket drew close to the French ship but its directing wires parted. It spiraled out of control and started to fall back to the sea.
Audace fired a full broadside at the ship the Temeraire had damaged, wrecking one of the East Indiaman’s rotors and shredding its bows. The ship shuddered and began a long descent to the ocean, trailing smoke and fire.
De Ville nodded as he studied his visor display. “One down,” he said in a satisfied tone. “Signal Well Done to Au – what the hell?”
Francois studied his own display, the stricken British ship had described a tight circle and emerged from its smoke cloud. Listing heavily, it was using the tilt to bring more of its guns to bear.
“Gunner! Fire!” De Ville snapped. The St. Elmo Field dropped and another ten guns fired.
But not before the British did.
Francois barked into his microphone, “BRACE!” and grabbed the nearest ratline.
Temeraire had been banking as it ascended, and some of the British shots went wide of the French third-rate. The red-ruffed lemur ducked his head and closed his eyes as an explosion filled the air with splinters of wood and hot metal, and the ship shook like a rag doll in a feral dog’s jaws.
Then came another.
And another.
The display on his visor went dark, flickered, went dark again, flickered again and finally stabilized. In a way, that comforted him; it meant that the ship still had power and the Helm citadel was still intact. If they had lost power, they were more than a thousand meters in the air.
A long way down.
Francois braced himself, forced himself to his feet with a grunt and looked around.
The ship was listing slightly and had lost maybe a hundred meters in altitude; the mizzen mast was only half as high as it had been before the battle, with parts of the tattered sail still burning. Debris littered the deck, including a severed paw in a dark blue uniform sleeve. The bosun took a few tentative steps forward until he regained his footing on the deck.
A rating ran up to him. “Bosun, are you alright?” the civet asked.
“I’m fine.” Wounded and dead were being cleared away belowdecks, while more crewmembers were making hasty repairs to the worst of the damage.
“You’re bleeding,” and when Francois glanced at the civet the rating pointed. “You caught a splinter in your shoulder – looks like your tail too,” the sailor said.
“Oh. Well, I’m better off than those other poor devils. I’ll go aft and tell the Captain – “
“Captain’s dead, Bosun.”
Francois paused, feeling the deck lurch, or maybe it was all in his head. “Captain de Ville’s dead?”
The civet crossed himself. “Blown over the side.”
Francois nodded. There’d be time to mourn later, and he tapped the controls. “Guns.”
“Ratsiraka here.”
“How are we doing?”
“Guns are still ready, St. Elmo Field’s running.” Yes; he still felt the slight fur-prickling sensation of the electrical shield encompassing the ship.
“Good. I’ll report to the First Officer.”
“I heard the Captain bought it.”
“He did, so I’m told.”
“The ones who did it,” and Francois heard the other lemur spit, “will pay for it.”
“Damned right,” and the red-ruffed lemur headed aft.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Capital Ship sequel
© 2025 by Walter Reimer
Four.
“Signal the frigates,” de Ville snapped. “Have them move west and support the coastal forts. The rest of the flotilla outnumber the British three to two.” Signal flags fluttered up the halyards in response to the bulldog’s orders.
One of the East Indiamen fired its Faraday-Armstrong electrocannons, the half-broadside arcing up toward the three third-rates. One shell struck Audace’s St. Elmo Field and bounced, while another shell exploded against the ship’s hull near its keel. The ship’s field held, although there was a small shower of burning splinters.
“Helm,” the Captain said, “hard about. Gunner, fire by section when you have a target.”
“Aye, Soor,” Gunner Ratsiraka replied.
The Temeraire banked hard as it slewed around, increasing the depression of the guns. On the decks, crewmembers scrambled to grab hold of something before they lost their footing.
“Ready, Soor!”
“Fire!
The Temeraire’s St. Elmo Field flickered as it was shut off.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ-KRAK! Ten electrocarronades spoke as one. Equipped with thirty to a side, the warship’s crews had been trained in salvo fire. Several of the shells trailed sparks from the powerful electrical charge imparted to them by the guns.
The St. Elmo Field snapped back on and the guns began to recharge.
Despite being at a disadvantage, the British ship tried to evade but still took six ten-kilogram explosive shells along its main deck and upper hull. Not being a French ship, it had no defensive field; its foremast toppled and fires broke out, the Indiaman heaving aside and circling as the ship’s crew began damage control.
A series of smoke trails erupted from the stricken ship. “Rockets, Sir,” the First Officer reported.
De Ville nodded. “Steer two points to port and raise us to twelve hundred meters.”
The British used Congreve rockets as a secondary weapon. Each was equipped with guidance fins and a lens and trailed wires that connected them to an operator. The usual defensive tactic was to evade, try to draw out of range, and rely on the ship’s marines, secured to the yards with safety harnesses, to use their rifles to good effect. Being higher in the air than the enemy, plunging fire could be a deadly hazard for rocket operators and damage control teams.
The French were still trying to reverse-engineer the British rockets but hadn’t released any examples to the Navy yet.
One rocket drew close to the French ship but its directing wires parted. It spiraled out of control and started to fall back to the sea.
Audace fired a full broadside at the ship the Temeraire had damaged, wrecking one of the East Indiaman’s rotors and shredding its bows. The ship shuddered and began a long descent to the ocean, trailing smoke and fire.
De Ville nodded as he studied his visor display. “One down,” he said in a satisfied tone. “Signal Well Done to Au – what the hell?”
Francois studied his own display, the stricken British ship had described a tight circle and emerged from its smoke cloud. Listing heavily, it was using the tilt to bring more of its guns to bear.
“Gunner! Fire!” De Ville snapped. The St. Elmo Field dropped and another ten guns fired.
But not before the British did.
Francois barked into his microphone, “BRACE!” and grabbed the nearest ratline.
Temeraire had been banking as it ascended, and some of the British shots went wide of the French third-rate. The red-ruffed lemur ducked his head and closed his eyes as an explosion filled the air with splinters of wood and hot metal, and the ship shook like a rag doll in a feral dog’s jaws.
Then came another.
And another.
The display on his visor went dark, flickered, went dark again, flickered again and finally stabilized. In a way, that comforted him; it meant that the ship still had power and the Helm citadel was still intact. If they had lost power, they were more than a thousand meters in the air.
A long way down.
Francois braced himself, forced himself to his feet with a grunt and looked around.
The ship was listing slightly and had lost maybe a hundred meters in altitude; the mizzen mast was only half as high as it had been before the battle, with parts of the tattered sail still burning. Debris littered the deck, including a severed paw in a dark blue uniform sleeve. The bosun took a few tentative steps forward until he regained his footing on the deck.
A rating ran up to him. “Bosun, are you alright?” the civet asked.
“I’m fine.” Wounded and dead were being cleared away belowdecks, while more crewmembers were making hasty repairs to the worst of the damage.
“You’re bleeding,” and when Francois glanced at the civet the rating pointed. “You caught a splinter in your shoulder – looks like your tail too,” the sailor said.
“Oh. Well, I’m better off than those other poor devils. I’ll go aft and tell the Captain – “
“Captain’s dead, Bosun.”
Francois paused, feeling the deck lurch, or maybe it was all in his head. “Captain de Ville’s dead?”
The civet crossed himself. “Blown over the side.”
Francois nodded. There’d be time to mourn later, and he tapped the controls. “Guns.”
“Ratsiraka here.”
“How are we doing?”
“Guns are still ready, St. Elmo Field’s running.” Yes; he still felt the slight fur-prickling sensation of the electrical shield encompassing the ship.
“Good. I’ll report to the First Officer.”
“I heard the Captain bought it.”
“He did, so I’m told.”
“The ones who did it,” and Francois heard the other lemur spit, “will pay for it.”
“Damned right,” and the red-ruffed lemur headed aft.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Lemur
Size 120 x 97px
File Size 58.4 kB
Ironclads would be a big game changer, but I suspect the st elmo fields would bring a lot of tough issues to solve, like electrically frying the entire crew, Magnetic induction making hull members white hot, possible uncontrolled teleportation and crew phasing into the deck a'la the rumored U.S.S. Eldrige...
About the captain: It was so sudden! but of course, that has to be how it would have been.
About this universe's Gloire: It's got me thinking of the infamous Vasa debacle IRL.
Speaking of the House of Vasa's stomping grounds, though... while it's probably outside the scope of this story, were the Swedes or the Poles able to hold onto their Major Power status any longer in this history+? or just the opposite?
+ histoire? pun intended
About this universe's Gloire: It's got me thinking of the infamous Vasa debacle IRL.
Speaking of the House of Vasa's stomping grounds, though... while it's probably outside the scope of this story, were the Swedes or the Poles able to hold onto their Major Power status any longer in this history+? or just the opposite?
+ histoire? pun intended
Even if he wasn't wounded in the explosion, it's still a thousand-meter drop. Better flap your arms, because at this point you never know - it might work.
I'm thinking Sweden's still a major power, along with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. They're sort of fixated on curbing the Russian Tsardom's westward ambitions.
I'm thinking Sweden's still a major power, along with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. They're sort of fixated on curbing the Russian Tsardom's westward ambitions.
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