Chapter 1151: The Mediterranean, An Eternal Nightmare
The French warships were unable to seize the weather gage and were forced to turn north once more in a feigned retreat.
Colonel Russell watched the distance between the two fleets close. With practiced ease, he signaled five ships to block the windward side while commanding the rest of his vessels to give chase at full throttle.
However, as the fast fleet completed its turn, Russell felt that something was amiss.
He walked to the rear of the command deck and peered through the glass windows. In the distance, two of his own steam warships were drifting aimlessly on the sea—the HMS Shield and the HMS Taiga.
Russell frowned, pointing out the window as he questioned his staff officer, "What happened to them?"
The officer looked equally bewildered and rushed outside. He returned a few minutes later, looking dejected. "Commander, the Taiga reports a catastrophic failure in its propeller shaft. The other ship is still investigating its own breakdown."
Russell's face darkened. "How much maintenance funding did those bastards at the Chatham Dockyard embezzle? To have such critical failures now!
'When I get back, I'll see them all dragged before a military court!'
The second mate gestured toward the horizon. "Commander, the French have made another sharp turn."
This time, four more warships failed to keep up.
The HMS Dolphinfish even suffered an internal explosion. Cries of "Put out the fire!" and "Lower the lifeboats!" reached Russell's flagship across the water.
"Damn it, what is going on?!" Russell bellowed, waving his arms frantically. "Tell every ship to watch their pressure gauges! Do not over-pressurize just for a bit of extra speed!"
He paused, realizing something was wrong with his own logic. The Shield and the Serpentine were among the first batch of ships built; they were equipped with steam engines featuring automatic pressure regulation.
As if to confirm his suspicions, a report from the lookout arrived at the command room. Of the four ships that had just failed, two were confirmed to have snapped their propeller shafts.
Russell could never have imagined that this was a pit the French had dug for them three years ago.
The Lignum Vitae used to manufacture the shafts had been tampered with from the very beginning.
After the Avenger snapped its shaft during its maiden voyage, the engineer Sander had immediately lowered the torque specifications for all engines. This ensured that the British warships would not break their shafts during routine training exercises.
He had even written in the operating manuals: "To extend the service life of the steam engine, avoid sailing at maximum power whenever possible."
Even with these precautions, there had been three instances of snapped shafts over the years.
However, Sander had brushed those incidents off, blaming them on "pressure control malfunctions" or "insufficient lubrication of the governor gears." To protect the reputation of their warships, the Chatham Dockyard simply cooperated by replacing the shafts. Since the Boulton-Watt Company covered the costs of the repairs, Director Hope had raised no objections.
But today, these British steam warships were not only running at full power for an extended period but were also performing frequent, extreme maneuvers. This placed immense lateral pressure on the propeller shafts. The microscopic flaws within the wood quickly expanded, leading to total structural failure.
After another nine kilometers of sailing, Russell finally lost his composure.
He had lost nine warships in quick succession. Now, the number of active vessels in his fast fleet was no greater than that of the French.
He even had a premonition that his own flagship would lose power in the next heartbeat.
Russell looked back at the ships drifting behind him and spoke to the signal officer with a grim expression. "Order the fleet to cease the pursuit.
'The HMS Quicksand is to return to the main fleet to request reinforcements. All other ships are to rally to me. We will tow the disabled vessels back.'
"Understood, Commander."
As the British fast fleet began to turn around, Colonel Pierre Dumanoir, commander of the French squadron aboard the Light, immediately issued his orders: "All ships, turn southwest! Form groups of three and seek targets of opportunity!"
Indeed, compared to the British Navy, which had only been operating steam warships for a little over a year, the French Navy truly understood how to utilize these powerful machines.
These light, fast warships were not meant for traditional line-of-battle tactics. Instead, they were designed to operate in small squads, finding gaps in the enemy formation to harass and strike repeatedly.
Ten minutes later, the French "Masters" began teaching the British a lesson.
Four squads swarmed the British warships from both flanks, preventing them from rendering aid to their disabled comrades.
Another three squads accelerated toward the southwest, targeting the enemy ships that had already lost power.
If the British warships attempted to intercept them, the French simply repeated their earlier tactics, performing rapid, sharp maneuvers.
'If you dare to follow us, you’d better pray your propeller shafts hold up,' Dumanoir thought grimly.
If they didn't follow, the French would seize advantageous firing positions to launch ambushes or pummel the stationary targets.
Meanwhile, the main battleships of the British Mediterranean Fleet were still nearly thirteen kilometers away, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding here.
Before long, the HMS Sea Bream suffered a sympathetic detonation after being hammered by repeated broadsides.
Flames quickly spread to the coal bunkers. The entire ship transformed into a floating fireball on the surface of the sea.
Scores of British sailors jumped into the water, screaming in agony. Many were scorched to death by the intense heat radiating from the ship before they could even swim clear.
Then came the HMS Foxhound. While attempting to chase a French vessel, its mast was struck by a stern chaser.
Its speed crippled, the British ship was quickly surrounded by three French warships. Captain Patrick was forced to give the order to abandon ship.
Russell watched the chaos surrounding him, his face devoid of color.
After yet another warship was sunk, he finally gritted his teeth and gave the command: "Abandon the disabled ships! Retreat immediately!"
However, he had forgotten one thing: they had arrived with a following wind, but now that they were retreating, they were heading into a headwind.
Once the British fast fleet completed its turn, the French warships had already closed to within three hundred meters, forming a semi-circle around them.
Colonel Dumanoir did not hesitate, immediately ordering a general volley.
At this distance, the accuracy of smoothbore cannons was limited, but the barrage served its purpose by forcing the British ships to accelerate desperately.
Thus, Colonel Russell's premonition came true. A series of ear-piercing screeches and groans echoed from the depths of his flagship, the HMS Cyclone, followed by a sudden, jarring loss of speed.
He watched helplessly as several French warships glided past his broadside, firing a few symbolic shots at him.
A ship that had lost its power was nothing more than a lamb to the slaughter. Dumanoir's objective was to catch as many of the functional enemy ships as possible.
At 11:30 AM, the sixteen surviving vessels of the British fast fleet finally caught sight of their main battleships and frantically signaled for help.
Dumanoir promptly ordered his squadron to turn back, beginning the process of "harvesting" the immobile enemy ships scattered along their path.
As Commander Pix listened to the messenger's report, he felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare.
In just over two hours, nearly half of his thirty-ship fast fleet had been annihilated by the French.
It took a long moment before he regained enough composure, prompted by his staff, to order the main fleet to steer east to rescue the broken-down steam warships.
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