Chapter 2081 - The Fire-Ship Squadron

Arrayed around that massive vessel, a flotilla of inner-river gunboats—conversions from large and small landing craft. These improvised warships might lack the elegance of vessels still on the drawing boards, but their exposed rotating turrets bristling with 30mm Hotchkiss five-barrel autocannons and 13mm "typewriters" projected menace enough for this era.

The rear guard consisted of two 621-class paddlewheel tugboats, likewise converted to armed service. One mounted an exposed gun platform amidships carrying a 130mm muzzle-loading rifled cannon; the other bore two 30mm Hotchkiss autocannon turrets and four 13mm "typewriter" positions.

One river gunboat, sixteen armed large landing craft, two armed tugboats—roughly two-thirds of the Western Detachment's available strength.

Schneider periodically swept his binoculars across the churning waters ahead. Several large landing craft on reconnaissance duty bucked through the current well forward of Zhujiang's position. Antelope Gorge opened before them at a full 1,000 meters width; deeper within, the canyon walls pinched inward, the river gradually narrowing until the tightest restriction measured barely 300 meters across. In that constricted throat, the West River roared and surged with primal force. Even Zhujiang, nearly three hundred tons, pitched violently against the hydraulic assault.

Fortunately, the channel ran deep—48 to 75 meters. Not just river gunboats with their modest 1.5-meter drafts could navigate these waters; even a ten-thousand-ton battleship could enter without risk of grounding.

Antelope Gorge stretched five kilometers from mouth to mouth. For vessels without mechanical propulsion, upstream passage meant teams of trackers straining against towlines along the narrow footpaths—spending an entire day to traverse the gorge was unremarkable. But now the inland flotilla would complete the transit in an hour.

For Schneider, the gravest danger came not from Ming naval opposition but from his own armed landing craft: displacing merely thirty tons, powered by relatively anemic engines, they possessed marginal maneuverability in heavy rapids. The risk of being swept onto rocks or running aground loomed constantly. Just yesterday, one armed landing craft had lost control during the reconnaissance escort mission and struck a reef—three drowned, one missing and presumed dead.

The Western Detachment's first casualties, and Schneider couldn't help but feel it as a loss of face. This command represented his first assignment after promotion to Lieutenant Commander, his inaugural independent command of a regional detachment. This first zone operation required coordination with the First Brigade's movements—and the First Brigade fell under an Elder's command.

Previously, he had served merely as a naval officer subordinate to Elder commanders. Even commanding a flotilla or captaining a 901-class warship, at operational conferences he could only listen while Elders spoke, offering his own "advice" solely when solicited.

This time proved entirely different. At the joint Army-Navy planning conference, Elder Zhu had adopted a genuinely consultative tone rather than simply dictating orders. Despite the vast disparity in their ranks, within the command structure they stood as equals.

Such an opportunity to distinguish himself—who else deserved it more! Amid his satisfaction, Schneider also felt the weight settle across his shoulders. For them, winning battles had become routine; winning with precision and economy of force—that was what mattered now.

"Maintain speed," he ordered crisply. "All ships stay alert!"

Intelligence indicated the Ming had assembled over a hundred requisitioned civilian vessels at the confluence of Dading and Antelope Gorges, each loaded with firewood, tung oil, and gunpowder. Should the Ming release these fire-ships to drift downstream, they would pose genuine threat to the detachment—the river was simply too constrained here.

"Two o'clock—movement on the towpath! Ming soldiers spotted!" At the lookout's cry, Schneider raised his binoculars. There, on the slender towpath threading across the mountainside, several Ming soldiers stared in their direction. Abruptly, as if responding to orders, two scrambled up the slope while a third remained watching the river.

Atop the hill, a plume of black smoke shot skyward—beacon fire warning Zhaoqing that Australian warships had penetrated the approaches.

"Sound battle stations! All ships prepare for combat!"

As urgent steam whistles shrieked across the water, every man aboard Zhujiang surged from the cabins to their battle positions. The entire fleet maintained its four-knot cruising speed against the current.

Antelope Gorge measured only five kilometers end to end; at the fleet's present speed, roughly one hour to complete transit. Once they broke into Dading Gorge, the river widened and the current moderated—ideal conditions for the fleet to deliver maximum firepower.

The Ming forces dug in at Zhaoqing now faced a deteriorating position. To resist the Fubo Army, they could rely only on Antelope Gorge—the most favorable terrain Heaven and Earth had granted them!

***

Less than four kilometers distant, at the mouth of Dading Gorge, Naval Patrol Lieutenant Cao Bajiao felt ice water trickling down his spine. During his years at Zhaoqing, he had ruled the West River like a petty tyrant: killed river pirates, robbed merchants, exterminated entire families. Neither the Naval Battalion commander nor even Governor-General Xiong himself bothered pretending not to notice.

Just months ago, brawling over a woman at Zhaoqing's docks, he'd collided with the Australians and lost several dozen of his men. Cao Bajiao had known Australian firearms were formidable—he simply hadn't grasped they were this formidable!

So his cousin had been telling the truth after all! The thought of his kinsman Cao Xiangjiao surfaced unbidden—the man who had ridden with General He on the ill-fated campaign against the Australians. After that disaster, he'd returned spinning tales that made the Australians sound like descended immortals. Cao Bajiao had dismissed it as exaggeration meant to mask defeat.

That clever cousin had secured a new posting after his return and transferred to Nanjing—the canny bastard possessed sharp survival instincts! Cao Bajiao cursed inwardly.

And himself? Stuck commanding fire-ships, leading the vanguard straight to his death!

"Captain, the smoke signal's risen on the hill," a bodyguard reported cautiously.

"I have eyes!" Cao Bajiao snapped with venom.

"Commander Wu has sent someone to hurry us along..." the bodyguard ventured.

"One more word and you're on the lead fire-ship!"

That silenced him. Cao Bajiao surveyed the hundred-odd fire-ships arrayed before his position—all civilian vessels forcibly requisitioned from West River traffic over the past month-plus, now mounded with dry kindling and packed gunpowder. Release them downstream into that narrow gorge, and regardless how

superior the Australians' weapons, they couldn't possibly sink every approaching fire-ship. Some would inevitably reach their targets and ignite. Not a bad tactical scheme—credit to that legal secretary surnamed Chang; the man wasn't entirely useless.

But even brilliant plans required someone to execute them. And that thankless duty had fallen squarely on Cao Bajiao—who else? He was one of the patrol lieutenants. As for the other lieutenant, his connections outweighed Cao Bajiao's, so naturally he drew the assignment of "following behind in support" with the naval vessels.

"Support, my ass!" Cao Bajiao cursed again, this time audibly. The gorge ran deep and swift; even powerful swimmers, once in those waters, would be swept away and drowned. After igniting the fires and abandoning ship, swimming upstream through several li of rapids to reach those "support" vessels was sheer fantasy—besides, whether Lieutenant Huang would actually "support" him afterward remained highly questionable. He and Huang had feuded for years over division of "tribute" extracted from boat operators and pirates.

If he went into the water, Huang would probably be first to shove him under with a pole. That would count as "brotherhood."

These hundred-odd vessels carried crews mostly drawn from water-fighters temporarily recruited from the Tanka boat-dwellers. The entire patrol's authorized strength numbered only 240 men—meaning most enlisted didn't face the death sentence. But he, the patrol lieutenant, had to lead his handful of bodyguards into the maw itself. The injustice of it curdled his gut.

Just then, another messenger came sprinting from headquarters, bellowing: "Why haven't the fire-ships launched? The Admiral orders: further delay means immediate beheading!"

Damned either way. Stick your neck out—receive the blade. Pull back—still receive the blade. No question, from distant Kuixing Tower, Xiong Wenchan was watching this exact spot. Though arrogant soldiers and brutal officers typically paid the Governor scant respect, with mortal crisis looming, he remained the court's envoy commanding two provinces' armies. Ordering a petty patrol lieutenant's execution required merely a word. Left without alternatives, Cao Bajiao barked the command: "All ships weigh anchor! Launch!"

Over a hundred vessels of varying sizes caught the current, drifting slowly toward the gorge mouth. Initially the flow remained gentle, but where the gorge constricted, some ships began colliding as the accelerating water pushed them toward the channel's center.

Fortunately, most crews were Tanka folk who had lived their entire lives on the water—highly experienced at handling boats. They swiftly brought the vessels back under control and proceeded downstream in rough formation.

***

On Kuixing Tower, Xiong Wenchan lowered his Australian telescope and permitted himself a slight nod.

Though the fire-ship squadron had delayed, it had finally launched. An auspicious sign—morale could still be rallied. Between himself and the Australian pirates, there might yet be a real battle to fight.

(End of Chapter)