The Dragon's Gauntlet

The morning mist over the Yellow Sea had burned off, revealing a vast, featureless expanse of metallic blue water under a high, indifferent sun. Aboard the battleship Dingyuan, the oppressive tension of the hunt had been replaced by the sharp, focused energy of imminent battle. The air tasted of salt and coal smoke.

"Smoke on the horizon!" The cry from the lookout in the high fighting top was sharp and clear, slicing through the rhythmic thrum of the engines. "Bearing east-northeast! Multiple columns! At least ten, maybe twelve ships!"

Admiral Ding Ruchang raised a heavy German telescope to his eye, his hands steady. Through the lens, he could see them—a series of dark smudges against the clean line of the horizon, growing larger by the minute. It was them. The Japanese Combined Fleet.

"It is them," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble that betrayed none of the violent churning in his gut. "On schedule, just as the Emperor predicted." He turned to his flag captain, his face a mask of grim resolve. "Signal the fleet. Assume line-abreast formation. Hoist battle ensigns. Prepare for immediate engagement."

Across the water, ten miles away on the bridge of the Japanese flagship Matsushima, Admiral Ito Sukeyuki observed the approaching Chinese fleet with a mixture of contempt and professional curiosity.

"So," he said to his flag captain, "the turtles have finally come out of their shells. And look at their formation. A line abreast? How crude. Like a peasant's battle line. Arrogant."

"They are charging directly at us, Admiral," his captain noted.

"Let them," Ito replied, a confident smile touching his lips. He was the commander of a modern, fast fleet, and he would not be drawn into a crude slugging match. "Their ironclads are slow and ponderous. We have the advantage of speed, and we will use it. We will not engage them head-on." He gestured to the signal officer. "Signal the fleet. Maintain line-ahead formation. All engines to full speed. We will cross their front, concentrating the fire of our entire line on the lead ships of their formation. We will use our speed to circle them, destroy their weaker cruisers one by one, and leave their precious ironclads for last. We will teach them a lesson in modern naval tactics."

The two fleets were now set on their respective courses, their philosophies of naval warfare about to collide with cataclysmic force. The Japanese, in a single elegant line, sought to use speed and maneuver. The Chinese, in a broad, menacing wedge formation with the two massive battleships Dingyuan and Zhenyuan at its center like the armored fists of a pugilist, charged forward with brutal, straightforward intent. It was not a formation for elegant maneuvers; it was a formation designed for a head-on, line-breaking charge.

On the gun deck of the Dingyuan, the gunnery lieutenant stood behind his massive 12-inch Krupp cannons, the pride of the fleet. His crew, stripped to the waist in the sweltering heat of the armored turret, moved with practiced efficiency, loading the huge, thousand-pound shells into the breeches.

"Look at them," one of the gunners grunted, peering through a small observation slit. "Lining up like ducks in a row for target practice. They think they can outrun our shells."

"Let them try," the lieutenant said grimly. "Just make sure your aim is true."

The distance between the two fleets closed with terrifying speed. The Japanese cruisers, led by the swift and powerful Yoshino, began their turn, intending to execute the classic naval maneuver of 'crossing the T'—sailing across the front of the enemy line to bring all their guns to bear while the enemy could only reply with their forward cannons.

But the Beiyang Fleet was not in a traditional line. The broad, angled front of their formation meant there was no 'T' to cross. As the Japanese fleet turned, they did not present a narrow target; they presented a wider one. Before Admiral Ito could adjust his strategy, his ships had sailed directly into the optimal range of the Chinese battleships' main guns.

Aboard the Dingyuan, Admiral Ding watched the Japanese maneuver through his telescope. He saw their intention and felt a surge of grim satisfaction. The Emperor's prediction, his insistence on this strange, archaic-looking formation, had been right.

"They have taken the bait," he said quietly. He then filled his lungs and roared the command that would begin the battle. "Main battery… FIRE!"

The world dissolved into a cataclysm of sound and fury. The four 12-inch guns of the Dingyuan fired in a single, coordinated salvo. The concussion was a physical blow, a massive shockwave that bucked the entire 7,000-ton ship and momentarily deafened everyone on the bridge. Seconds later, the guns of the sister ship Zhenyuan joined the chorus. Eight tons of high-explosive steel screamed across the water.

A series of colossal waterspouts, each the size of a pagoda, erupted in the middle of the Japanese line. One shell, impossibly, miraculously, slammed into the side of the Japanese cruiser Chiyoda, tearing a gaping hole in its armor plate and starting a raging fire on its deck. Another narrowly missed Admiral Ito's flagship, the Matsushima, drenching the bridge and everyone on it with a mountain of seawater.

Admiral Ito stared in stunned disbelief, water dripping from his uniform. "Their gunnery…" he sputtered. "At this range… it's impossible! It has improved tenfold!" Shaking off his shock, his own instincts took over. "Return fire! All ships, engage at will! Target their cruisers! Ignore the ironclads for now!"

The Japanese fleet, recovering from the initial shock, unleashed a hell storm of fire. Their modern, rapid-fire Armstrong cannons spat shells at a terrifying rate. The air filled with the shriek of incoming ordnance. The Dingyuan and Zhenyuan, leading the Chinese charge, became the focus of a hurricane of steel.

The sound was a deafening, continuous clang and roar of metal on metal, a blacksmith's forge gone insane. A shell exploded against the Dingyuan's armored conning tower with a deafening crash, sending shrapnel flying. Several officers on the open bridge were killed instantly, their bodies torn apart. A piece of flying metal struck Admiral Ding in the arm, shredding his uniform and sending a searing pain through his body.

"Admiral, you are hit!" Lieutenant Chen screamed, rushing to his side.

"It is nothing!" Admiral Ding roared, shoving him away. He tore a strip from his own uniform and roughly tied it around his bleeding arm, his eyes never leaving the enemy. Blood soaked the white cloth, but he ignored it. "Ignore the damage! Hold the course! We are the anvil! And the anvil must not break! Keep advancing!"

The two ironclads were a terrifying spectacle. They were pockmarked with hits, their superstructures shredded, fires burning on their decks. But their vital, armored core was intact. They shrugged off hits from the smaller Japanese guns that would have crippled or sunk any other ship in the fleet. They were wounded, bleeding, and on fire, but they continued their relentless, unstoppable advance, two leviathans of iron wading through a sea of fire, fulfilling the single, brutal purpose for which their Emperor had designed them: to draw the full fury of the Japanese fleet upon themselves, and to endure.