1634: The Baltic War

Chapter 52

Commander Rudolph Klein stood on his timberclad's bridge and watched the weather-stained topsails rising steadily above the southern horizon. There were a lot of them, he noted, like a forest of worn canvas and spars.

He stepped to the rear of the bridge and looked aft through one of the vision slits. Commander Mulbers' Ajax steamed steadily along in the wake of his own Achilles. The thumping and thrashing of Achilles' big paddle wheel in its heavily timbered well vibrated through the deck under his feet, but it was less jarring than it had been, thanks to the reduction in speed Admiral Simpson had ordered when he shifted formation. The tall, ungainly, structure protecting the paddle wheel was the ugliest and clumsiest part of Klein's entire unlovely vessel's construction. It was also thin enough to make him nervous upon occasion. The paddle wheel, like a sailing ship's masts, was the Achilles' heel (Klein grimaced at the metaphor) of her design. Without it, she was dead in the water, the helpless hostage of wind and wave, not to mention enemy action. And its sheer size meant that it couldn't be as heavily protected as her broadside weapons, which meant it was more vulnerable, as well.

But not as vulnerable as those bastards are, he reminded himself, moving back to the front of the bridge and the steadily growing masts once more.

On the other hand, he hadn't expected for a moment to find his ship leading the squadron's attack. All of the original, preliminary planning had emphasized holding the timberclads back, letting the ironclads take the brunt of any initial embrace while Klein and Mulbers waited to "bat cleanup," as Admiral Simpson had put it.

Now, on the very brink of battle, the admiral had chosen to completely rearrange things. Rudolph Klein didn't like last-minute changes, especially not just before he took his ship into action for the very first time. Still, he had to admit that the deviousness of the admiral's thinking did appeal to him.

"Well, there they are, Jerome," Lacrosse observed as the USE warships finally appeared from their deck-level perspective, crawling over the horizon toward them.

"I see them, sir," Bouvier acknowledged. It was clear that Justine's first lieutenant was doing his best to project a certain studied nonchalance, however unsuccessfully.

Lacrosse's lips twitched under his thin mustache at the thought, and he raised his heavy spyglass, peering through it at the oncoming vessels.

His temptation to smile faded as the glass brought them closer to hand. The lead ships didn't look at all like the sketches of the "ironclads" that their spies in Magdeburg had provided. In fact, what they looked like were the so-called "timberclads," which was… perplexing. All of the spies' reports agreed that the ironclads were much better protected than the steam-powered timberclads, and he would have anticipated that a wise commander would have used his most heavily protected ships first.

Unless, of course, the wise commander in question already knows that even his lightly protected ships aren't in any particular danger, he thought grimly. And perhaps it does make sense, in a way. According to those same spies, the timberclads have more of those short guns-those "carronades." If Simpson is confident that our guns can't hurt them, he might want to get the ones with the heavier weight of broadside into action first. Besides, the rumors indicate that the ironclads are probably faster. So maybe he wants to hold back his speediest ships until he sees exactly how things work out.

His thoughts didn't make him feel any happier, and his mind ran back over the instructions the comte de Martignac had very quietly given him for certain contingencies. He hadn't cared for those orders at the time, particularly not given the memory of what had happened to their Dutch "allies" in the English Channel last fall. Part of him still didn't care for them; another part was beginning to consider how he might best put them into effect.

"Any orders, sir?" Bouvier asked quietly.

"Not yet, Jerome." Lacrosse glanced to the south, toward the fleet flagship. Freja held her position in the rather clumsily formed line of battle, about a third of the way back from Justine. Frankly, Lacrosse was astonished that Overgaard's captains were managing to come as close to maintaining formation as they were. It wasn't exactly something at which most navies' captains had much practice, after all. And it would have been nice, seeing that they'd managed to get into formation so well, if the looming battle had been one in which tactical formations were going to make very much difference.

"No, not yet," Lacrosse repeated very softly, under his breath.

"Navy One, Recon One," Weissenbach said. "They're still holding formation, headed almost straight for you, Admiral."

"Understood, Recon One. Thank you," Simpson replied, then left the radio room and climbed the short ladder to the conning tower, one deck level above. Halberstat looked at him as he stepped off the ladder, and he smiled thinly.

"According to Weissenbach, they're holding course and formation," he said. "For now, at least."

Halberstat returned his smile, then swung back to the forward vision slit, watching the timberclads' smoke swirl across the water ahead of him.

Simpson's formation change had put the remaining ironclads in line behind Ajax and Achilles, and Halberstat wondered if any of the League ships had actually spotted Constitution or President yet. Their lack of funnel smoke, coupled with the obscuration of the timberclads' smoke-not to mention the tendency of all that self-same smoke to attract the eye-made the odds no more than even that they had been sighted, he estimated.

Not that anyone would be overlooking them much longer, of course.

"Sir, the masthead reports at least one more ship."

Lacrosse looked at Bouvier, arching one eyebrow, and the first lieutenant shrugged.

"We have a good man up there, sir. He says there's at least one ship-looks like the spies' sketches of the 'ironclads,' he says-following along behind the two we already knew about. And he thinks there's at least one more, coming along astern of that."

"Only one more?" Lacrosse murmured.

"That's what he says," Bouvier confirmed.

"Hmmm…" Lacrosse tugged on the tip of his nose thoughtfully. Justine was the third ship in Overgaard's formation, behind a pair of Swedish forty-gunners. That brought their lookouts close enough to the head of the somewhat ragged column to see the oncoming Americans fairly well. Certainly well enough to tell the difference between a timberclad and an ironclad, assuming the spies' sketches were even reasonably accurate. And, presumably, to get a reasonably accurate count, as well. But according to the spies, the Americans were supposed to have four ironclads ready for service, so where were the others?

Well, I suppose the most likely answer is that they didn't manage to get the monsters down the Elbe after all. They're supposed to be big bastards, and the reports of how they managed to set the damned river on fire certainly confirm they can make mistakes, just like anyone else. Maybe they underestimated problems and managed to put two of them aground somewhere. Hell, for that matter, maybe the damned Hamburgers actually managed to stop a couple of them!

The last possibility, Lacrosse admitted to himself, was the one he found most attractive. After all, if the guns of Hamburg had managed to sink or disable an ironclad, maybe the guns of the blockade fleet could do the same thing.

However unlikely that outcome might be.

"If there are only two of them-the ironclads, I mean," he said to Bouvier, "that might explain why they don't have them in front. Especially if the timberclads have more guns to begin with."

Bouvier nodded, and Lacrosse shrugged.

"We should know something in about another fifteen minutes, I suppose," he said.

"Yes, sir. Shall we reduce sail?"

"Oh, I think not, Jerome." Lacrosse showed his teeth in a thin smile. "I believe I'd prefer to hang on to as much speed as we can instead of worrying about damage aloft."

Klein watched the range fall.

The closest ship was obviously Danish. Her guns were run out, and, as he watched, she altered course slightly to starboard, coming onto a northeasterly heading. She had more wind to work with than Captain Grosclaud's Railleuse had been able to count upon, and she got around more quickly, but he judged that her maximum speed couldn't be much more than four or five knots.

The turn also presented her port broadside to Achilles, and Klein felt his stomach muscles tighten involuntarily. Intellectually, he felt confident-well, reasonably confident-that his vessel's thick, wooden armor was proof against that ship's artillery. His emotions, however, were rather less certain of that.

"Pass the word to Lieutenant Gerhard," he said. "He may open fire when the range drops to one hundred yards."

"Lieutenant Gerhard can open fire at one hundred yards, aye, aye, sir!" the signalman on the voice pipes replied crisply.

"Helm," Klein continued, "come ten degrees to starboard."

"Interesting," Lacrosse murmured to himself.

Bouvier looked across at him, without speaking, but his curiosity showed in his eyes, and Lacrosse gave a slight shrug.

"If I were in command over there," he said, pointing with his chin at the leading American vessel, "I would have altered course to port, not starboard. With my speed advantage, I could easily have gotten around in front of Monarch. And I would have been better placed to cut the rest of us off, if we tried to break and run."

"I suppose we should be grateful for small favors, sir," Bouvier replied. "At the moment, however, I find that oddly difficult."

"Fire!"

His Danish Majesty's Ship Monarch's portside vanished behind a thick, choking pall of smoke as her broadside thundered. The range was still a bit over a hundred yards, and most of her shots went comfortably wide of their target. At least one or two twelve-pounder round shot struck home, but without doing any noticeable damage.

Then Achilles fired back.

"Mon Dieu!"

Lacrosse doubted Bouvier was even aware that he'd spoken aloud. Not that the captain blamed his subordinate for his shocked exclamation.

There were only six gun ports in the timberclad's broadside, compared to Monarch's twenty. But whereas the few shots the Danish ship had managed to land had obviously bounced right off their target, the same could not be said of the return fire.

From Justine's poop deck, it appeared that none of the American's fire had missed. And it certainly hadn't "bounced off," either. Instead, to Lacrosse's horror, the timberclad's massive projectiles smashed straight through Monarch's timbers, buried themselves… and then exploded.

It was almost like hearing a double broadside. First there was the dull, ear-stunning thud of the firing guns; an instant later, came the oddly muffled, echoing thunder of the exploding shells. Huge splinters were blown out of Monarch's side. More fragments-large fragments, individually visible even from Lacrosse's position-flew upward in lazy arcs that went spiraling outward until they plunged into the water in white feathers of foam. Smoke and flashes of flame erupted through the holes torn abruptly through the Danish ship's structure, and the French captain's blood ran chill as he contemplated the horrendous inferno explosions like that might ignite.

Monarch seemed to stagger under the blow, and then the second American ship slammed a second broadside into her. More jagged bits and pieces blasted out of her. Her mizzenmast staggered, then wobbled drunkenly. Somehow, it didn't quite come down… yet.

Smoke streamed from the Americans' gun ports, rolling steadily northward on the wind, and the lead ship's cannon-those "carronades" the spies had warned of-flashed fresh fire. It was preposterous for such heavy guns to fire so rapidly, but they managed quite handily, and Monarch literally began to disintegrate.

"I believe it's time to come hard to starboard, Jerome," Lacrosse heard himself say. The order was out of his mouth before he even realized he'd decided to speak, but he never contemplated changing his mind. Martignac had discussed exactly this contingency, after all.

"Yes, sir!"

Bouvier's fervent response made his own reaction to his orders abundantly clear, and he began snapping commands of his own.

I'm sorry, Captain Admiral Overgaard, Lacrosse thought, looking astern, but it's time to save what we can from the wreck.

Aage Overgaard swore with passionate inventiveness as his formation abruptly began shedding the vessels of his so-called "allies." He wasn't certain who'd turned away first, although he felt fairly confident that if he had been certain, it would have been a Frenchman. Not that it mattered. Once the first ship turned to flee, it would have taken the direct intervention of God Almighty to keep the others from following suit.

And for that matter, he told himself, fighting to get his fury under control, what else could you expect them to do, Aage? In fact, it's what they ought to do.

"Hoist the signal to scatter!" he snapped harshly. "New course, north-by-northeast."

"Well, that didn't take very long, did it?" Admiral John Simpson murmured to himself, watching through his binoculars from Constitution's open bridge as the League's column began to unravel. It was safe enough to stand out here in the open, at least for now, he reflected. None of Overgaard's ships were in a position to fire on Constitution, and none of them appeared to want to be, either.

Hard to blame them for that, he reflected. There's absolutely no point in standing around and getting yourself blown out of the water when you can't even hurt the other side. Trying to fight wouldn't be showing guts, only stupidity.

Achilles and Ajax's first target was a broken ruin. In fact, Simpson was more than a little astonished that the Danish ship hadn't caught fire. Not that the lack of flames was going to make much difference to the broken wreck's ultimate fate. Wood reacted poorly to powerful explosions. Framing timbers, hull planking, masts… the very fabric of the vessel had shattered. Her port side was beaten in, as if it had been pounded with huge sledgehammers, and her decks were littered with dead and wounded.

"Alter course to port, Admiral?"

Simpson turned his head at the quiet question and found himself looking into Halberstat's steady gray eyes.

"No, Captain. Not yet, at any rate. Instruct Commander Klein to increase to ten knots. We'll circle around to the west and close the sack from behind."

Overgaard watched in half-incredulous but vast relief as the preposterous USE vessels continued swinging around to the west.

Don't feel too grateful yet, Aage, he told himself. They're devilishly fast. Even if you get a head start on them, they've probably got the speed to run you down. Unless, of course, you can keep away from them until dark, at least…

The enemy's guns continued to bellow, and he felt his jaw clench as the ironclads began to fire, as well. The USE ships seemed to be moving more rapidly, and even from here he could hear those murderous shells exploding inside the hulls of his more laggard-or perhaps simply foolishly brave-warships.

He forced himself to turn around, look back. The timberclads' dense black funnel smoke merged with the dirty-gray clouds of powder smoke, billowing like some brimstone-born fog bank shot through with the lightning of muzzle flashes. At least two of his ships were on fire now, he noted grimly, and three more were obviously in severe distress. Under the circumstances-

"Fire!" Captain Markus Bollendorf barked, and SSIM Monitor's starboard carronades thumped deafeningly.

Alain Lacrosse's head jerked around in sheer, shocked disbelief as the low, squat ironclad almost directly across Justine's bows opened fire. The abrupt appearance of the enemy vessel stunned him. His attention-like that of every other man aboard his ship, a corner of his brain realized numbly-had been focused on the carnage astern of them, where the American timberclads and ironclads were now moving steadily in pursuit. The weight of their fire had been significantly reduced as they were forced to turn end-on to follow in the fleeing fleet's wake. That wasn't preventing them from scoring hits steadily, if not in enormous numbers, however, and they didn't need a lot of hits. Not when the accursed things kept exploding inside their targets!

But perhaps at least some of us should have been looking the other way, he thought with a clear sort of shock-induced detachment. If we had, we might have noticed where the other ironclads had gotten to.

The thought was still running through his brain when the first two eight-inch shells crashed into his command. One of them struck just to one side of Justine's cutwater. It ripped into the cable tier and exploded deep inside the coiled heap of anchor hawsers, and a few, potentially deadly tendrils of smoke began to curl upward.

Lacrosse never noticed. He was still staring ahead, still trying to wrap his mind about what had happened, when the second shell streaked aft, somehow missing masts, spars, and rigging until it crashed directly into Justine's poop deck.

The resultant explosion killed Jerome Bouvier, both helmsmen, and the sailing master. It did not kill Alain Lacrosse… but only because the shell itself had cut him cleanly in half before it detonated.

"It worked, Admiral!" Halberstat announced gleefully as he listened to Bollendorf's radio reports. "I never thought they'd get that close before anyone even saw them!"

"Neither did I, Franz," Simpson admitted.

The admiral tried to match his flag captain's jubilation, but it was hard. Constitution reeked of gunsmoke, despite the high-powered blowers he'd installed. She hadn't fired all that many shots, perhaps-certainly not for the amount of damage she'd inflicted-but each carronade shot spewed out truly extraordinary amounts of smoke.

And why are you thinking about that right now, John? he asked himself harshly. Could it be to keep you from thinking about just how many dead and mangled men that "damage" represents?

Perhaps it did. But whatever he might feel at the moment, it wasn't going to stop him from doing his duty.

"Let's get this over with, Franz." He'd thought his voice sounded completely calm, completely normal, but the expression in Halberstat's eyes told him that he hadn't. There was nothing he could do about that, and so he simply met the flag captain's gaze levelly.

"Take us in among them," he said.

"Aye, aye, sir," Halberstat acknowledged.

The flag captain turned to his helmsman, and Admiral John Chandler Simpson returned to his conning tower vision slit, gazing out into the hellish murk of gunsmoke and burning ships as his squadron closed to finish off its crippled, demoralized prey.

Please, Overgaard, he thought. Please order your men to surrender before I have to kill them all.