The Baltic War(216)
"I repeat," the voice thundered again. "Strike your sails and surrender, or I will destroy your vessel!"
"—destroy your vessel," Simpson said the into the microphone, then lowered it and watched the other vessel.
It continued to swing to starboard, slowly under the current wind conditions, and his mouth tightened.
"Clear the bridge," he said as gun ports began to open here and there along the other ship's side. The bridge wing lookouts moved smartly past him into the conning tower's protection, and he lifted his binoculars, looking across the water at the Frenchman—now less than eight hundred yards away.
Eighteen-pounders, at best, he decided.
He looked astern to where President foamed along in Constitution's wake. Captain Lustgarten's carronades were run out on either broadside, as were Constitution's. Despite their stubby barrels, both ships' carronades would have the range to engage the French ship within the next few minutes, whatever the other captain did. When that happened, there could be only one outcome. He knew that—which didn't mean he had to like it.
"Captain," he said through the bullhorn, "I have no desire to destroy your ship and kill your crew, but if you do not surrender, I will have no other option. This is your final warning."
"—your final warning!"
Grosclaud's jaw set tight.
The closest American was little more than five hundred yards away. The second ship followed perhaps two hundred yards astern of it, and he saw two more, identical ships beyond them. And beyond them was something else, something streaming smoke as it followed along behind.
A voice deep inside gibbered that Jouette had been right, that not surrendering immediately was insane. Yet he couldn't do it. He simply couldn't do it.
Simpson sighed, shook his head, and followed the lookouts and signalmen into the conning tower. Little though he might care for what was about to happen, he had no intention of standing heroically—and stupidly—on an open bridge while somebody fired eighteen-pounder cannon balls in his direction.
"Very well, Captain," he said to Halberstat. "If he won't stop, we'll have to encourage him to see reason. Let's try firing one shot across his bow, first, though."
"Yes, sir." Captain Halberstat looked at the signalman manning the voice pipes. "Pass the order to Lieutenant MacDougall. One shot across his bow, whenever is convenient."
"One shot across his bow, whenever is convenient, aye, sir!" the signalman repeated, and bent over the voice pipes.
Simpson was peripherally aware of one of the lookouts dogging down the clips that secured the armored bridge door, but most of his attention was for what he could see through the port vision slit. The French warship had finally gotten around on to its new heading, and the admiral shook his head.
* * *
Grosclaud's head jerked up as the forwardmost gun in the slab-sided vessel's broadside lurched back. The sound of it was hard and flat, somehow unlike any of the artillery Grosclaud had ever heard before. It spewed out a vast gush of smoke, and the round shot made a peculiar hissing sound before it plunged into the water twenty yards in front of Railleuse.
The splash was bigger than he would have expected from a gun that short. That was his first thought. Then, an instant later, his eyes flew open in shock as there was a second, much bigger—and higher—geyser of spray.
"Mother of God!" he heard Jouette exclaim. "That thing exploded!"
Simpson observed the explosion with a certain degree of satisfaction. The fuse he'd designed for the navy's shells was as simple as it was crude, which had suggested that it ought to function fairly reliably. On the other hand, to explode underwater, it had to be watertight, and he'd been uncertain about how well he'd managed to achieve that aspect of the design.
Now, Captain, he thought at the French ship's commander very loudly, notice the explosion. Draw the right goddamned conclusion so I don't have to kill all your men.
Grosclaud clutched at the bulwark, staring forward, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. No one had ever fired explosive shells out of a cannon before! That was what mortars were for! It was unnatural—preposterous!
And exactly the sort of thing all the tales said he should have expected out of the accursed Americans.
"Captain? What do we do now?" Jouette demanded hoarsely.
Grosclaud turned toward him, and the fear in Jouette's eyes hit him like a fist. Mostly because he was quite certain Jouette saw exactly the same fear in his own.
"We have to at least try, Leon," he heard himself say calmly, almost reasonably. "If we don't, we'll never know."