The Baltic War(232)

"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.