The Baltic War(277)

"Yes, we can!" Christian thundered. "Can and will!"





It was a mark of his father's fury, thought Ulrik—almost mindless fury, now, even though the king was still completely sober—that he obviously hadn't given any thought at all to the most likely target of Admiral Simpson's guns. Being charitable about the matter, that could be explained by the fact that Rosenborg Castle, located in the center of the city, could not easily be fired upon by ship-mounted cannons. Not, at least, unless Simpson was prepared to have most of his shells missing the palace and landing in residential areas. But it was Ulrik's assessment that the American admiral was still doing his best to keep casualties down.



And why bother, anyway—when there was such a splendidly visible and obvious target right at the waterfront? Which, unfortunately, happened to be the very place that a prisoner was being kept—who, if he died, might very well send Simpson's temper soaring as high as that of the Danish king.



So, Ulrik left his father to his consultations with his gunnery captains and quietly slipped out of the Long Hall, then went first to his own chambers for the pouch of coins they'd be needing. For obvious reasons, he hadn't taken the pouch with him on the galleys.



He gave the trusted servant waiting there a little smile. "Since I'm still alive after all, I'll take care of the matter myself, Bent." The old man nodded stiffly, letting only a faint trace of his relief at the prince's survival show. He'd been Ulrik's manservant since the prince was four years old. They were very close.



"You're lucky you got here in time, Your Highness," Bent said gruffly, handing over the pouch. "I was about to leave."





Ulrik found Anne Cathrine where he'd told her to wait for him or Bent, if this plan proved necessary also. Not in her own chambers but in the king's so-called Golden Chamber, a small room Ulrik's father used for private meetings.



The moment he came into the room, Anne Cathrine seized him in a tight embrace. "Oh, Ulrik! I was so afraid you'd get killed!"



Despite the tension and anxiety of the moment, Ulrik felt himself awash with affection for his younger half-sister. The long winter months during which they'd slowly and carefully laid their plans—sometimes with their father's knowledge and agreement, sometimes behind his back—had brought the two siblings much closer than they'd ever been in times past.



But he didn't let the embrace last for long. There was very little time left.



"Here," he said, pressing the pouch of coins into his sister's hand. "There's plenty for whatever bribes you'll need to pay."



Anne Cathrine frowned. "They've already been paid," she protested.



Ulrik chuckled. "I'm trying to remember if I was that naïve when I was fifteen years old. I don't think so. Let me explain to you the secret of bribery, little sister. The one being bribed always wants a little extra at the very end, once he knows you really want him to do what you're paying him to do. Or not do, more often."



"That's rotten!" she snapped.



"Rotten or not, it's the way it is. Now go!"



She hurried toward the door, then stopped, just as she was about to leave, and turned around.



"I want two days!" She held up two fingers. "Two days, Ulrik, not an hour less. Before you tell Papà where we are."



He grinned at her. "This is all supposed to be very cold-blooded, little sister. High matters of state—your sole and only motive."



She sniffed as haughtily as a fifteen-year-old could manage. "Maybe for you. Not me. Not any more, anyway. Remember—I want two full days. Not an hour less!"



And she was gone.





"Damn the man!" John Simpson muttered as the white flag flying over the central battery slowly descended its pole. It was the agreed-upon sign to indicate the rejection of his terms, but the Danes waited punctiliously until it had been completely lowered before fresh jets of smoke and flame spurted from the defending artillery.



The Danish gunners were better shots than those of Hamburg had been. Round shot slammed into the three remaining ironclads' armor, skipping off in a deafening clangor like some berserk chorus of bells. More round shot made white circles in the water as they plunged deep, and others kicked up mud when they hit in particularly shallow water.



It was, Simpson was forced to admit, an impressive sight. In practical terms, however, it was accomplishing exactly nothing.



Unlike their frigging mines and torpedoes, he reminded himself.



That thought sent a flicker of uneasiness through him. Most of him was certain Copenhagen's defenders had shot their bolt. That this was simply Christian's typical bullheaded, bloody-minded obstinacy. But he wasn't about to ignore the possibility that Ulrik had contrived some additional deviltry that might yet cost Simpson more ships—and lives—if he allowed himself to be distracted.