by Eric Flint
Mike didn't doubt it. The ability of the CoCs to serve the USE as an informal intelligence agency was often uncanny, even when it came to purely military intelligence. That was usually because, quite unlike regular spy services with their limited funds, the CoCs could enlist-at no cost-the enthusiastic participation of all sorts of people who could move amongst the soldiers in a seventeenth-century army without being noticed. Servants for the officers, laundresses and cooks for the soldiers, even sometimes outright prostitutes. If nothing else, there was always a ten-year-old boy willing to go on an adventure-and who would pay any attention to such, as he scampered about a military camp playing games with his fellows? Armies of this day and age were always accompanied by camp followers.
That still left the possibility that the French were on the verge of sending a large shipment of the new weapons to their forces outside Luebeck. But before Mike could raise the possibility, Gustav Adolf did himself.
"Yes, I realize the situation might change, within a week or two. Although I doubt it, actually. If the French had that sort of production underway, they'd never have allowed one cavalry expedition to give away the secret on the eve of a major battle. But it doesn't matter. There won't be anything left worth talking about of the Ostender fleet in Luebeck Bay after today. Admiral Simpson's flotilla has already entered the bay and is preparing to engage the enemy. The Ostenders don't have one week left. They have one or two days. Three, at most. By tomorrow or the day after, the Danes will start pulling out of the siege lines. The French will have no choice but to follow. Watch and see if I'm not right."
Mike wasn't about to argue the matter. As the old saying went, his mama hadn't raised no fools. Granted, the advice Mike's mother had given him over the years hadn't included "and whatever else, you young scamp, don't argue military tactics with a general so famous he'll be remembered three and half centuries later." But she'd covered the basics, well enough.
"All right, Your Majesty. That does raise-"
"Yes, Michael, I know. Now that your timberclad has been repaired, what to do with it? Too late for the Achates to play any role in the Baltic, and while I might possibly have some use for it along the Elbe, it's not likely. Lennart has the French bastards trapped, now that he's cut their lines of retreat. They'll never get to the Elbe. Even if they do, I still have the five timberclads in Henderson's flotilla at Hamburg, if I need to use them.
"So go. You have my blessing. Try not to let the ship sink somewhere in the North Sea, would you? I don't want to have to listen to the admiral wailing and moaning about it."
Mike couldn't imagine John Chandler Simpson wailing and moaning about anything. Like most of Gustav Adolf's jests, this one was heavy-handed.
But he chuckled anyway. "London, here we come. Get me Melissa on the radio, please," he said to the radio operator. Doing his level best to sound as calm and unruffled as the man who, from time to time, he really didn't mind calling "Your Majesty."
Chapter 51
Luebeck Bay
The Bay of Luebeck was a dark blue sheet of polished marble, burnished with regular patterns of silver foam, sliding steadily north-northwest. The wind was brisker than it had been, and the visibility had cleared as SSIM Constitution led her squadron steadily south toward the city of Luebeck and the estuary of the Trave River.
It was chillier than it had been, too, Simpson reflected as he stood on the bridge wing once more, and the wind-over-deck generated by the ships' speed made it even chillier.
He looked astern, at the clouds of smoke belching from the timberclads' funnels, and wondered once more if he should have left them behind. It was a hard call. Steaming through the water as fast as their thrashing paddle wheels could drive them, they were making a good speed of almost thirteen knots. He couldn't drive them any faster than that, even under these relatively benign conditions, and the strain of maintaining that sort of speed was undoubtedly having its consequences in their engine rooms. Temperatures down there must be soaring, however brisk it might feel out here on the open bridge, and he was well aware that he was running the risk of severe injuries-possibly even fatal injuries-to his stokers and engine room personnel by driving them so hard.
Unfortunately, those two timberclads represented forty percent of his total carronade strength and a third of his total available hulls. He was going to need those guns-and those hulls-very shortly now.
His problem, like most problems war threw up, was fundamentally simple. It was the solution that was hard.
Colonel Woods' last reconnaissance report put the League of Ostend's naval strength in the Bay of Luebeck at thirty-plus men-of-war. Any one of Simpson's vessels should be able to demolish any seventeenth-century warship in no more than a few broadsides. What had happened to Railleuse constituted a sort of practical field test proof of that assumption. And, every one of Simpson's vessels was much faster-probably three times as fast, even the timberclads, under these weather conditions-than any of the League's ships could possibly be. The problem was that there were at least five times as many League ships as Simpson had, even with the timberclads. If they did the smart thing and scattered and ran for it the instant he arrived on the scene, he'd need as many weapons platforms as he could get his hands on just to chase them down. And he'd also need as many hours of daylight as he could get in which to accomplish the aforesaid chasing down, which meant he had to get there as quickly as he could.
On the other hand, he thought moodily, looking at the dark pillars of smoke coming along at the end of his line, there's the little problem of smoke.
The funnel smoke from Achilles and Ajax had to be visible for miles. The squadron had certainly outrun any Danish or French vessels that might have sighted them and tried to take warning to Luebeck. Unless Captain Admiral Overgaard's lookouts were blind, however, they were going to spot that smoke well before the squadron's ships themselves ever became visible. And unless Captain Admiral Overgaard was a complete and total idiot (which, manifestly, he was not), the instant anyone reported smoke rising out of the water somewhere to the north of him, he would know exactly what must be coming toward him from just over the horizon. Admittedly, he might not know exact numbers, and his estimate of Simpson's vessels' capabilities was undoubtedly problematical, at best. Aage Overgaard, however, had already been the recipient of several unpleasant surprises, courtesy of Gustav Adolf's former up-timer allies and current up-timer subjects. He was unlikely simply to sit around waiting for the next unpleasant surprise to be visited upon him.
What was it Clausewitz said? "In war, everything is very simple, but even the simplest things are very difficult," or something like that.
Well, he'd made up his mind, and one thing he'd learned long ago. Once you'd committed yourself to a course of action, trying to change course in the middle of things was a sure path to disaster.
So stop worrying about the damn smoke clouds, John, he told himself sternly.
Sure, no problem, himself replied sarcastically.
"What's this all about, Jerome?" Captain Alain Lacrosse demanded testily as he stepped on to Justine's poop deck. The fifty-four-gun ship, one of only four French vessels still attached to the allied fleet off Luebeck, now that Railleuse had finally been allowed to escape, had been stationed quite a bit farther to leeward than the main body of that fleet. She was there specifically to maintain a lookout for likely threats, and Lacrosse's own standing order to his officers was that he was to be informed whenever such a threat might have been detected, but that made him no happier about the interruption of his lunch.
"I'm not certain, Captain," Jerome Bouvier, his first lieutenant, replied. Then he pointed toward the north. "The lookouts spotted that about five minutes ago, sir."
Lacrosse followed Bouvier's pointing finger, and his eyebrows furrowed as he saw the dark smear on the horizon. For a moment, he thought it was cloud. But only for a moment.
"Smoke, you think, Jerome?"
"Yes, sir," Bouvier said rather grimly, and Lacrosse pursed
his lips.
"Well," he said after a moment, "I doubt there are very many houses out there to catch fire."
"The same thought had occurred to me, sir."
"In that case, I suppose we should inform the captain admiral. See to it, please."
"At once, sir."
Lacrosse watched as Bouvier began giving orders to the signal party. That was a new innovation, the handiwork of King Christian-and an innovation that had caused Lacrosse, unlike some of his fellow Frenchmen, to reconsider the notion that the king of Denmark was simply one more drunken sot.
So far as Lacrosse knew, no one outside the so-called "United States of Europe" actually had any real idea of how the mysterious up-timer "radio" worked. What they did know was that it had afforded the Americans and their allies an enormous advantage, time and again… and that it was an advantage they couldn't duplicate yet. King Christian, on the other hand, had decided to see what he might be able to come up with instead of radio, and one of his better investments had been in a book-a history book, even if much of the "history" it recounted had not yet happened-about the development of pre-radio means of communication. It had contained the details of something called "telegraphs" and "Morse code," and also a copy of the "international signal flags" and a technique for sending messages using "semaphore flags."
Several of Lacrosse's fellow French captains had dismissed the notion's practicality-and value-with the disdain properly accorded to anything Christian might have suggested. Captain Admiral Overgaard, on the other hand, had not, and he had not only issued complete sets of the appropriate flags to all of the ships under his command but also insisted that those ships train in their use.
Which was why it was possible for Captain Alain Lacrosse to inform his commanding officer that he had spotted funnel smoke on the northern horizon much more quickly than anyone on the other side had anticipated that he might.
"Recon One, this is Navy One."
"Navy One, Recon One," a voice replied from the speaker in Constitution's radio room.
"We're ready for your situation report, Recon One."
"Understood, Admiral Simpson," said Lieutenant Ernst Weissenbach, the aircraft's pilot. "I make it thirty-one-repeat, three-one-warships," he continued. "There are several smaller vessels around, too. Another half-dozen, but I think most of them are supply or support ships. They aren't in formation with the others, at any rate."
"In formation?" Simpson repeated in a rather sharper tone. "What sort of formation?"
"They're forming into what looks like it's supposed to be a column," Weissenbach replied. "They're about fifteen miles south of you, four miles north of the estuary, course about two-eight-three true."
"You say they're forming into a column?"
"Yes, sir."
"And how long have they been doing so?"
"They started shifting formation probably ten or fifteen minutes ago, Admiral."
"I see." Simpson frowned and rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. "Wait one, Recon One," he said, and looked at Captain Halberstat.
"I think something new has been added, Franz," he said. Halberstat cocked his head to one side, clearly not seeing exactly where his admiral was headed, and Simpson snorted.
"Assuming Lieutenant Weissenbach has his time interval right, then they started shifting formation just about the time one of them might have seen the timberclads' smoke if he'd been maintaining a particularly sharp lookout. Which raises the interesting question of exactly how whoever might have spotted the smoke got the word to Overgaard-and Overgaard got his orders back to everyone else-fast enough for them already to be altering formation in response to our arrival."
Halberstat's lack of comprehension disappeared abruptly, and he swore softly in German.
"I beg your pardon, Admiral," he apologized a moment later. "But you're right. Signal flags, do you think?"
"Most likely," Simpson agreed. "Could be semaphore, I suppose, but it's not going to be signal lamps. Not for daylight signaling, at least."
"But surely the reconnaissance flights should have reported that they were practicing using signal flags, sir!"
"Only if they realized that was what was going on," Simpson countered. Halberstat looked incredulous, and the admiral shrugged.
"Oh, you're right, Franz. They have to have spent time training with them, especially if they're responding this quickly. And Colonel Woods' pilots probably have been overhead when they were doing it, too. The problem is that, so far as I know, none of the air force's pilots know a damned thing about ships or navies. That was a problem we had back up-time, as well. Someone familiar with our own signal processes, or simply aware that you just can't maneuver squadrons of ships that way without some means of quick communication, probably would have recognized what he was seeing. The air force didn't."
"How much difference to you expect it to make today, sir?" Halberstat asked.
"That, I don't know," Simpson admitted. "The fact that they appear to be forming up to offer battle-and in line-of-battle, too, now that I think about it, which is a considerable improvement on the sort of mob/melee tactics most people around here use-would seem to indicate Overgaard plans to fight. In that respect, it could be a good thing. Trying to fight is going to require him to concentrate his ships where we can get at them, instead of having to chase them all down individually. On the other hand, if he decides the time has come to break off and run, he can probably pass a specific order to that effect quickly."
"To be honest, sir," Halberstat said with a somewhat nasty smile, "I don't really expect most of his 'gallant allies' to wait around for any orders to break off. Not once they see what's going to happen to them, at any rate."
"You're probably right about that," Simpson conceded, then frowned thoughtfully.
"You know, Franz," he said slowly, "we don't have those nice, tall masts and sails they do. And at this range, both sides are still hull-down from one another."
"Sir?" Halberstat said, when the admiral paused. Simpson quirked an eyebrow, and the flag captain smiled. "You appear to have something… unpleasant in mind, sir."
"I was just thinking about the wind, Franz. If you were one of those captains, and you decided to break and run away, what heading would you choose?"
"In this wind?" Halberstat pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "Northeast, sir. Maybe north-northeast. I wouldn't want to get too far east, for fear we might be coordinating our attack with the speedboats at Wismar. And I wouldn't want to head west, for fear we-the enemy, that is-might pin me against the land."
"That's exactly what I was just thinking," Simpson agreed. "And it occurred to me, while I was thinking that, that all they can see of us right now is the timberclads' smoke. Smoke which the ironclads don't happen to emit."
He gazed at Halberstat for several seconds, watching the flag captain work through it himself. Then Halberstat's eyes lit in sudden understanding.
"Due east, were you thinking, Admiral? And with how many?"
"United States and Monitor, I think. And we'll slow our own rate of advance to give them more time to get into position, too."
"I agree, sir," Halberstat said.
"Good." Simpson nodded, then returned his attention to the radio and keyed the mike. "Recon One, Navy One. Thanks for being patient. I'd like you to keep a close eye on them for me. Let me know when they finish getting themselves into that column-assuming they do-and if any of them decide to break off or wander away on their own."
"Understood, Navy One. We'll orbit and advise you of any changes."
"Thank you, Recon One. Navy One, out."
Simpson looked down at the signalman manning the radio.
"Get me Captain Bollendorf, please."
Captain Markus Bollendorf, Monitor's CO, was senior to Captain Samuel Thackeray, who commanded United States.
"Yes, sir."
Captain Admiral Aage Overgaard stood on the poop deck of his flagship, the fifty-gun Danish ship Freja, and glared up at the
signal flags streaming from the main topsail yard. Those flags allowed him to exercise a tighter central control over a squadron of ships than had ever before been possible for anyone… except for the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Americans. Who, of course, happened to be the people heading toward him from the north.
He was grateful for Justine's report, of course. For that matter, Captain Lacrosse was one of the few French captains he'd been able to stomach. The man not only had a brain, he was actually willing to use it, and he never gave Overgaard the impression that his nostrils had detected something that had been dead for several days when he arrived aboard Freja for a conference.
Of course, even Martignac is better than the damned English, Overgaard told himself. On the other hand, the English aren't the ones playing puppetmaster. In fact, judging from reports about their king's idiocy, they're even more inept puppets for Richelieu than we are! Which, he conceded, takes some doing.
He grimaced at the thought, then squared his shoulders and lowered his eyes to the smoke blurring the hard, blue horizon. The morning's mistiness had disappeared, for which he supposed he ought to be at least a little grateful. And he probably would have been, had he been less aware of how that improved visibility was going to help the Americans and-he spared a moment to glower up at the aircraft circling about his fleet-their damned flying spies.
What he really wanted to be doing was sailing in the opposite direction from that smoke just as quickly as he could go. In fact, if the king had paid any attention to Overgaard's advice, they would have withdrawn the blockading force from Luebeck Bay as soon as the reports that the "ironclads" were ready to depart from Magdeburg had been confirmed. Blockading the city-or trying to, at any rate-had made at least some sense, as long as the French army supposedly preparing to assail the city from the landward side was likely to do so before Gustav Adolf's half-tame Americans could sail to his relief, Overgaard supposed. Trying to maintain the blockade (such as it was, and what there was of it) made no sense at all, however, if his ships were even remotely as outclassed as he suspected they were.