1634: The Baltic War (assiti chards)

by Eric Flint

  "I'm afraid it's not much," Wentworth said to her quietly, once they were done.

  "No, it isn't. On the other hand, I don't think we'll need to find out, either."

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You've that much confidence in your navy?"

  Rita chuckled. "Not exactly. It's just that I grew up with my brother, you know. We're talking about a guy who, for a stretch there in his teens, used to hot-wire cars in Fairmont or Clarksburg and go joy-riding about every month with his buddies. Never got caught once, even though every cop in Marion County knew damn good and well who the culprit was."

  Wentworth frowned, obviously trying to extract the gist from the indecipherable terms. "A successful petty criminal, you're saying?"

  "Well… technically. But since he always returned the cars in perfect condition, with a full tank of gas-sometimes, he'd even give them a wash in the process-nobody really cared that much."

  "Ah." After a moment, the earl of Strafford smiled. That was the first smile she'd seen on his face all day. "I see. A successful politician, in the making."

  "Yeah, you could put it that way. The point is, I really don't think he's likely to screw up."

  A sudden shout came from the bow. From Sherrilyn, obviously. That feminine shriek of glee was quite unmistakable.

  She turned her head to look. Sherrilyn was perched rather precariously, pointing at something ahead of them in the distance. "Eat your heart out, Harry! Now-any second now, they've already got the guns run out-you're going to hear a real pick-up line!"

  Maybe two seconds later, Rita heard the distant sound of cannons being fired.

  "Now you lads!" roared Baumgartner. "Smartly, y'hear!"

  The captain was bringing the Achates around so that it would be able to fire a full broadside at the nearest of the three Royal Navy ships that were moving to intercept it, instead of just the lead carronade on a pivot mount. Even someone as nautically-challenged as Mike Stearns could see that the timberclad's paddle-wheel design that had made it such a tub on the open sea now gave it an enormous advantage over the three sailing vessels facing it. Where their captains had to maneuver in the estuary by contending with the complex cross-forces of tide and current and wind, Baumgartner simply had to give his helmsman an order.

  Within seconds, the broadside was fired. Only one of the three English ships was in position to do the same-and it was out of range. The broadside of the Achates was fired at the lead enemy ship, which was still trying to come into position.

  It helped, of course, that the disparity in ordnance was so tremendous. The biggest guns on those English ships would be culverins, firing eighteen-pound round shot. Most of the guns, and perhaps all of them, would be no bigger than twelve-pounders. And they were going up against the Achates, whose four-foot thick wooden walls would shrug off their fire, while it replied with explosive rounds fired from sixty-eight pound carronades. There were just six of them, on a broadside-but six was plenty.

  Indeed it was. Only two rounds from that first broadside struck the English warship, but they were enough to shatter its bow. Worse still-this was always the real threat that explosive rounds posed to wooden warships-they'd started fires in several places. Even given that warship crews of the time were trained and ready to deal with shipboard fires, at least one of those fires was already too big to be extinguished.

  In fact, the captain of that ship-or whichever officer had succeeded him, if he'd been killed-was already giving the order to abandon it. Seeing the boats being lowered over the side, Baumgartner ignored that ship altogether and ordered the Achates to steam toward the other two.

  One of those two seemed to be trying to head back to the docks, from what Mike could tell. The other one…

  Either that captain couldn't make up his mind, or his ship had somehow gotten stalled in mid-water by incorrect or cross-purpose orders. Whatever that was called, in nautical terms. Mike could see its sails flapping uselessly in the wind. Caught up in stays, or something. It had been years since he'd read C. S. Forester's Hornblower novels, and he'd never paid much attention to the technical details anyway.

  "Incompetent bastard," he heard Baumgartner murmur contemptuously. To the helmsman he said: "Come hard to port. Let's let the lads on the starboard guns get a bit of experience too."

  He seemed utterly calm, cool and collected. Mike wasn't prepared to forgive the captain all his sins, yet. But he did allow to himself, privately, that his former thoughts of homicide had been a tad excessive.

  Perhaps two minutes later, the starboard broadside went off. At what amounted to point-blank range, in this case; close enough that the English ship was able to fire a broadside of its own.

  So far as Mike could tell, only two shots from that enemy broadside struck the Achates. One hit the paddle wheeler's hull and simply bounced off. Literally, bounced-like a pebble thrown against a tree. The other one smacked into one of the timberclad's tall funnels. Mike would have expected it to knock the funnel completely down, but it didn't. Instead, it simply punched straight through it, leaving a smoke-streaming hole in each side about eight feet above bridge height.

  All that, however, he barely noted in passing. The effect of the Achates' broadside on the English ship was so incredible that it pretty much obliterated everything else as it obliterated the ship. It was honestly hard to think of any other term to describe what happened when those six shells struck it amidship, even before the magazine exploded perhaps half a minute later and destroyed it altogether.

  "Jesus Christ," Mike said softly. "May God have mercy on their souls."

  The sharp glance Baumgartner gave him made it clear that the captain of the Achates disapproved of blasphemy, first; and, second, thought the likelihood that the Almighty would look with favor upon the souls of dead enemies of the USE Navy was probably a blasphemous notion itself.

  He really was something of an shithead, Mike concluded. On the other hand, as the old cynical saying went, he was our shithead-and very damn good at it. Very damn good indeed.

  "I can catch up to that third ship and send it down, if you'd like, Prime Minister. Though I can't say there's probably much purpose to doing so."

  "No, no. Let's just find Captain Lefferts' barge and finish what we came here to do."

  Less than a minute later, the lookout spotted the barge. It took less than half an hour, thereafter, to transfer everyone from it onto one of the two merchant vessels that would carry them to Amsterdam.

  "And you're sure about Amsterdam, Prime Minister?" asked Captain Baumgartner. "Given that the weather seems to be holding up well-and there's a miracle, in itself-I'm sure we can make it back to Hamburg." His innate essence, naturally, made him hastily add, "The merchant vessels, at least. Our chances in the Achates, you understand, remain as grim as ever."

  "Yes, I'm sure. For three reasons. First, because I think it will have a very salutary effect on Don Fernando to see a warship of the United States of Europe steaming serenely into Amsterdam's harbor, thumbing its nose at his entire blockading fleet. Now that I've observed this ship in action, I don't have much doubt they'd be no match for you, if they were stupid enough to try it."

  "In the sheltered waters of the Zuider Zee?" Baumgartner shook his head. "No match at all."

  Mike was pretty sure the cardinal-infante wouldn't try to test the issue, anyway. Not with the news they'd just received concerning the outcome of the Battle of Ahrensbok, which Becky would be sure to pass along to the Spanish. An entire French army destroyed, with most of its officers and soldiers captured, was such a good incentive for finding a diplomatic resolution to the war.

  "What I figured. My second reason is that it would be better to set Wentworth and Laud ashore on Dutch soil. Of course, if they choose to seek further sanctuary in the USE, we'll be glad to oblige them. But I'd rather it was clearly their own choice, and not something we forced them into."

  "I understand, Prime Minister. And the third reason?"

  Mike frowned, trying to remember why h
e'd said "three reasons" in the first place. He'd come up with the number more from a subconscious impulse than anything else.

  After a moment, the answer came to him, with truly brilliant clarity. At which point, he cleared his throat.

  "Ah… 'three,' did I say? Can't imagine what I was thinking. No, it's just those two."

  Because I really miss my wife and I want to get laid was not, all things considered, the sort of answer people expect from a head of state explaining matters of high diplomacy.

  "Very well, Prime Minister. In that case, we should see to transferring you aboard Captain Hamers' ship."

  Mike's eyes widened. "I was planning to remain aboard the Achates. At least, until we've safely made the North Sea crossing again and are in sheltered waters."

  Baumgartner gave him a smile, the first one Mike had ever seen on his sourpuss face. "Oh, I think there's no need for that. I'm sure the men appreciate as much as I do your willingness to share the risks with us on the voyage over, Prime Minister. But now that the task is accomplished, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't insist that you make the voyage back in the security of the seagoing vessels. Besides, with Wentworth and Laud aboard, you've got diplomatic work to do."

  Mike stared at him. "You're… ah… sure about this, Captain? I assure you-"

  "No, I insist! If for no other reason, because Admiral Simpson would be furious with me if I did otherwise."

  Blessedly, the unnatural smile disappeared and was replaced with Baumgartner's usual lugubrious visage. "That's in the unlikely event I survive the crossing, of course. The North Sea's a treacherous mistress, treacherous beyond belief. She can turn on you in an instant. Even Hamers in that real ship of his will likely have a struggle of it. I don't really expect the Achates to make it, although I have hopes that we might get close enough to the Waddensee Islands before we founder that the ship's company can find refuge there. Insofar as those bleak and barren strips of sand can be called 'refuge' at all. But, who knows? Enough of the rats may come ashore that we'd have some food for a day or two. More likely, though, they'll be dining on us."

  The first thing Harry Lefferts said after Mike clambered aboard Hamers' ship and explained they were headed for Amsterdam was, "Jeez, boss, you're making major decisions of state just to get laid?"

  Mike ignored that. The first thing Melissa Mailey said-pointing a rigid finger at Harry-was, "Does the United States of Europe have firm laws on the books prohibiting the destruction of historic monuments; and if not, why not?"

  Mike decided to ignore that, too. The first thing his sister said-pointing a rigid finger at her husband Tom-was, "Dammit, Mike, you're his commander-in-chief. Tell him he can't do it!"

  Hard to ignore your own sister. "Do what?"

  "Become a goddam priest! Or maybe even a bishop!"

  Mike now looked at his brother-in-law. Tom had a sheepish expression on his face, and was rubbing his jaw with a hand that looked almost the size of a dinner plate.

  "Well… It's like this, Mike." He glanced at a small, elderly, red-faced man standing in the stern of the ship and engrossed in conversation with a tall younger fellow. From descriptions he'd gotten and their apparel, Mike assumed that was the archbishop of Canterbury and Thomas Wentworth.

  "Rita's ticked off," Tom continued, "because she figured-so did I-that after I coldcocked Laud while rescuing him that my chances of getting ordained were about zero. But it turns out the archbishop doesn't remember any of that. I guess I slugged him harder than I thought. The only thing he seems to remember-vaguely-is that I'm the guy who got him out of captivity. And his mood's improving by the minute."

  "Do something, Mike!" shrilled Rita.

  Chapter 64

  Duesseldorf Duchy of Berg

  "A complete, total, unmitigated disaster," concluded Francois Lefebvre, the cavalry officer who also served Turenne's small army as its de facto intelligence officer. He tossed the Duesseldorf newspaper onto the big table at the center of the tavern's main room. "That's assuming this account is reasonably accurate, but I'm pretty sure it is. Every item in it that we've been able to check against what few French reports we've gotten has proven to be so."

  "And what exactly are those reports, Francois?" asked Jean de Gassion.

  Lefebvre made a face. His lips, curled into a sarcastic sneer; his brows, wrinkled with exasperation. "Not much, Jean-and with only one exception, they're all reports coming from officers or soldiers passing through here in what they call a 'retreat.' Passing very quickly through, in a tearing hurry to get back to France."

  "Deserters, in other words," snorted Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt.

  Marshal Turenne waved his hand. "We should be a bit charitable here. If the reports are even halfway accurate, our army was shattered outside Luebeck. At-"

  He leaned over in his chair and reached for the newspaper. "What are they calling it?"

  "The Battle of Ahrensbok," Lefebvre supplied. "At least, that's what the Germans and Swedes are calling it."

  Turenne picked up the newspaper and scanned the front page. "Well, they won it, so they get to pick the name."

  "Just as well," said de la Mothe-Houdancourt, his tone of voice every bit as sarcastic as his snort had been. "If we named it, we'd have no choice but to call it the Battle of the duc d'Angouleme's Rear End."

  That brought a laugh from most of the officers at the table or standing near it. Even Turenne couldn't help but smile.

  "My point, Philippe," he continued, "is that any great defeat produces a flood of men-officers, too, don't ever think otherwise-racing to get out of the disaster. That's not quite the same thing as desertion, I don't think."

  The marshal's tone of voice was very mild, as it had been throughout the discussion since it began. De Gassion cocked his head and gave his commander a long and considering look.

  "Why so diplomatic?" he asked suddenly. "If you'll pardon me for asking, sir. Whatever else this terrible defeat produces, it'll lift your name in Paris. No need, any longer, to soothe the thin skins of men who've just demonstrated their complete incompetence."

  Turenne smiled and laid the newspaper down. "So naive, Jean! You're a good cavalry officer, but you've still got a lot to learn about the way factional battles are fought. Yes, it's certainly true that the results of Ahrensbok make the French army's top officers look like fumblers, at best. And it's also true that our raid on Wietze spares us from the same accusation. But if you think that will result in a calm and deliberate consideration of the reasons for the disaster, you are living in a fantastical world of your own. What it will actually do is fuel the factional disputes. What's that incomprehensible American expression? The one about the muscular poison?"

  "Put the factional disputes on steroids," said Lefebvre. "They'd also say something about 'turbo-charged,' and when I find out exactly what a 'turbo' is I'll let you all know."

  That brought another laugh, from everyone except de Gassion, who was now frowning. "Are you serious, Marshal? How can such as de Valois and de la Valette possibly do anything but hide their heads? That's after they ransom themselves from captivity, mind you."

  One of the men at the table who'd hitherto been silent now spoke. That was Urbain de Maille, one of the many relatives of Cardinal Richelieu who'd entered military service and had distinguished themselves. In his case, enough to have been made a marshal of France-the only one in the room besides Turenne himself. Being now at the age of thirty-seven, he was the oldest man in Turenne's inner circle of officers.

  He was both liked and respected by Turenne's other officers. Liked, because he was a likeable man. Respected, in part for his talents but also because, despite being much senior to Turenne and with great accomplishments of his own, he had never exhibited the hostility and jealousy toward their very young commander that so many other figures in the French military establishment had done. In fact, he'd volunteered for Turenne's force on his own initiative-a decision which most of the French officer corps had considered insane at the ti
me, but which was now looking smarter and smarter by the day.

  "I'm afraid our normally impetuous young commander has the right of it, Jean. This is, indeed, a time for great caution. True enough, we will now be the apple of Richelieu's eye, as the Americans would put it. But don't fool yourself-the moment our army at Ahrensbok surrendered, after suffering such terrible casualties, was the moment a new civil war began in France. For the next few years, my brother-in-law the cardinal will be fighting not just to retain power. He'll be fighting for his life."

  Those sober-even somber-words brought silence to the table. De Maille stretched out his hand and laid a finger on the newspaper on the table, then tapped the finger a few times.

  "Please take note of the one name that is not included in this list of officers and great figures humiliated at Ahrensbok." Seeing the blank looks on the faces around him, he chuckled humorlessly. "Oh, come, gentlemen. It's obvious."

  Francois Lefebvre sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "Monsieur Gaston."

  The same little sigh was echoed elsewhere. Monsieur Gaston was the phrase commonly used in France to refer to Gaston Jean-Baptiste, duc d'Orleans-the younger brother of King Louis XIII. Thereby also, since the king had not yet produced a successor, being the immediate heir to the throne of France.

  Monsieur Gaston was an inveterate and incorrigible schemer, whom many-including all of the men at that table-suspected to be guilty of treasonous actions in his pursuit of power. He was also Richelieu's chief antagonist in the nation's political struggles and maneuvers, and a man who hated the cardinal with a passion.

  "But-" Still frowning, Jean de Gassion looked about in some confusion. The bluff Gascon cavalry commander really was notoriously thick-witted when it came to parsing his way through the intricacies of French factionalism. "I still don't understand."

  He, too, reached out and tapped the newspaper. "Most of these idiots-these craven bastards-are partisans of Monsieur Gaston. Ah… aren't they?"