1634: The Baltic War (69 page)

* * *

Ajax
led the reduced squadron toward Admiral Simpson's chosen firing point some hundred yards off Amager Island's defensive batteries. Captain Mülbers was back on his bridge wing, watching the white water foaming back from either side of
Ajax
's blunt bow. He didn't like to admit just how frightening he'd found the Danish galleys' attack. Not so much for his own personal safety, as for the safety of his vessel and the men serving in it. What that single spar torpedo had managed to do to
Monitor
was grim evidence of what
could
have happened if they'd been even a little less lucky in that smoke-strangled melee.

He grimaced at the memory, then worked his shoulders from side to side, trying to flex the tension out of them. It helped, and he reached for his binoculars again. He'd just started to lift them toward his eyes when the corner of his attention noticed something floating in the water directly ahead of
Ajax
.

It wasn't very big. Obviously, it was a piece of wreckage from one of the smashed galleys, or something of sort. It couldn't be anything else, given the fact that they were heading back through the very area where the brief, madly confused engagement had taken place. Of course, it was remotely possible there were still survivors in the water, using some of that same wreckage for flotation, so—

Wolfgang Mülbers never completed the thought. The "wreckage" ahead of his ship was in fact one of the floating mines that had been towed along behind a dozen of Prince Ulrik's galleys. They'd been cut loose only after the smokescreen had hidden them from any observation, been left behind . . . which had put them squarely in the path of Admiral John Simpson's gunboats. Not only put them there, but left them in water that was obviously clear of mines because the galleys themselves had just passed through it.

Each mine was actually part of a cluster of
three
mines, roped together. The dot Mülbers had observed was part of one such cluster, but the dot that he
didn't
see was part of another cluster. One which SSIM
Ajax
had just run directly across.

The improvised detonators were less than reliable, just as Simpson had suggested might be the case in his earlier conversation with Captain Halberstat. Five of them completely failed to function. The
sixth
detonator, however, did exactly what it was supposed to. The mine to which it was attached exploded, and both of its companions went up in sympathetic detonation.

It was a thunderous burst of sound, but before it even truly registered, it was drowned by another, far more powerful blast as
Ajax
's magazine exploded.

John Simpson stared at the expanding ball of fire and smoke that had once been one of his timberclads. Bits and pieces of wreckage lofted outward from the heart of the blast, trailing thin ribbons of smoke across the blue northern sky. He saw one of the ship's carronades sail at least sixty or seventy feet straight up, and his jaw clenched so tightly he was astonished his teeth didn't shatter.

I put the magazines as low as possible to protect them . . . which put them exactly where a bottom-contact explosion could get to them, didn't it?

He wrenched his attention away from the explosion, looking over his shoulder. The expression on young Prince Ulrik's face was all the confirmation he needed. He realized exactly what Ulrik must have done—and how the Danish prince had succeeded in drawing Simpson into exactly the mistake he'd wanted.

For an instant, white-hot rage blasted up inside John Simpson. He'd known all of the officers and men aboard that ship. None of them could have survived that cataclysmic blast, and the man responsible for arranging it stood less than five feet away from him, within easy reach.

But as quickly as it had come, his fury shrank back to merely mortal proportions.

He was only doing his duty
, the admiral told himself, the thought harsh in his own mind
. Only doing his duty. And let's face it, he may have arranged it, but
you're
the one who walked straight into it. Which is exactly why you're so goddamned mad at him
.

He inhaled deeply, then made his white-knuckled grip on his binoculars relax and turned to Captain Halberstat.

"I think we'll have a use for the bass boat after all, Franz," he said. "Please single Ensign Halvorsen that we need him to take point. And pass the same word by radio to the other gunboats. Bring the squadron forty-five degrees to starboard until we're well clear of the engagement area."

"Aye, aye, sir," Halberstat acknowledged. He nodded to one of the signalmen, and Simpson looked at Prince Ulrik as the signal lamp mounted on the front of the bridge began to flicker at Halvorsen's powerboat.

"I see your father was telling the truth when he said Copenhagen wasn't defenseless, Your Highness," he said. The column of gunboats altered course while simultaneously slowing sharply to let Halvorsen take up his new station. "I wish I could congratulate you on your accomplishment. I trust you'll understand why I find that rather too difficult to do at this particular moment."

Ulrik nodded, just a bit gingerly. His own emotions were mixed. Although the mines had been his idea, and even though he and Norddahl were the ones who had worked out the plan to bring them into action, he'd never really expected one of these ships to simply
blow up
like that. Never imagined he would kill
everyone
aboard one of them. The sudden flush of triumph he'd felt was tempered by the knowledge that there could have been no survivors, and he was guiltily delighted when he realized the Americans' change of course would take them safely clear of any of his remaining mines.

Well, of course you're delighted, Ulrik!
he told himself.
After all, if they hadn't changed course, there's no reason
this
ship couldn't have been sunk, as well, and you've already been swimming once today
.

The gunboats steadied on a heading that would bring them to his chosen firing position in about twenty more minutes. "I think, however," Simpson continued, as the shore batteries began to thump smokily, "that Copenhagen's defenses—
effective
defenses, that is—are just about expended now. Under the circumstances, I'd like to invite you to take another message from me to your father."

"Thank God you're alive, Ulrik!" King Christian blurted, crushing his son in a rib-popping, eye-bulging embrace. If Ulrik had ever doubted that his father loved him, that doubt would have been vanquished forever, and he felt his own eyes burn as he hugged Christian back.

"I'm alive, Father," he said, "but most of my men aren't. We did our best, but we didn't stop them. That's why Admiral Simpson sent me ashore to tell you that his original terms still stand."

"No!"

Christian jerked back, his huge smile banished by an expression of ferocious determination.

"Father, they're ready to open fire. Trust me, the shore batteries aren't going to stop them, and my galleys are gone now."

"Maybe so," his father said half-sullenly. "But we've still got more of your floating mines, and wind and tide will carry them straight into those gunboats if we release them in the right spot."

"Father, there's no way to control the direction they'll drift if we turn them loose. They may get to the Americans, but they probably won't. And if they don't, then they'll be a menace to any other vessel that approaches Copenhagen. And even if we manage to sink another one of their ships, it's not going to change the fact that they're anchored right off the waterfront, ready to turn the shipyard—and the entire city, for that matter—into rubble."

"We won't sink
one
more of their ships; we'll sink
all
of them!"

"Father, I don't think we—"

"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 found Anne Cathrine where he'd told her to wait for him, 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.

I don't want to kill those poor damned gunners over there, either, though
, he thought, glaring at the batteries and remembering the wreckage his guns had left behind at Hamburg.
It's not their idea, after all.

His eyes narrowed suddenly, and his spine straightened.

Wait a minute. It
isn't
their idea, John; it's Christian's. So why don't you just find yourself a target that can demonstrate the depth of his . . . unwisdom even to him? Something prominent, something royal . . .

His eyes lit on the tall finger of the Blue Tower rising above Copenhagen Castle on Slotsholmen Island, and he smiled thinly.

Almost mesmerized, Eddie stared at the distant ironclad that was bringing itself around to bring its big ten-inch guns to bear on Copenhagen Castle. The two pivot-mounted guns had been trained around to the port broadside from their normal fore and aft positions, so he got an excellent view of
three
of them. And judging from their elevation, Eddie had a pretty shrewd notion that that their target was the castle's single most prominent feature: the Blue Tower.

The same Blue Tower, unfortunately, that contained Eddie himself—locked into a room on one of the upper floors.

That was the
USS Constitution,
to make things perfect—Simpson's own flagship. Even at the distance, Eddie could recognize the admiral's flag.

No, it'd be the
SSIM Constitution,
now. He'd learned that from Ulrik.

He would have been positive as to the ship's identity, even if it hadn't been for the admiral's flag. It was hard to distinguish the ironclads at a distance because they'd all been built according to the same design. They were certainly too far away for him to read the lettering on the hulls. Still, each ship tended to have slight variations of its own, and as much time as he'd spent working on them those variations had become as familiar to him as the features of different people's faces.

He could see the national colors they were flying, too, which was the new flag adopted by the United States of Europe after it was formed—by which time Eddie himself was a Danish prisoner of war—not the flag he'd been familiar with. That had been the flag of the New United States, which was an adaptation of the up-time flag of the USA. A different pattern for the stars, but the same familiar red and white stripes. Since the Confederated Principalities of Europe had been a loose confederation rather than having the federal structure of the USE, the CPE's Navy had actually been the NUS Navy. Just on loan, so to speak. The CPE had never had a flag of its own.

Eddie had never seen the USE flag up close, and Ulrik's depiction of its design had been rather vague. From this distance, it looked remarkably like a Confederate battle flag from the American Civil War. At least, it clearly had the same stars and bars design, even if Eddie couldn't really make out the stars that well. But the color scheme was quite different. The USE's colors were the traditional German red, black and gold, not the red, white and blue of American custom—whether Union or Confederate. And the black crossed bars on this new flag were considerably thinner than the blue crossed bars of the Confederate flag. The end result was that, from a distance, the USE flag mostly just looked like a big red flag.

Swell
, thought Eddie.
Might as well just call it a bloody flag and be done with it, far as I'm concerned
. Within less than a minute, he was about to get a personal introduction to the phenomenon known as "friendly fire." Most likely, a very brief introduction. Even if none of the shells struck his chamber directly, he knew that it wouldn't take that many rounds from those huge guns to bring down the whole Blue Tower in a heap of rubble. With Eddie Cantrell's poor squished skinny little carcass somewhere in the middle of it, oozing blood and—best not dwell on that—at least maybe they'd be able to identity the remains from the scraps of red hair still sticking to this or that shredded piece of—

Oh, yuck.

But, since Eddie couldn't see anywhere he could hide that would make any difference, he decided to stay at the window. What the hell. Might as well enjoy a good show, short and unfortunately truncated as it would be, on his way out.

He heard something behind him and turned. To his surprise, the door was being unlocked. A small hope flared up. Could the guards have decided to take him out?

But the person who came through the door was not one of the palace guards, it was Anne Cathrine.

"Hurry, Eddie!" she hissed, waving at him. "We don't have much time."

Eddie wasn't about to argue the point. He didn't quite race for the door—not with a peg leg—but came damn close. If he survived all this, maybe he'd look into setting up a Special Olympics. He'd probably be a cinch for the gold medal in the 100 Meter Stump.

"You aren't kidding we don't have much time," he said, as he got to the door. "Won't be more than—"

Anne Cathrine was already hustling him down the corridor, her shoulder under one of his arms, carrying him as much as he was moving himself. Under other circumstances, he might have been irritated and he'd certainly have been embarrassed, but he wasn't going to worry about that now. The simple fact was that, as strong as she was, Anne Cathrine was getting him down that corridor faster than he'd have managed on his own.

"The guards only agreed to leave for twenty minutes," she hissed. "The greedy swine. Hurry!"

And, of course, the feel of that young and incredibly vigorous and healthy and very female body pressed so closely to him was half-scrambling his brains. As he had before, for what now seemed a million times, he tried to remind himself sternly that the girl was only fifteen. No cradle robber he, damnation.

Alas, his mind—as it had the same million times before—refused to cooperate.

Her birthday's August 10th, so she's actually fifteen and
three-quarters
years old, which is a lot closer to sixteen, and sixteen ain't so bad when you really start thinking about it—sweet sixteen, remember?—not to mention that it's the age of consent in West Virginia and even if it weren't, a quick car ride across the state line from where Grantville used to be puts you in either Pennsylvania or Ohio where it's also sixteen and in a real pinch Jimmy Andersen once told me he'd heard it was only fifteen or maybe even fourteen in South Carolina although he thought you had to get parental permission for that to apply and fat chance of that even leaving aside the fact that Papà in this case is the king of fucking Denmark and just because it wasn't all that long ago that the hypocritical Norse bastards were ravishing Irish virgins didn't mean they took the same attitude when it was THEIR virgin daughters involved—

By now, they'd reached one of the servants' narrow staircases and were working their way down to the next floor. An incredible explosion above them wiped Eddie's feverish reveries right out of his mind. He was almost relieved.

The whole staircase shook—and it was mostly stone. Fortunately, no rubble came down.

Yet.

"What was that?" cried out Anne Cathrine, stopping for a moment and staring back up the stairs.

"
That,
" said Eddie grimly, "was the first of what will be as many ten-inch explosive shells as my boss Admiral Simpson thinks it takes to turn this place into rubble. Let's get moving again, king's daughter."

She stared at him. "Your admiral is
shooting
at the Blue Tower?"

"Sure is. Please, Anne Cathrine, we
have
to get moving. This whole thing's going to come down. Trust me, it
will.
Even up-time construction couldn't stand up to what's coming."

She did as he bade her, moving even more quickly than before. It was pure Valkyrie now, with not even a trace of her former—none too elaborate, damn the girl—attempts to salve Eddie's pride whenever she helped him along. For all practical purposes, she'd more or less picked him up and had him half-slung over her hip—

Imminent death and destruction be damned, that hip kicked all his reveries back into full gear. How could one teenage girl so completely demolish an adult man's hold on reality?

—and was practically bounding down the stairs, her mane of red-gold hair coming loose and starting to spill over half of Eddie's face.

Okay, fine. He was only a twenty-year old adult man, not some kinda codger, and even the girl's
hair
was gorgeous. Still and all!

She reached the landing and kept going down the next flight of stairs. Another incredible concussion rattled the whole structure. There was no way, with the slow rate of fire of the big ten-inch guns, that the
Constitution
could have fired a second broadside that quickly. Which meant that Simpson must have ordered another ironclad to start firing on the castle.

"My father will be furious!" she yelped. "Your admiral will be in a lot of trouble!"

Eddie giggled. Literally giggled. He couldn't help himself.

"And what's so funny?" she demanded. Not, however, breaking any strides to do so, thank God.

"Ah, nothing," said Eddie. There was no point trying to explain. Not now, for sure. Like every royal Eddie had met except Prince Ulrik—not that he'd met all that many—there was one side to Anne Cathrine that just plain lived in a fantasy world. For the most part, the girl was level-headed and practical. More so than any of her sisters that Eddie had met, and certainly more so than her mother Kirsten Munk, from all reports. Anne Cathrine not only had the constitution of a Danish dairy maid, she actually
did
know how to milk a cow.

Still, being raised in a royal family was bound to distort your sense of reality, unless you had the rare faculty that Ulrik possessed of being very clear-sighted and very ruthless with your own preconceptions. It was difficult to understand that the map was not the territory. Surrounded by the trappings of power, those became confused with the reality that lay beneath those trappings. Even to the point where a royal father's temper still seemed more powerful and potent than the ten-inch explosive shells that were bringing his capital city down around him.

So be it. Eddie didn't mind, actually. Why should he? Most of the teenage girls he'd known back up-time had been at least as prone to confusing fantasy with reality. Even if, in their case, the confusion was between a credit card and the money that had to pay the bills, instead of a confusion between castles and debris.

It wasn't a perfect world—and never had been, for a skinny and socially inept red-headed kid raised in a trailer park, even when he still had two feet. The fact was, Anne Cathrine just plain bowled him over. The only thing that
really
bothered him was that he just couldn't see any way to make a real romantic relationship between them work, even assuming she was willing. And the fact that she
did
seem to be willing just made it all the worse.

Her age wasn't even the problem. Eddie would wait, and be glad to do so. But you don't "wait" for a princess to get older, because it doesn't matter how old she gets. She'll always be a princess—fine; "king's daughter." Big fricking difference, when you're still a one-footed chump of a junior naval officer with no title to your name beyond "Lieutenant"—a dime a dozen, that title was, in this world even more than the one up-time—and no fancy family connections—no family left at all, actually—and the only influential human being you had any close connection to—

Oh, the icing on the cake!

—was the same admiral who was blowing Daddy's Place to smithereens.

Who ordered this?!

The one and only thing that kept Eddie and Anne Cathrine alive was the simple fact that, powerful as they were, those ten-inch guns took a long time to reload. So, they'd reached the bottom floor and were already out the door into the courtyard where a coach was waiting for them when the second broadside from the
Constitution
started finally collapsing the Blue Tower. Not completely, not yet—but looking back hurriedly Eddie could see that the top two stories had come down already and what remained beneath was looking very, very shaky. He also saw the cloud of dust and debris that blew out of the doorway they'd just emerged from, and knew that the interior staircase must have been brought down. If they'd been just a few seconds later getting out of there, they'd have been crushed.

"In," Anne Cathrine hissed, more or less tossing Eddie into the carriage. She clambered in behind him, then had to stretch to close the door. The coach driver had already had the team of horses moving before she'd gotten all the way in, and the door had been flung wide open.

"Idiot!" she muttered. Eddie, on the other hand, thought the driver was a genius. He leaned his head out the window and looked back. From the looks of it, the Blue Tower would be coming down on its own, soon enough, even if the ironclads didn't fire any more rounds. It was already on fire, of course. The explosive material in those ten-inch shells was simply black powder. They weren't designed to be incendiary rounds, as such. But firing into a castle full of flammable materials, it hardly made any practical difference.

Anne Cathrine's head came into the window right next to his, her cheek pressed against his cheek and the rest of her in a full-body press against his back and the back of his legs.

"Oh!" she gasped, staring up wide-eyed. "Papà will have a
fit.
Your admiral will be lucky if he keeps his head!"

Eddie would have giggled again, except his whole throat was constricted. He felt like a one-man hormone factory. A very, very
big
factory—and the only boss in charge seemed to have the intelligence of a rabbit. A tiny little scrap of a brain with only enough room in it for one thought, and that one as primitive as it gets.

And then, what little scrap remained shrank down to maybe four functioning neurons. Anne Cathrine pulled him out of the window and closed the curtains. "You musn't be seen," she murmured. Right into his ear, because her cheek was pressed more closely still. So was her full-body press, except within seconds it wasn't pressed against his back.

"You musn't be seen," she repeated, still murmuring. "The driver and two coachmen probably know who you are, but they've been very well paid. Still, the less they see, the less they have to remember to lie about."

Then,
she
giggled. "Too bad it's not a very long trip." She was nuzzling his ear, now. "But we'll have lots of time when we get there."

Eddie tried to rally. His cortex did, anyway. The rest of his nervous system seemed to be on autonomous mode, with his hands moving here and there of their own volition. It didn't help that everywhere they roamed, Anne Cathrine's body came to meet them.