Unless, of course, the wise commander in question already knows that even his lightly protected ships aren't in any particular danger, he thought grimly. And perhaps it does make sense, in a way. According to those same spies, the timberclads have more of those short guns-those "carronades." If Simpson is confident that our guns can't hurt them, he might want to get the ones with the heavier weight of broadside into action first. Besides, the rumors indicate that the ironclads are probably faster. So maybe he wants to hold back his speediest ships until he sees exactly how things work out.
His thoughts didn't make him feel any happier, and his mind ran back over the instructions the comte de Martignac had very quietly given him for certain contingencies. He hadn't cared for those orders at the time, particularly not given the memory of what had happened to their Dutch "allies" in the English Channel last fall. Part of him still didn't care for them; another part was beginning to consider how he might best put them into effect.
"Any orders, sir?" Bouvier asked quietly.
"Not yet, Jerome." Lacrosse glanced to the south, toward the fleet flagship. Freja held her position in the rather clumsily formed line of battle, about a third of the way back from Justine. Frankly, Lacrosse was astonished that Overgaard's captains were managing to come as close to maintaining formation as they were. It wasn't exactly something at which most navies' captains had much practice, after all. And it would have been nice, seeing that they'd managed to get into formation so well, if the looming battle had been one in which tactical formations were going to make very much difference.
"No, not yet," Lacrosse repeated very softly, under his breath.
"Navy One, Recon One," Weissenbach said. "They're still holding formation, headed almost straight for you, Admiral."
"Understood, Recon One. Thank you," Simpson replied, then left the radio room and climbed the short ladder to the conning tower, one deck level above. Halberstat looked at him as he stepped off the ladder, and he smiled thinly.
"According to Weissenbach, they're holding course and formation," he said. "For now, at least."
Halberstat returned his smile, then swung back to the forward vision slit, watching the timberclads' smoke swirl across the water ahead of him.
Simpson's formation change had put the remaining ironclads in line behind Ajax and Achilles, and Halberstat wondered if any of the League ships had actually spotted Constitution or President yet. Their lack of funnel smoke, coupled with the obscuration of the timberclads' smoke-not to mention the tendency of all that self-same smoke to attract the eye-made the odds no more than even that they had been sighted, he estimated.
Not that anyone would be overlooking them much longer, of course.
"Sir, the masthead reports at least one more ship."
Lacrosse looked at Bouvier, arching one eyebrow, and the first lieutenant shrugged.
"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.
From Justine's poop deck, it appeared that none of the American's fire had missed. And it certainly hadn't "bounced off," either. Instead, to Lacrosse's horror, the timberclad's massive projectiles smashed straight through Monarch's timbers, buried themselves… and then exploded.
It was almost like hearing a double broadside. First there was the dull, ear-stunning thud of the firing guns; an instant later, came the oddly muffled, echoing thunder of the exploding shells. Huge splinters were blown out of Monarch's side. More fragments-large fragments, individually visible even from Lacrosse's position-flew upward in lazy arcs that went spiraling outward until they plunged into the water in white feathers of foam. Smoke and flashes of flame erupted through the holes torn abruptly through the Danish ship's structure, and the French captain's blood ran chill as he contemplated the horrendous inferno explosions like that might ignite.