Another work gang, this one headed by no less than three of the up-time Americans, had already swung into action. The wooden wheels of a wagon creaked and clattered across the stone-ballasted quay, and Holtzmüller watched one of the up-timers climb down into the Outlaw.
“Let’s get the base mount down here first,” the American said. “After that, I guess we need the blast shield.” His two fellows nodded agreement and began passing down the first components of the “rocket launcher.”
Holtzmüller turned away with a mental shake of his head. In the end, he knew, it was going to be a race between whatever forces General Torstensson found to replace his own stolen garrison and the Danes. And it was going to be up to these Americans and their outlandish devices to buy time for Torstensson to win the race. On the face of it, the notion that so few men—less than sixty, even counting the native Germans assigned to the American reinforcements—could delay a force the size the Danes were bound to throw against Wismar even temporarily was ludicrous.
But Holtzmüller recognized confidence when he saw it; perhaps even more importantly, he’d seen enough bravado to know when “confidence” was only another word for desperation. These bizarre Americans truly believed they could slow the Danes down enough to make the difference. And as he looked back at the harbor one last time, at those white “fiberglass” hulls and the ungainly framework of the “rocket launcher” already taking form on the Outlaw’s foredeck, he actually found himself believing that perhaps—just perhaps—they might be right.
Perhaps.
“I assure you, Compte, that we will move as soon as possible,” Captain-Admiral Aage Overgaard told the insufferable Frenchman.
“I accept your assurance, of course, Admiral,” the compte de Martignac replied with exquisite politeness. “My only concern is that the season grows late. It is already the second day of October. We do not have many weeks left before my own ships and those of Admiral Tobias must return to their home ports.”
“I am well aware of how hard our Northern winters can be,” Overgaard assured him. “And, in all honesty, I am fully as impatient as you are yourself. Unfortunately, as I am certain you are aware, it was impossible for anyone to predict precisely when the Spanish and Dutch would meet in combat.” He did not add “and you and your fine English colleague could betray the Hollanders,” although he felt quite sure Martignac heard the unvoiced thought, anyway. “Because of that uncertainty, we dared not press our own preparations too openly. Gustavus, and especially that devil of a chancellor, Oxenstierna, have spies everywhere. Had we made it apparent that we were preparing an expedition, they would quickly have divined our intentions, which could been disastrous. Their navy is very nearly a match for our own, and the first thing Fleming and Gyllenhjelm would have done would have been to seek a decisive engagement with us before you could sail to reinforce us. Even had they failed in that purpose, Gustavus would have been given sufficient warning to redeploy his troops to meet us.”
“That much is understood. Yet my fear is that if our blow is delayed much longer, that delay will have the same effect as forewarning them might have. By now, word of Dunkirk must have reached Magdeburg, and Gustavus will already be redeploying his forces.”
“Of course he is,” Overgaard acknowledged. “And that is a less than good thing in many ways. Yet even Gustavus must have been prey to at least a brief uncertainty as to our intentions. No doubt he is repositioning his forces, but it will take him some time to move significant numbers of them. Moreover, our own spies’ reports indicate that he has personally undertaken command of the garrison at Luebeck.”
“He has?” Martignac’s gaze sharpened suddenly, and Overgaard nodded.
“He has. And if he truly intends to hold that city, then he will be forced to reinforce its garrison. Which means he must strip forces from other positions . . . like Wismar, Rostock, and Stralsund.”
“I see,” Martignac said slowly.
“I’m sure you do,” Overgaard agreed. “If Gustavus chooses to pen himself up in Luebeck, so much the better. It is he, and he alone, who binds this Confederated Principalities of Europe together. And it is he alone who stands protector to the Americans. If he can be swept from the board, then all he’s managed to build must come tumbling down. In which event, of course, my king will become master of the Baltic once and for all, and yours will have what he seeks elsewhere.”