1637 The Polish Maelstrom Page 23

  Granted, the cabin was both more comfortable than a saddle, and a slow-moving barge on a placid river kept her a lot warmer than she’d have been on horseback.

  “As long as the river doesn’t freeze over and strand us out here,” she warned Noelle. She looked out the window of the cabin at the very cold-looking river. “Which could happen any moment, you know.”

  “Denise, a river this wide is not going to freeze over before we get to Trenčín, even if the temperature drops like a stone.”

  “We’re in the Little Ice Age, remember?”

  “It’s the Little Ice Age, not the Instant Ice Age. You’re just grouchy because you don’t like the barge owner’s singing.”

  “Sure don’t. Are we there yet?”

  Aboard a barge on the Váh River

  Between Žilina and Trenčín

  It took four days to get from Žilina to Trenčín. Even though, as Denise complained bitterly, it was only fifty miles or so.

  “Jesus H. Christ. How does a barge move this slowly? Because the stupid barge guy keeps pulling over and stopping.”

  “He’s letting the people on horseback catch up with us. Remember them? Our friends and companions?”

  Denise knew that perfectly well. She was just in a bad mood.

  Which was made even worse when Noelle leaned over and patted her under the chin. “Now, dear—cheer up. If Artemisia Gentileschi were here she could do another great portrait of you. Only we couldn’t call it Steady Girl, we’d have to call it… Help me out here. Gloomy Gamin? Bummed Out Babe? How about Melancholy Maiden?”

  “I am not a maiden!”

  “Well, that’s true. Back to the drawing board. I know! Artemisia could call it Discontented and Downhearted, Though Only Eighteen.”

  “Nineteen!”

  Trenčín

  Royal Hungary

  Austrian-Hungarian Empire

  The barge owner proved to be correct on at least one count. There was indeed a wainwright in Trenčín who had the skills and materials to repair the broken axle. And the sons and apprentices to do the work.

  The problem now became what the prospective customer lacked, which was a suitable form of payment.

  Noelle—Lukasz, officially, but everyone soon dispensed with that formality—began by dickering with the wainwright, based on the assumption they’d be dealing in Austrian currency. Since they were, after all, in Austria.

  “That money can’t be trusted anymore,” said the wainwright, shaking his head. “It’s probably adulterated. If the old emperor was still on the throne, I’d take it. But with this new one… Who gave part of Austria to the dirty Bohemians and let the stinking Turks take Vienna?”

  He gave the coins in Noelle’s hand a look of great disdain. “I don’t think so. For all I know, a month from now that money won’t be good for anything except skipping it off the water for amusement. Very slight amusement which ends very rapidly. No. I need payment in something I can trust.”

  Noelle instantly decided that offering Bohemian currency was inadvisable. So she offered USE dollars.

  “That stuff is paper,” sneered the wainwright. “No, I want money. Real money. Gold or silver.”

  They had silver other than the reichsthalers, although not gold, but Noelle was reluctant to part with it. They didn’t know yet who they might have to bribe once they got to Vienna, and the likelihood that Ottoman officials would accept payment in Austrian, Bohemian or USE currency seemed…

  Low.

  But, in the end, she had to relent. The only alternative, which was raised by the wainwright’s wife, was that she pay them with the large and obviously expensive earrings she was wearing.

  That, she refused to do. First, because they were a wedding gift from Janos. Secondly, because they didn’t know yet who they might have to bribe once they got to Vienna, and the likelihood that Ottoman officials would accept payment in fine jewelry was…

  High.

  Long before the dickering was completed, Denise was back in the cabin, which was more comfortable and warmer. Well, not as cold. The cabin had been unloaded from the barge and was now sitting on the dock. Happily, the dock at Trenčín had a functional if crude hoist which they’d been able to use for the purpose of unloading the cabin. At Žilina, they’d had to load the cabin onto the deck of the barge by hand, which had not been a lot of fun.

  For other people. Denise hadn’t participated because she’d suddenly realized that maintaining her cover identity as a Polish nobleman’s squeeze precluded her being able to do manual labor in public. There might be Turkish spies watching them. Not likely, but who knew for sure? Best not to take chances.

  Lukasz joined her not long afterward. She wasn’t entirely pleased at his presence. On the positive side, she’d have someone to talk to. On the negative side, she was holding a bit of a grudge against the hussar because in some indefinable way she figured he was partly to blame for the fact that she had to pose as his slut.

  Denise was not stupid; far from it. She knew perfectly well that blaming Lukasz for the situation was illogical. But she had a teenager’s conviction that a girl should never let logic get in the way of a good grudge.

  They talked about the weather. On the one hand, Denise thought that was kind of pointless since the forecast ran from “cold and miserable” to “freezing cold and really miserable.” On the other hand, the topic suited her mood, which ran from “grumpy” to “sullen.”

  * * *

  Eventually, Noelle struck a bargain with the wainwright and fruitful labor began. Say this much about the region’s inhabitants—they all seemed to be on the morose side, but they weren’t incompetent. The bargeman had gotten them down here intact, and the wainwright got the wagon fixed in a reasonable amount of time.

  Unfortunately, “a reasonable amount of time,” given that they didn’t start until midafternoon, meant that the ambassadorial mission had to stay over in Trenčín for two nights. Most of the party—all of the cavalrymen escorting them, the teamsters and Jakub—camped out in the town square. They tried to wrangle space in the Rathaus but the town council stoutly refused unless they paid in silver, which Noelle stoutly refused to do.

  Then, when they started setting up their camp in the square, Trenčín’s officials began making noises about payment. But at that point the escort started getting surly and the town council (wisely) decided that having a dozen really surly cavalrymen in town wasn’t worth what they were asking for. They were Slovenians, to make things worse. Everybody knew that folk was barely civilized and prone to violent outbursts.

  Lukasz, Noelle and Denise, however, had to rent a room in one of the town’s taverns. They were charged what Noelle considered an outrageous price, but at least the tavern keeper was willing to accept Austrian reichsthalers.

  The worst of it was that the three of them had to share a bed. Lukasz stoutly offered to sleep on the floor, but Noelle nixed that idea.

  “You never know. There might be Turkish spies about. If they spot the supposed head of the mission sleeping by himself on the floor, our whole cover is blown.”

  “How would they see into this room?” Denise demanded. She pointed a finger at the room’s only window, which was small and covered with a curtain. “Even if something—like what? a brisk wind in here? Which I don’t think has seen a waft of fresh air in years—blew the curtains aside, so what? I’ll bet you dollars for donuts that glass is so lousy you couldn’t see through it anyway.”

  She marched over and drew the curtain aside. “See?”

  The window panes were, indeed, suitable for letting light in but that was about it.

  “I don’t care,” said Noelle. “I’m not taking any chances.”

  And that was that. Noelle didn’t look like it, but Denise had been with her in a lot of hairy situations and knew the woman well. She had a steel spine.

  So, they slept in the bed, all three of them. Gallantly, Lukasz took the worst spot, crowded up against the wall. Denise hoped Noelle would acce
pt the middle spot, but, as she feared, Ms. Superagent insisted that if Polish spies spotted the arrangement they’d know something was amiss. What sort of arrogant, self-centered Polish high nobleman would sleep next to his wife instead of his concubine?

  It’s not fair!

  But she made the complaint only to herself. Denise couldn’t stand people who whined at every little thing. Having to crowd into a bed between a hussar who’d been perfectly courteous to her and a woman whom she admired and respected was hardly the worst thing that had ever happened to her. And being only nineteen, she was sure and certain that lots of worse stuff—way worse—was bound to happen to her in the future. She wasn’t the carefree, happy-go-lucky numbskull she’d been at the age of eighteen.

  Still, it sucked. Lukasz snored. So did Eddie, but Eddie’s snore wasn’t too bad. Sometimes it was almost cute. The hussar snored exactly the way you’d expect a hussar to snore.

  But eventually morning arrived, and before the sun had risen very far they were back on track. Their teeth rattling as the wagon made its way down a road that was possibly the worst excuse for a “road” that Denise had ever seen.

  Her mood fluctuated between “dolorous” and “aggrieved.” This was supposed to have been an adventure.

  “Are we there yet?” she whined.

  Chapter 19

  Poznań

  Poznań Voivodeship

  Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth

  Mike Ellis stared at the woman who’d just sat down across the table from him. His jaw was sagging. Jozef, who’d brought her there, smiled a little at the sight of the man ogling Christin as he took his own seat. If Ellis were a down-timer, Jozef would assume he was just ogling a beautiful woman, too rude or too stupid to realize that the man with her might take offense. Or that she might—which, with Christin, could get ugly. Once Jozef had met her, he’d had no trouble figuring out where Denise Beasley got her ability to become instantly belligerent—what Americans called “going to Defcon 1”—if she thought a man was behaving improperly toward her. Whether that was genetic or a mother’s example remained unclear. Jozef suspected it was both.

  But there was no danger of such a ruckus on this occasion. Christin’s reaction to Ellis’ bug-eyed stare was a soft chuckle.

  “Surprised to see me, Mark?”

  Ellis squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he reopened them, they had resumed their normal circumference and protuberance.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “Is that you, Christin?”

  “Do I look like a ghost?”

  “Uh…no. But what are you doing here?”

  She jabbed a thumb at Jozef. “The short answer is that I’m with him. The long answer gets pretty long, and Jozef can probably explain it better than I can.”

  Ellis now transferred his stare to Jozef. “You’re with…? Oh.” He closed his mouth and swallowed a bit. “I was sorry about Buster, Christin. I didn’t know him real well—or you, for that matter—but he always seemed like a decent guy to me, regardless of—ah—”

  She chuckled again. “Regardless of his reputation? He wasn’t a bully, Mark. That was the second thing I noticed about him. I liked that. Here was a guy who could beat the crap out of just about anybody but he never felt any need to prove it. You left him and his alone, and he’d do the same for you.”

  Now curious, Jozef asked: “What was the first thing you noticed about him?”

  “He was really exciting.” She gave Jozef a sly, sidelong look. “That was the first thing I noticed about you, too. The truth is, when it comes to men, I’m an adrenaline junkie.”

  Caspar now spoke. “Mark, who is this woman? Is she…?”

  “Yeah, she’s an up-timer. Christin George. She’s the widow of Buster Beasley. He got killed during the Dreeson Incident—although not before he took down a whole bunch of guys himself.”

  Caspar and Czesław now spent a few seconds staring at her.

  “How well did you know her?” Czesław asked abruptly.

  “Not real well. She and Buster were ten years older than me, and I’d already graduated from high school before their daughter Denise started, so there was no connection that way, either. But Grantville is—well, was, it’s not any longer—a small town where you know almost everybody.”

  The underlying import of the question finally registered on him, and he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how well I knew her, Czesław. She’s who she says she is—which means Jozef’s story has got to be true. I can’t see any other way to explain why she’d be with him. And why would she be lying?”

  He placed his head in his hands and looked down at the table. Caspar started to say something but Czesław placed a restraining hand on his forearm. As was true of Jozef himself, Czesław understood that Ellis was considering something and he wanted to hear what it was.

  After perhaps ten seconds, Mark raised his head and gave Jozef a very direct look that bordered on belligerence. “I want out of here,” he said. “And I’m saying it in front of these guys”—here a little jerk of the head indicated the two Polish radio operators—“because I think they want to get out of here too.”

  Jozef looked at Czesław and Caspar. “Is he right?”

  Caspar nodded immediately. “Yes. Czesław and I have been talking about it. Neither of us has family here in Poznań and we don’t like the way things are looking for us.”

  “Our guess is that sooner or later whoever murdered the grand hetman is likely to go after us,” added Czesław.

  “Why?” asked Christin. She wasn’t challenging the statement, just indicating her curiosity. “Why would they suspect you of anything—and what could you do anyway? You’re just radio operators.”

  Jozef answered the question before either of the two men to whom it had been addressed could speak.

  “That’s exactly why they would be targeted. Whatever Czesław and Caspar might or might not do—and they are well known to be my uncle’s men—they were the two people in the world who could spread an accusation all over Poland. Anywhere in the continent.” His chuckle was dry and had no humor in it at all. “I’d say they need to get out of Poznań as soon as they can. Which brings us back to you, Mark Ellis, because unless I miss my guess you have a plan for how to do it.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a ‘plan,’” said Ellis. “It’s just an idea. The big problem with escaping Poznań isn’t the guards at the gates, so much—some of those guys would sell their mother for a big enough bribe.”

  Czesław’s chuckle had no more humor in it than Jozef’s. “He’s right about that. I can name four—no, five—guards I know would do it.”

  “More like a dozen,” chimed in Caspar. He nodded at the American engineer. “But what he’s going to tell you is that once you get out of whichever gate you choose, you’ll then have a horde of hussars chasing after you. Even worse, you’ll have some Cossacks in the mix.”

  “Exactly,” said Ellis. “And whatever else you want to say about the smelly bastards, Cossacks can ride like nobody’s business. You wouldn’t get two miles before they brought you down.”

  “That depends,” said Jozef. He now looked at Caspar and Czesław. “What’s your best guess? How many angry Koniecpolski partisans are there in the city? Hussars, I’m talking about. And by ‘angry’ I mean ones who are willing to break out of Poznań and ride right over anyone who gets in their way.”

  Caspar and Czesław glanced at each other. “Maybe a hundred, hundred and twenty,” said Caspar.

  “More than that,” said Czesław. “But not a lot more. A hundred and fifty, I’d say.”

  Jozef nodded. “And how many hussars would really press the pursuit?”

  Again, the two radio operators exchanged a glance. “Not a lot more. Two hundred. Three hundred, maybe? Most of the Polish troops in Poznań thought highly of the grand hetman, and we’re not by any means the only ones here who think he was murdered. But…”

  He shrugged. “You know how most people are—and hussars aren’t much
different. As long as they’re not directly affected, they’ll look the other way.”

  “But they also won’t move heaven and earth to capture other soldiers who broke out of the city. Not for long, anyway.”

  “Well…” Another exchange of glances took place. Jozef was beginning to wonder if these two fellows were joined at the hip, at least mentally speaking.

  “Well…” That was Czesław, echoing Caspar’s hesitation. “Here’s the thing, Jozef. It depends where they think we’re going. The one thing almost all hussars are agreed upon”—he gave Christin an apologetic glance—“is that the USE is a nation of—never mind that. A nation that can’t be trusted, let’s put it that way.

  “So if they think we’re defecting to Torstensson, they’ll get really pissed. A lot of them will keep a pursuit going, right up to the USE’s lines—and those will be miles away because the only gate we’ve got a chance of escaping from is the north gate. That’s about where the Swedes ended their fortifications, but it’s also where we have a lot of troops gathered.”

  “Which means there’s no way we could escape except by heading east once we got out of the gate,” said Caspar. “And then if you wanted to defect to the USE you’d have to ride halfway around the city. And far out from it, too, or you’d get caught by a sortie.”

  Czesław shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” He used a quick motion of thumb and forefinger to indicate himself and his partner. “We won’t agree to it. Neither of us will defect to the damn Germans.”

  He gave Christin a little nod. “Meaning no offense.”

  She grinned in response. “No problem. I’m not German, remember?”

  From the somewhat sour expression on Czesław’s face, it was obvious that he considered that a pretty flimsy distinction. No, you’re not German—you’re one of those damned Americans who gave the Germans what they needed to overrun a good part of Poland.