Ring of Fire III Read online

  Johannes looked at Hanns, who looked at Hermann, who nodded to Adolph who nodded to Johannes. “Herr Trainer, can we see that in writing, bitte?”

  “Sure, we can do that. Then I’ll give you a sales slip to take to the bank.” The Abrabanels had opened an office in Wietze. It was their office that Jerry was referring to when he said “the bank.”

  At the Abrabanel office Adolph stepped up and took control. They had not discussed what to do, Hanns had assumed they would be paid in cash and they would split the money. “We need to set up three accounts, if you please. Then any receipts coming here will be split between the three accounts. Until further notice I get fifty percent and the other two split the rest. After you are notified, I get seven percent.” They had agreed on seven percent of the profits. Herr Holz was claiming seven percent of the gross product.

  Hanns of course called him on it. “You are right, Herr Holz, you are entitled to half until the loan is repaid. But then you get seven percent of the profit, which is not seven percent of the output. We will have expenses, there is the rent for the roadway, there is any more wood that is cut, there is the wage for the cooper and the smith and the refiner and his helper. No, after the loan is paid off, we will deposit seven percent of the profit.”

  It really was small change, but it was not in Adolph’s nature not to try and it certainly wasn’t in Hanns’ nature to let him get away with it.

  Hanns and Hermann took their portion in cash. Adolph left his on deposit. Johannes had already been paid by Adolph when he paid off the construction crew. Outside in the street a very happy Hanns was counting his money. Hermann put his, uncounted, in his pocket. He could do that with the paper currency that was now an accepted standard in Wietze. The same seamstress who was making the shirts was also producing four-pocket pants on the blue jean pattern, complete with rivets.

  “Buy me a beer, Hermann,” Johannes said, “and let’s talk about doing this all over again elsewhere, since you’ve got the money to front us. Or do you want to just sit back and run this one for your cousin? If you do, then I’ll have to talk to Herr Holz about investing in another well and tower.”

  “No, Johannes,” Adolph said. “I’m through here. I’m heading home.”

  “Sure, Johannes, a beer sounds good. Hannsi can hire someone else to run his well for him,” Hermann replied.

  Paris, October 1635

  A short, blond, blue-eyed man was ushered into the office of one Yves Neff. Of Cardinal Richelieu’s many clerks, Yves was one of the few who had an office instead of a desk. The nature of what he kept track of required privacy from time to time. This was one of those times.

  “M. LeBlanc,” the clerk said, “just what is so important that you felt you had to leave your assigned station to share it with me personally instead of putting it in your regular report?”

  “I really do think I need to talk to His Eminence.”

  “Oh? And why is that?” As a bureaucrat part of his job was to act as a filter and see to it that his boss was not bothered with trivial matters.

  “If he will secure the mineral rights to the tar pits near the village of Parentis en Born for me, I can start producing the petroleum fuels you know he will need for the research projects that I am sure you currently have ongoing.”

  “Can you indeed?” the clerk asked with just a hint of a raised eyebrow. “I am afraid,” the clerk said, “you have wasted your time in coming to Paris. I shouldn’t tell you this but under the circumstances I will make an exception. There is an ongoing oil fuel project. Top people are working with the best and latest information. We even had a man in Wietze watching for new developments until he decided to return to France without authorization. I shall have to recruit someone a bit more reliable, someone who knows how to stay in place and forward timely reports, to replace him with and get the new man to Germany immediately.

  “Now as long as you are here, we need to discuss these sizable sums you recently spent.”

  “I was authorized to buy information.”

  “And that information is?”

  “I now know how to drill a well and refine petroleum fuel.”

  “You seem quite sure of yourself,” Yves said.

  “I am. We started from scratch with nothing but an oil seep, and finished with refined fuel which we sold to the manager at Wietze.”

  The clerk sighed dramatically. “You were authorized to buy ‘new’ information! We already knew how to do those things. I am afraid that money you spent on your personal education is going to have to be reimbursed, in full and immediately.”

  Henri paled. He had financed the driving of an oil well and the building of a cracking tower. In return he would get the lion’s share of the profit until the loan was paid off. Then he would get a premium for as long as the well was in production. His share in the output of the oil well in Germany would pay what he now owed, but it would be a while in coming. He could end up sitting in debtor’s prison until it did. A man could get sick and die doing that. “I don’t have that kind of money lying around!” M. LeBlanc objected. “I can pay it back. But it will take some time.”

  “I understand.” Yves smirked. “Why don’t you see about raising it and come back at the end of the week?” He knew Henri could not raise the money. What he had in mind for M. LeBlanc was a nasty, unpleasant job that he was having trouble getting a reliable man to do. This looked like the perfect leverage to get it done.

  By sheer chance near the end of the day the clerk’s supervisor M. DeMille stopped at his small office. “Yves, here is a list of questions about cracking oil we need answered. Get it off to our man in Wietze right away.”

  “I am afraid, sir, that we no longer have a man in Wietze.”

  “What happened? Was he found out? Was he killed, imprisoned, did he fall ill?”

  “No sir, he is alive and well and returned to Paris without authorization.”

  “What brought him back? Was he homesick? I can understand that. I have been to the Germanies. The cooking is horrid and the wines are worse.”

  “No, he thought we would be interested in setting him up to refine petroleum.”

  “As if he could!”

  “Oh, he can,” Yves said. “According to his reports, he was involved in every step of the process from drilling a well to carting off the finished fuels.”

  The clerk’s superior dropped the stack of papers on the clerk’s desk in excitement. “You are sure he can do it?”

  “Reasonably sure,” the clerk replied. “But we have a well in production, another one is being drilled, and a team of our best people are working on a cracking tower.”

  “And failing miserably!”

  “What?” a startled Yves asked.

  “You heard me. They can’t get it to work. It has blown up twice. It has burst and burned twice more. It is consuming money, men, and time at an alarming rate. The money is minor, they can always raise another tax, the men mostly do not matter, the prisons are full enough, but the time is something we cannot spare. The teams working on engines were promised fuel a month ago. They are at a standstill until we get it for them. We’ve bought as much as we can but the people in Wietze are keeping a close watch on it and we cannot get anywhere near as much as we need.

  “If we have a man who has practical hands-on experience in fuel production we need him right now.”

  “M. LeBlanc says he can do it and I see no reason to question the man’s honesty.”

  “Where is this wonder worker? I want to see him immediately.”

  “I have a local residence recorded right here,” Yves said, picking up M. LeBlanc’s file.

  “Let’s go.”

  “What?”

  “When I said we need that man right now, I meant right now! Let’s go!”

  “But, sir, now?” It was, after all, very near the end of the day.

  “Now!”

  * * *

  Yves knocked on the door. When a toothless old woman answered he asked, “Is this wher
e Herni LeBlanc has a rented room?”

  “Well, that was fast indeed. When he moved out this morning he told me he had someone else who would take the garret. Do you want to see it?” She really didn’t think they would. They really did not look like the type who would rent such a room up under the eaves.

  “No, we do not. You say he moved out? Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, all he said was he would send someone else to rent the garret. If that isn’t you, then good day to you.” With those words she closed the door.

  “How odd,” M. DeMille said. “Why would the man move so suddenly and without a forwarding address as if something were wrong?”

  Yves looked sheepish. “Well, I was planning on offering him that job in the Caribbean that we are having trouble filling. Since I knew I would need some leverage I told him he had to return some misappropriated funds immediately.”

  DeMille smirked at his underling’s deviousness. Then it filtered through his mind and he realized if the man could not be found they could not use the knowledge the fellow was carrying around in his head. “That is not fortuitous, Yves. Find the man. Find him immediately and get him working on the fuel production problem. If you can’t produce him by the end of the week, then pack your bags. I think you would be the perfect man for that assignment in the Caribbean.”

  Yves paled. He had absolutely no interest in seeing the new world.

  By sundown agents and officials all over Paris were looking for one Henri LeBlanc. By sundown the next day only a fast horse could have stayed ahead of the search. The selfsame fast horse carried the word to every port in the country and every way station on the highways and byways to the border and beyond. Henri LeBlanc was a wanted man, a very wanted man indeed.

  Behind the closed door an old woman winked at her fair-haired grandson. “Merci, Grandmère,” Henri said. “It seems I owe those fellows a lot of money and it will be a while before I can raise it.”

  “How much do you need?”

  Henri named a sum.

  The old woman shook her head. “I’ve saved a great deal of what you’ve sent home, but not nearly that much.”

  “That is not a problem, Grandmère. I will have the money by and by. I just need to stay out of sight and out of debtor’s prison until it catches up with me.”

  “Well, you just plan on staying right here, out of sight, for as long as you need to. I will enjoy the company. Besides, the money you’ve been sending home will see to our needs for a good long time.”

  * * *

  Three months and a bit more went by. When he had the money in hand Henri LeBlanc went to the offices of Cardinal Richelieu’s intendants. At the first desk inside the door he said, “I need to see Yves Neff.”

  “I am sorry, but M. Neff will be out of the office for quite some time, I am afraid. He is on an assignment in the field.”

  Henri thought he detected a glint of humor in the voice of the clerk as he explained Yves’ absence. “Then I need to speak to whoever is handling his case load while he is gone.”

  “And you are?”

  “Henri LeBlanc.”

  “Certainly. Please wait one minute, please. Page,” the clerk called. When the boy arrived the clerk said, “Take this man to M. DeMille immediately.”

  At the word immediately the lad hesitated. “Immediately?” he asked.

  “Yes, you heard me,” the clerk said with a nod. “Immediately.”

  After what seemed like a very long walk that was surely out of the way they passed two armed men who seemed to be loafing in the room they were passing through. Upon seeing them the page quit dawdling and finally moved at a brisk pace until he stopped and rapped on a nondescript door which he then opened without waiting. Henri walked through and the page closed it behind him.

  The mature gentleman setting behind an overflowing but organized desk looked up and asked “And you are?”

  “My name is Henri LeBlanc, I worked for—”

  Before he could even began to explain what the circumstances were the door opened again and the two guards entered the room with their rapiers in hand.

  DeMille spoke to the guards first. “Take this man to M. Devereux at the research station.” Then he addressed Henri, “Your absence has cost us three months. I had hoped Devereux would have the cracking tower working by now but he has had no success. Now maybe we can get something done.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to tell you this, but I’ve never worked on a cracking tower.”

  “What? But your reports said you worked every aspect of making fuel from driving the well to selling the finished product.”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “Now I am confused. Have you or have you not had experience turning black petroleum into usable fuel?”

  “Yes. I have done so and offered to do it again, but M. Neff said I was not needed.”

  “M. Neff is looking after something in the Caribbean by now because he overstepped his authority. Before you leave please clear up one point for me. You say you have never worked on a cracking tower, how then can you have made fuel?”

  “Oh, that is simple. We used an old-fashioned, outdated still and a cooling tower.”

  DeMille snarled, “Get this man out of here.” Then he said, “M. LeBlanc. Understand me and understand me well. If there is not a report on my desk within thirty days telling me that enough fuel for the engine research project is no longer a problem, you may count yourself lucky if you are allowed to join M. Neff in Louisiana.”

  Les Ailes du Papillon

  Walter H. Hunt

  1

  Walks-In-Deep-Woods looked up through a haze of tobacco smoke to see Strong-Arm standing at the tent flap. Normally Strong-Arm went where he wished; he entered any tent he chose, never asking permission or hesitating—but he hesitated here, at the entrance to Walks-In-Deep-Woods’ tent.

  Walks-In-Deep-Woods did not speak. He placed his hands before him, as if warming them at the fire; then he touched them to his temples, his cheeks, and his breast. Strong-Arm watched each hand motion, perhaps attributing meaning to the gestures...but Walks-In-Deep-Woods smiled inwardly to himself, knowing that they were for show, like most of what a shaman did.

  Just for show, he thought to himself, but did not permit a hint of it to appear on his face. Solemnly (very solemnly, he reminded himself) he looked up at Strong-Arm, awaiting the chief’s first words.

  “You are working some medicine,” Strong-Arm said. “I will come back later.”

  “You are welcome in my tent, mighty chief,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods said. “How may I help you?”

  He gestured to a seat opposite, upon a blanket that a daughter of a chief had made for him when he was much younger. Strong-Arm seemed to hesitate again, as if unwilling to enter a shaman’s tent, but after a moment he entered, bowing his head to come through the tent-flap, and took the offered seat.

  “You are working some medicine,” Strong-Arm repeated.

  “Only the beginning,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods answered. He touched his temples and his cheeks again; Strong-Arm followed his gestures, perhaps again attributing some meaning to them. “I am trying to make clear that which is clouded.”

  “By looking in the fire?”

  “In part,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods said. “I have seen...the trail of our enemy.”

  Strong-Arm was suddenly alert. “Enemy? You mean—”

  “The great servant of the Onontio. Yes.”

  “He is old now.”

  “But still cunning, great chief. And still dangerous. For him to be defeated requires great medicine.”

  “Our medicine has never worked against Champlain,” Strong-Arm said, and he picked up a bit of earth from the ground beneath his blanket, tossing it behind him to ward off any curse that might come from speaking the white man’s name. “Not in my father’s time, not in mine. Can you do what no one has done? Can you do what you have never done?”

  “I can,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods answered, letting his face settle into a t
hin-lipped smile. “I can.”

  Outside, in the dark, a night-bird hooted. Walks-In-Deep-Woods thanked the Great Spirit for His timing.

  Strong-Arm rubbed his hands together and then spread them before the fire.

  “What do you intend to do, shaman?”

  “It is Champlain that opposes us, great chief. It is Champlain who makes common cause with the Hurons and goes to war against us.”

  “Yes, yes,” Strong-Arm said. He was clearly uncomfortable that Walks-In-Deep-Woods was repeating the name.

  “Then it is clear that he must die.”

  “You...can cause his death?”

  “Only at the proper time,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods answered.

  Strong-Arm looked a bit disappointed.

  “But this is the proper time,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods added. “With the harvest moon in the sky, and the first trace of chill in the air. I will cause the cold to creep into his old white bones and drive him to his bed.” He slapped his hands on his thighs, making Strong-Arm jump slightly. “And once he lies down he will not rise again.”