The Grantville Gazette Volumn II Page 8

  "Deep down in the cockles, Tom," Donovan agreed. "We should be leaving in two days, so make whatever preparations you need."

  "I'll be here," said the American, and then he exited the building once more.

  "I do believe that boy thinks this is going to be pleasant," said Donovan.

  "He scolded and scowled too much," North agreed. "He wanted to come along. Shocking, really. An officer and gentlemen by act of Congress abusing his own position just so that he can go out and have some fun."

  "The youth today," said Donovan, shaking his head at a man who couldn't have been two years younger than him.

  "Well. Weapons, ammunition, food and water, tents and horses, and myriad other munitions."

  "All we need now is a plan."

  "Don't worry, I have a plan."

  "Oh, a plan has he?" asked Donovan, rolling his eyes.

  "Oh, it's a good plan. But first, I need money, so hand over the key."

  Donovan gave over the key to the gun safe the Irishman had acquired to act as the company's vault. Once he had it open, North sifted through the dollars, guilders, pounds, livres, and florins, but hesitated over a package on the second shelf.

  "Feminine hygiene product? What the bloody hell is this doing in there?"

  "It's a currency," said Donovan defensively. "Worth more than its weight in gold. And what do you need the money for anyway?"

  "Well, when we get there we will need to improvise. But I imagine we will need a distraction, and or a large hole put in a large wall. So I am going out to obtain some explosives."

  "We are not talking about a few guns, Tom. You can not just steal explosives."

  North took a handful of gold coins, weighed them in his hands, thought better of it and added a few more. "Of course not. That's why I need the money." North grinned as he shut the safe's door.

  * * *

  "You have a very nasty look on your face, Liam."

  "I don't like this one, Tom, for all the risks." Donovan shook his head. "Why are we doing this?"

  "Money."

  "We have money."

  "Lots of money," North clarified.

  Donovan sighed loudly. "Sometimes I wonder about Englishmen."

  "Ha! Liam, do you know why Englishmen exclaim 'Mother of God' during moments of particular awe?"

  "I assume it's out of respect for the virgin."

  "Ridiculous. Are we wretched papists? No, no. The Madre de Deus was a Portuguese carrack captured off the Azores one fine summer day in 1592, by a six-ship squadron under the command of Sir John Burrough. When she was brought into Dartmouth harbor she was three times the size of anything an Englishman had ever known. Sixteen hundred tons. In her belly were wonders beyond description but I will try to enumerate them for you. Gold, silver, pearls, amber, jewelry, diamonds, tapestries, bolts of calico, four hundred and twenty-five tons of pepper, forty-five tons of cloves, thirty-five tons of cinnamon, cochineal, mace, nutmeg, benjamin, ebony. Every merchant, thief, jeweler, fisherman, and manjack within fifty miles ran for Dartmouth harbor to help out in the looting. The Queen of course wanted her share and many of those adventurous looters lost their heads for their impertinence. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds was eventually garnered for the crown but the entire ship was conservatively estimated to be worth one million pounds. Near enough the sum of the exchequer for 1592. One ship... equaled all the treasury could spend in that year.

  "Very shortly thereafter, English merchants began expeditions to the source of this wealth. India, and the spice islands further afield. And in 1600 Elizabeth chartered the East India Company, and every year those bastards lucky enough to have bought stock get richer off trade beyond even our wildest dreams. Regardless of whether we get paid or not after this, I believe having a favor owed by the Mughal emperor's representative is a very valuable thing."

  "One million pounds," Donovan said in awe.

  "One ship."

  "I suddenly feel much better about this, Tom."

  "I thought you might."

  * * *

  After an hour's ride, the two entered a small farm on the other side of Grantville. It was nowhere as extensive as their own, merely an isolated ramshackle residence away from the city. But the purpose of that isolation was remarkably similar. The owner didn't want to upset the delicate sensibilities of the neighbors. Because the former postal worker was now in the business of making bombs.

  While the place seemed busy enough, with many minions scurrying about, a man in authority was not readily apparent. North dismounted from his horse and took out a cigar for the wait. Tobacco had been readily available to Englishmen since Raleigh; most, however, smoked it in pipes or used it as snuff. During his sojourn on the Continent North had acquired a taste for rolled cigars in the Spanish fashion.

  "That," said an American voice, "is a very bad idea."

  North turned around to see a tall and girthy silver-haired American with a stolid, unpleasant look on his face.

  "So said King James, my dear Garland Alcom. But he is dead and I am not. So I will enjoy my good cigar."

  "I meant that's a bad idea because we're dealing with items that get temperamental around flame. So put that out, you stupid limey. Before you blow us to the moon."

  "Those things will kill you, you know," said Donovan with a smirk.

  A bit hastily, North extinguished his vice. "This dynamite of yours. We require some."

  "And we'll need someone to help us," Donovan added.

  "What are you doing for the next few months?" asked North.

  "I'm busy. And you have to pay for the dynamite."

  "Well, of course we will pay you. We are not thieves, after all." North tossed a substantial bag of gold into Alcom's hands.

  "Lately," muttered Donovan under his voice, remembering the source of the gold. "That still leaves the other matter."

  "I've got a few Germans I trust."

  "No up-timers?" North asked with some alarm.

  "It's the war, you know." Alcom led the two toward the shack.

  * * *

  "I don't have near enough to mass produce," said Alcom, "but I get enough to put out a steady supply for a few people I trust. Which begs the question: how did you find out?"

  "For a people that enjoy usquebaugh so much there are some of you who can not handle alcohol well. How many sticks have you?" asked Donovan.

  "All told about four cases of twenty carefully wrapped and settled in sawdust."

  "And the explosives expert?" North asked.

  "I wouldn't call any of these guys experts. But they know how to transport it, and how to insert a blasting cap."

  "Very well then, let's see them," said North.

  Only five men were assembled for inspection, and like most private industries in and around a Grantville at war, were made up of the very young and very old. Two boys in their apprenticeships, two gnarled old men, and a lone strongman in his mid-thirties. At first, North was going to chose him automatically as the man most fit, but then he took a long look at the fair-haired man. While he was a fine specimen of strength, North had to wonder for what reason he was not grabbed up by the army or some other group. And what was most telling was the lack of any sort of mark or wound on him. A man that had never made mistakes or fought in battle does not have anything to learn from. In the end North turned to a gray-haired Teutonic fellow in his mid-fifties standing with his hands behind his back.

  "Do you speak English?"

  "Ja," the man replied.

  "Why do you work with dynamite?"

  "To feed mein kinder."

  "You can feed them just as well doing something considerably safer. Why do you really work with dynamite?"

  "God create world, someday God destroy world. I help. Very devout."

  North smiled crookedly. "How many fingers do you have?"

  "Nine." The German held up his hands to prove it.

  "Oh, I like him," said North, turning to his partner.

  "What ever happened to the id
ea of buying American?" asked Donovan derisively. "Quality craftsmanship and all that?"

  "Don't be prejudiced, Liam."

  "Fine." Donovan sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "I like him too."

  4

  The contingent of the Albernian Mercenary Company left soon enough for Innsbruck with little fanfare and less notice. The company made good way until reaching the Alps, but then it was a slog before they were able to reach the outlying regions of Innsbruck. Slipping the company through hostile territory was not unduly difficult. It was an age before nation states and protected borders with major internal policing. The only thing that could have threatened them was a significant concentration of troops and such armies were blundering affairs that were easy to avoid.

  Unfortunately, that did not mean they could be avoided entirely. Fifty horsemen with only four wagons drew attention. The number of troops could mean one of two things. First, that it was a small but extremely valuable merchant shipment. Or, second, that it was the supply train of a military expedition. Either likelihood meant that scouts were dispatched to ascertain the group's identity and purpose before their long journey was over. No significant force could really be assembled quickly enough, but North was not at all surprised to wake up one morning to his picket's cry of alarm.

  Out of his pallet in a flash, North armed himself with saber and 9mm pistol. He checked his weapon, grabbed his eyeglass and then made way for a good vantage point. Donovan, Quinn, and Salim soon joined him and they all looked at the assembled host.

  The situation was not too desperate. Only about a hundred men were evident, which meant two hundred probably opposed them. No artillery; and while some of the infantry carried matchlocks, most were pikemen. Probably some local lord's swift and reckless response.

  "Riders approaching," said Donovan, as he looked through his own binoculars. "Looks like a parley... God save Ireland! Look at the flag."

  Most fighting forces in Europe had a flag to rally behind and follow into battle, even most mercenary companies. The Albernian Company's own was, like its founders, a mix, showing the English Saint George's flag and the Irish flag of Saint Patrick with a certain colorful Latin phrase that was just as well left untranslated. The approaching force had its own standard, and it was one well known to North.

  "Steiner," North muttered. "Why did God have to send us Steiner? What did we ever do to God?"

  Quinn chimed in. "Who is this Steiner guy?"

  "One of the better mercenary commanders Europe has produced lately." North's answer was totally drained of humor.

  "Friend of yours?" asked Quinn.

  "Once," North replied. "No longer."

  * * *

  With a minimum of preparation, North mounted Ariner and along with Donovan, Quinn and John Hastings, sergeant of the company, he rode out to meet his foe. It was possible Steiner did not know the nature of the mission and North thought it best Salim should be left behind on the off chance his presence could be kept a secret. When they reached an approximate midpoint, North dismounted and took out a slender green bag from his saddle. From it, he removed an up-time item that had caught his fancy some months before. It was a green cloth folding chair, lightweight and easily transportable. It was meant for hunting, camping, or some up-timer activity called "tailgating." North sat down on the device—called, ironically enough, a "captain's chair"—and rested his arms on the armrests while leaning back with all the majesty he could muster. Despite the loss of his valuable up-time sunglasses earlier in the year, North was the epitome of cool.

  When Steiner arrived, North gave him a small nod, like any proper sprig of the nobility holding court. "Captain Steiner, so good to see you again. How have you been?"

  "Captain North," nodded Steiner. Even with the advantage of the imperious height of his horse, he was not quite achieving the same effect of magnificent indifference North was accomplishing. "I have been doing very well, thank you. Better than you, from the looks of things. How many men have you in your company, North? Fifty?"

  "At present? That sounds about right."

  "Impressive enough... for a patrol. I have four hundred here."

  "You have two hundred here, only some of which are equipped with firearms. And no artillery."

  "That will be here shortly."

  "That is a matter of opinion, which I do not hold."

  "You will not reach Innsbruck or the Mughal," said Steiner casually, showing North that he knew of the other's destination and purpose. "My employers will not allow that."

  "And who are your employers?"

  Steiner shrugged. "Men with money, who else?"

  North was silent, taking a moment to measure his opponents from up close. Like always, Steiner had chosen good men for his lieutenants. All were obviously veterans from the manner they held themselves. They outnumbered him four to one and had the advantage of being on their home territory. They were close to supply and shelter, while North's own wagons were already more than half empty. There was one advantage North held, though. He got up from his captain's chair, folded it and returned it to its bag, tightening the drawstrings shut. When he reached his horse he retrieved a similar bag with captain's chair written on it and turned to Steiner.

  "You know where I have spent my last few years, Steiner?" asked North.

  "Among witches and wizards, I have heard."

  "That's right," said North. "They are witches and wizards, indeed, and they have wonders beyond your dreams. This is one of them, a silly little thing that they didn't even make themselves, but some poor peasant in Cathay did. But you see the quality, the workmanship—here, feel how light it is. Think of its uses on campaign. If they put so much effort into something as silly as this, think of what they have done to their weapons? We here do not have all their secrets, nor even a tenth measure. But we have enough to destroy your force ten times over. You were my friend once and I owe you for your tutelage. So take this gift from me, Steiner, and please do not come across this field."

  "I will thank you for the gift." Steiner leaned down from his horse and took the thing; then, handed it to one of his lieutenants. "Along with everything else from your dead bodies."

  "Not even going to ask me to retreat the field?" North's tone seemed genuinely aggrieved. "You are just going to slaughter me?"

  "Yes."

  "Why? We have no women, and we travel light. No loot worth talking about."

  "This parley is over!" said Steiner harshly. He turned his horse around and trotted back to his own forces.

  "Well, that went well," said Quinn sarcastically. Then, seeing Donovan extract a bundle from his saddlebags, he squinted. "Where the hell did you get that!?"

  "Around," said North, as he lit one of his cigars. "Tell me, Lieutenant Larry, does your watch still work?"

  "Yes," replied the American, uncertainly looking at his wrist.

  "Good." North leaned over with his lit cigar. "Would you be so kind as to start your stopwatch, then? Right... about... now." A slight fizzling noise began.

  "I think we had best be going before Steiner begins his advance," said Donovan.

  "I agree. That's a good plan."

  * * *

  "This has to be the most stupid, idiotic, harebrained plan I have ever heard," said Quinn scathingly. "It will never work! How can you know when he is going to send men across that field?"

  "Hair brained?" North shook his head. "'Okay,' I have 'picked up' a 'whole bunch' of slang, aphorisms, and American English vernaculars. But someday, someone is going to have to explain to me what hairy brains have to do with anything."

  "It's from one of Shakespeare's plays," Quinn replied sullenly.

  "Really?" North's eyes widened.

  "Yes. Henry VI, I think."

  "Well. That's embarrassing."

  "We do not have to know exactly when Steiner will come," Donovan explained. "But we do have a fairly good idea. He has certain... eccentricities, when it comes to battle. All that is necessary is that the device goes off
before his men cross the field and not after. And I believe we can accomplish that."

  "Hastings!" bellowed North in his command voice.

  "Yes, boss," Hastings replied.

  "Ready the quaker gun."

  "Yes, boss."

  "You have..." North grabbed Quinn's arm to examine the time. "Two minutes and thirteen seconds. Assuming that Alcom's product is as reliable as he claims, which it almost certainly is not."

  * * *

  The Albernian Mercenary Company was primarily a horse-drawn affair. It didn't have capacity or, truth be told, ability for artillery. What the company did have in significant supply was sneakiness. Dragged along in one of the wagons was a section of scrap plastic pipe painted black. Hastings went about attaching the pipe to two wheels and a chassis, so that the pipe would look from a distance like a very respectable artillery piece. It was then placed in front of the company in direct line of sight of the enemy forces. In the barrel of the pipe was a witch's brew of gunpowder and inflammable materials that would produce a quite spectacular bang and a cloud of smoke. The pipe was elevated and the "gunner" made ready to fire.

  Steiner's troops began their advance. It appeared the mercenary commander hadn't embellished all that much after all. A full two hundred infantrymen emerged from the timberline and were marching toward the Albernian camp with a hundred horsemen ready to chase down any of the Albernian forces that tried to run. The Albernians were dragoons; they rode horses into combat and fought while dismounted. They would stand little chance trying to escape proper cavalrymen on the wrong side of two to one odds.

  If this didn't work...

  * * *

  "Five seconds!" shouted Quinn as he read the stopwatch on his wrist.

  "Fire!" shouted Hastings. The cannon spewed forth an impressive noise and an even more impressive cloud of what appeared to be gunsmoke. Now all that was necessary was to wait for the timed fuse to ignite the dynamite, and the approaching forces would assume they were under heavy fire.

  "Two seconds plus," said Quinn, looking at his watch with a mild smirk. "Four seconds plus... six seconds. I told you this wouldn't work."

  "What the hell was that dumb German bastard's name anyway?" North asked his partner.