1634: The Baltic War (assiti chards)

by Eric Flint

"It's not really the end of the world, y'know? Hell, I did it myself."

  Darryl gave him a glance that was none too friendly. "Yeah. So? You ain't no hillbilly."

  "Oh, come off it, Darryl. Even hillbillies do it, more often than not. Can't be more than twenty percent of you that are outright bastards. Legally speaking, I mean. Figuratively, of course, the percentage rises a lot."

  "Fucking rich kid."

  Tom chuckled. "Poor old Doug MacArthur's got to be spinning in his grave, right now."

  "Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Never mind. You sure about this?"

  "Well." Darryl took a deep breath. "Well." Another deep breath. "Yeah."

  "I mean, really sure? As in: steps will now be taken. You've been making people kind of nervous, you know."

  That required perhaps half a dozen deep breaths. But, eventually, Darryl said: "Yeah. I'm sure."

  "Okay, then." Tom turned his head, looking toward his wife and Melissa and Gayle Mason, who were politely sitting some distance away. Thereby, of course, allowing The Guys to conduct their affairs in the necessary privacy.

  But Tom didn't give those three women more than a glance. All up-timers, all Americans, they'd have only the barest knowledge of how to handle the situation.

  No, he needed Friedrich Bruch's wife, Nelly. She was not only a down-timer, but she'd been born and raised in London.

  He was about to call out her name when he saw her emerge from the small room she shared with Friedrich.

  "Nelly! Just the person I was looking for." He hooked a thumb at Darryl. "Our young swain here wants to know how a fellow goes about proposing to a girl, in the here and now."

  Nelly smiled. Rita and Gayle grinned. Melissa looked to the heavens.

  "Well, praise the Lord," she said.

  Darryl scowled at her. "Melissa, you're a damn atheist."

  Still looking at the ceiling, Melissa wagged her head back and forth. "True, been one since I was twelve. But maybe I should reconsider. Seeing as how I think I'm witnessing an act of divine intervention."

  Several hours later, after Gayle took down all the radio messages relayed from Amsterdam that had come in during the evening window, she came into the main room with a big grin on her face.

  "Speaking of divine intervention, you're all going to love this. Especially you, Rita." She held up a message in her hand, one of the little notepad sheets she used to record radio transmissions.

  "What is it?" demanded Rita, rising from the divan and extending her hand.

  "Tut, tut! It's not for you, dear, it's for your husband." Still grinning, Gayle came over and handed the message to Tom, who'd remained sitting.

  Tom read it. Then read it again. Then, read it again.

  "Well," Rita asked impatiently. "What?"

  "It's from Mrs. Riddle." He reached up and started scratching his hair. " 'Bout the last thing I ever expected."

  "The wife of the chief justice?" Melissa asked. "Why would she be sending you a radio message?"

  "No, not her. Chuck Riddle's mother."

  Rita nodded. "Mary Kat's grandma. She was a year ahead of me in high school. Mary Kat, that is. Not Veleda. What does she want?"

  "Here, read it yourself. Better read it out loud, while you're at it."

  Rita took the message and began reciting it so everyone could hear. By the time she got to the last few sentences, she was rushing. tom. while you're there. episcopalians in grantville have no priest. should have a bishop too but that gets complicated. arrange to see archbishop laud. be ordained. as a priest if nothing else but shoot for bishop. am sure he can make an exception to the rules. best wishes. v riddle

  "Ordained?" Rita's voice rose to a shriek. "Over my dead body!"

  Melissa Mailey looked concerned. "Tom, you've never said anything about having a religious vocation."

  "Well, I didn't have one." He cleared his throat. "Until now."

  "You don't have one now!" Rita protested.

  Tom settled back in the divan. He seemed to be struggling against a smile-or a grin as wide as the one still on Gayle's face.

  "Yes, I do, dear. You read it yourself. I didn't have one two minutes ago, but I do now." He looked up at his very non-Episcopalian wife; the grin started to show around the edges of his still-solemn face. "You can't think of it-a vocation, I mean-as being something that's all inside you. It's like those bishops and things back in the early church, who wrapped their arms around a pillar of the church yelling, 'No. Not me!' while the congregation dragged them out to be promoted."

  Melissa nodded, apparently quite solemnly. Rita just looked blank.

  Tom continued, "Or, maybe like the prophets in the Old Testament who were just sitting there when the voice of God mucked up all their plans. Jonah, for instance. God said, 'Go there,' and he said, 'I don't think so, thank you very much,' so it took some persuading. A calling can come from outside, too."

  There was no smile on Rita's face, for sure. "I wasn't born to be a preacher's wife," she hissed. "No. Tell her no. That's easy enough."

  Tom went back to scratching his hair, lowering his face in the process. In that pose, the grin that was now spreading openly on his face made him look a bit like a weight-lifter shark, coming to the surface. "She does have a point, you know. That is, the Episcopalians in Grantville do need a priest, for sure, and we should really have a bishop."

  He pointed to the message still in Rita's hand. "The reason it gets complicated is because none of the national churches in the Anglican Polity-that's what we called all right-thinking Episcopalians all over the world, back where we came from-actually had any authority over each other. But they all recognized the archbishop of Canterbury as sort of the first among equals, so it makes sense to see if he'd be willing to get the ball rolling."

  He looked over at Melissa, still grinning. "Maybe I should just ask Laud for an appointment? Talk to him about it? What could it hurt?"

  "What could it hurt?" Rita's fists were clenched. "I could end up chairing Ladies' Aid meetings at a church I don't even belong to!"

  Gayle and Tom started laughing. Even Melissa was smiling, now. "I agree, Rita. Fate worse than death-and I've chaired a lot of godawful meetings in my day."

  Eventually, Rita's glare stifled her husband's laughter. "Look, sweetheart, I've actually got no intention of proposing myself. I have no idea why Mrs. Riddle came up with the idea. But if you strip that aside, she does have a point. We've got some Episcopalians in Grantville, with no structure-and no clear idea how to set one up with legitimate authority. Like she says, we'd be bending the rules-so would Laud, although he doesn't know the rules have been set up yet-but I'm pretty sure she's right. If I could get the archbishop of Canterbury to ordain somebody-or send somebody himself-we'd be off and running."

  Tom shook his head. "It wouldn't have to be me, or anybody in Grantville. Maybe the archbishop could find someone else to send, from England. Someone who wants to be a missionary in foreign parts, or just someone he'd like to get rid of."

  "He'd like to get rid of us, I expect," Darryl McCarthy interjected.

  "Yes, he would," said Melissa. She looked at the message. "Especially after I pass this along."

  Chapter 12

  The English Channel

  "Well, that's a pisser," said Harry Lefferts, lowering his eyeglass.

  Standing next to him at the small ship's rail, Donald Ohde scowled at the vessel in the distance. "Doesn't anybody have any imagination? They tried this once before, and it didn't work."

  "The Channel is notorious for pirates," Harry pointed out mildly. "I really don't think we got spotted making our way through France. Especially as fast as we moved."

  Paul Maczka was standing at the same rail, to Harry's left. "No ambush, you're saying."

  "Can't see it, Paul. I mean, why would the French bother with a complicated ambush? They had to do it with Becky's ship, because she was a diplomat and they couldn't let their hand show. Us? We were just thugs sitting in a tavern in Di
eppe, dickering to buy a boat. The guy who sold it to us probably figured we wanted it to turn pirates ourselves. Send in a platoon of infantry, that's all."

  Both Paul and Donald were scowling now. Harry smiled. "Yeah, well, so that platoon gets shot up. They send in a whole company. We're still fried, guys, before we even set foot on our new boat."

  He looked back at the ship pursuing them. "No, this is just garden-variety piracy. We still got to deal with it, though."

  Donald shrugged. "Easy enough."

  Harry shook his head. "Not so easy as all that. Oh, sure, ole Jeff could just send them packing with a few grenades. But he didn't care if there were any witnesses left. We can't afford that."

  He'd said "ole Jeff" with that certain note of approbation that one righteous hillbilly refers to another member of the clan. A few years back, he'd have done no such thing, of course. Harry had never been one of those high school jocks who harassed geeks, but that was simply because such behavior was beneath his dignity. Does a lion harass mice? Still, his attitude toward geeks like Jeff Higgins hadn't been any different, really.

  However, that was then, and this was now. Jeff still wasn't a hillbilly, properly speaking, and never would be, but Harry was quite willing to extend him honorary membership. He'd landed one of the best-looking girls around and blown close to a dozen Croat cavalrymen into pieces, hadn't he? What more could you ask for?

  "No…" Harry mused. "We can't do it Jeff's way."

  He glanced to the northeast, checking to see that they weren't too close yet to entering the Strait of Dover. Then he turned his head and looked at the helmsman. That was Matija Grabnar. Like many of the commandos in Lefferts' unit, his ethnic background was a mix; in his case, German, Slovene and Lithuanian. For whatever reason, Harry seemed to attract hybrids. He claimed it was because his charismatic personality and proven leadership qualities just naturally drew the cream of the crop from every nation.

  Mike Stearns had once commented that it might even be true-if you defined "cream of the crop" the way Harry did, and nobody else would except Ba'alzebub.

  "Hey, Matt! Get us out into the middle of the channel, will you? I don't want any witnesses."

  Felix Kasza, who'd been sprawled comfortably on the deck, lounging against the mainmast, rose to his feet. Then, ambling over, he said: "We do it like Guns of Navarone, eh?"

  "Yeah, what I figured." Harry gave the three men around him a sly little grin. "Good thing I overruled you male chauvinist pigs and let the girls come along, ain't it? This'll work a lot easier with Sherrilyn and Juliet to dangle like bait."

  "I heard that, Lefferts!" One of the two women in the unit, both of them sitting on the deck next to the opposite rail, lifted her head. "Talk about male chauvinist pigs. You got your nerve. What're we? The designated rapees?"

  Harry shrugged. "Well, yeah-except it'll never get that far."

  "Sure won't," she half-snarled. It wasn't a particularly cold day, for this time of year, but it was late January, in the English channel. So, sitting on the deck, Sherrilyn Maddox and Juliet Sutherland had covered themselves with a couple of wool blankets. Sherrilyn flipped part of the blankets aside and rummaged somewhere beneath for a moment. Her hand emerged holding a very lethal-looking 10mm automatic.

  "They'll have to fuck my dead body-but I guarantee you, Harry, if you aren't dead by then already, I'll make sure of it. You and your stupid movies!"

  All of Harry's male commandos, including Harry, were addicted to action movies. The down-timers, though not Harry himself, were also addicted to action novels. It was their commonly held and firm belief that, when it came to fiction, there was no God but Matt Helm and Donald Hamilton was his prophet. Admittedly, the Sacketts and Louis L'Amour came a close second.

  The woman sitting next to Sherrilyn was the female half of the only married couple in the unit. She took the pipe out of her mouth, did her-very feeble-best to look prim and proper, and said: "My husband will have to agree. He's crazy jealous, you know. His wife being gang-raped by dozens of pirates is likely to set him off."

  Her husband, as it happened, emerged from the hold just in time to hear that. Frowning, he lifted his head and peered over the rail. "Didn't realize they were getting that close," he said. "Guns of Navarone?"

  "Yeah, that's the plan."

  George Sutherland planted his hands on either side of the hatch and heaved himself onto the deck. As big and heavy as he was, that took quite a heave, but he had the muscle for it. It wasn't actually true that he was particularly jealous. An easygoing and phlegmatic personality combined with nineteen-inch biceps made him one of the most placid husbands Harry had ever met.

  George and his wife were both English, which was the reason Harry had selected them for this expedition. Better still, they'd both been active in London's theater before a byproduct of a brawl George had gotten into forced them to flee to the continent. The byproduct in question had been the broken neck owned by the brother of one of Southwark's more notorious criminal gang leaders. Unfortunately, between his drunkenness and the chaos of the melee, George had gotten confused. He'd thought the neck he was breaking belonged to the gang leader himself, which he'd figured would settle the business well enough.

  Once they arrived in London, Harry planned to set up their base of operations in the sprawling slums on the south bank of the Thames across from the Tower, where the theater district was located. That might get a tad awkward, if they happened to accidentally stumble across the same gang leader in their comings and goings. But Harry wasn't particularly concerned about that problem. There was an easy solution to it, after all.

  Juliet claimed to have become an actress, once she got to the continent where women were permitted to play roles on stage, although she allowed that her parts had been minor. That most likely meant she'd started off as a young woman in London as a whore working the theater district, before she got hooked up with George, who'd been a stagehand. But Harry had never pried into the matter. None of his concern, first of all; and, second, having a husband the size of George would have made even a Nosy Parker shy away from the business.

  "You'd better stay below, George," said Harry. "Big as you are, you're likely to make them nervous. Give Gerd a hand with the fireworks."

  Sutherland sucked his yellow crooked teeth, pondering the problem. "Grenades?"

  "I'd rather save the grenades, if y'all don't mind." The last phrase was said in English, drawled with a heavy Appalachian accent, tacked onto the Amideutsch that was their standard lingo.

  George smiled, and began lowering himself back into the hold. "Tightwad. But we'll manage."

  By now, Grabnar had the small ship heading into the center of the Channel, miles from either shore. Anyone on land who observed the unfolding little drama wouldn't really be able to make out any of the details, even with an eyeglass. Two ships meet; one leaves; one doesn't. Who can say what actually happened?

  Matija was also, cleverly, making sure the ship lost headway while he was at it. The pirates pursuing them would notice, probably, but they'd just write it off to panic and lousy seamanship. Harry didn't think there was much chance they'd get suspicious at all.

  Why should they? The English Channel had been infested with pirates for centuries, going back into medieval times. For the past few decades, piracy in the Channel had been dominated by so-called "Sallee rovers," because they operated from the port of Sale in northwest Africa, not far from Rabat. They were usually referred to as Algerines, although the members of the crews came from all over Europe as well as the Moslem world.

  A few rare occasions aside, neither the English nor the French crown had ever made much of an effort to eliminate the vermin-not even after the Sallee rovers, early in the seventeenth century, became bold enough to raid towns and villages in Cornwall as well as attack ships. Partly, that was because neither nation had a powerful navy, and partly it was because the usual victims of the pirates were poor fishermen. The Algerine pirates were more interested in capturing slaves
than cargo.

  So, they'd grown arrogant, which was fine with Harry Lefferts. He'd been dismantling overconfident bullies since he was eight years old. Six years old, if you counted Fatso Binghampton.

  He looked around the deck, and then pointed to a tarpaulin piled up untidily toward the bow. "Paul, you set up with a shotgun. You can hide in there until the business starts. Donald, you go back with Matt at the helm, and figure on using rifles when the shit hits the fan. Felix, you stay with me. You're the best shot with a pistol. You got a backup?"

  Kasza sniffed. "Do I have a backup?"

  "Sorry, didn't mean to offend you."

  "Yes, of course I have a backup. Two, if you count the little ankle gun."

  "Ought to do. Blow 'em off the rail, scare the shit out of them, George and Gerd will do the rest."

  "What about me?" demanded Sherrilyn. "If you think I'm just going to sit here looking terrified, you can-"

  "Easy, girl, easy." Harry glanced at the oncoming pirates. They were still three hundred yards away, too far to really see anything. "Holler down to Gerd to pass you up his ten-gauge. Now's your chance to prove you can handle a man-sized gun."

  Sherrilyn's sniff was on a par with Kasza's. "He'll whine at me. He loves that ten-gauge. There's something unnatural about that relationship, if you ask me. Even for you gun nuts, it's over the top."

  Harry chuckled. It was invariably Sherrilyn's habit to ascribe to the male members of the unit all of the macho sins to which she was even more prone herself.

  Gun nut? She owned at least twenty that she'd admit to. And when it came to the Ultimate Macho hang-up, Harry was convinced there was no greater practitioner in the world than Sherrilyn Maddox. The woman simply could not resist a challenge. Evel Knievel with tits. Before the Ring of Fire, she'd been one of the high school's P.E. teachers. She'd been a rock-climber, sky-diver-you name it; if the sport was dangerous and within the pocketbook of a West Virginia schoolteacher, she'd done it.

  She'd also been an avid hunter, and while she wasn't in Julie Mackay's league-nobody was-she was undoubtedly one of the best shots in Grantville. She'd brought home her deer every year, never later than the second day of hunting season. Her second deer, rather, because she'd already gotten one during bow-hunting season.