1637_The Volga Rules

by Eric Flint

  “Yes, but she was going to own the company,” Vera said and Stefan nodded.

  Yulian nodded. “That banker in Ufa, the one who studied up-time law in the Dacha and helped us set up the New Ruzuka corporation…he said something about ownership being as complicated up-time as in the here and now, just in different ways. Perhaps we could do something like the village corporation, with Izabella and even the rest of the village buying in. In any case, he is someone we should talk to about Izabella’s proposal. Perhaps we can find a kind of ownership that will suit us all.”

  It wasn’t till later that Stefan realized that Father Yulian had managed right then to cut himself in on the deal. Everyone had gotten their share of land, but not everyone in the village was going to be a farmer. Stefan had his smithy, Anatoly had his carpentry shop, Father Yulian had his church and a school, and there were several other villagers who wouldn’t be farming. Even the ones who were farmers in farming season would be spending their winters weaving, assuming that they could get the thread. Stefan was paid in promissory notes for the tools and parts he built in his smithy. It was much the same for Anatoly. Father Yulian got a stipend for the church and the school. Next fall, when the crop came in, the New Ruzuka Corporation would make all those promissory notes good before paying dividends, along with the notes that the farmers would get for their work plowing and reaping. It had all taken a great deal of negotiation. It looked like the iron works was going to be just as confusing.

  There were two more trips to Ufa to discuss the issues of ownership and control. One with just Father Yulian and Izabella and a second with Stefan, Vera, Dominika, Anatoly, Klara and Boris. Dominika and Boris, aside from their own investment, represented a bunch of the villagers who had scraped together what they could to add to the pot. Even all together it was less than Izabella was putting in, and she had managed to get a message to Alexander and gotten his authority to bring him into the deal. At the same time, Stefan’s and Anatoly’s skills were crucial to the endeavor. The way it worked out, no one would possess a clear majority of ownership. Izabella and Alexander would together have a plurality with twenty-five percent, but Stefan, Vera, Anatoly, and Father Yulian could match them. The added capital investment meant that they could get a bigger loan from the bank as well.

  The new factory in Ufa would make venturi, but even while it was making them they would add in induction heating, steelmaking, and additional dies. Also, a woodworking shop, both to make parts for the factory and to make stuff to sell. They hired consultants from the Dacha immigrants.

  They weren’t the only ones to hire Dacha immigrants as consultants.

  Not every farmer in Russia wanted to be a farmer. That was especially true of former serfs. Farming had very low status in Russia in the seventeenth century. It was the occupation of serfs. There were exceptions to that and gradations, but in general a smith was higher status than a farmer. Almost anyone was of higher status than a farmer. Besides which, farming is heavy and uncertain work. Some of the escaped serfs who poured into Ufa were looking for land of their own, but by no means all. Most wanted some other form of work, work that paid them money with which to buy food. Factory work filled that niche, and the new farming equipment—new plows, new reapers, and so on—meant that they didn’t need as many farmers to grow a crop. So the switch from primarily farming to primarily industrial didn’t necessarily mean everyone starved.

  It was a very good thing that for now at least they held the lower Volga and access to the farms along the lower Volga, and the fish from the Caspian Sea.

  CHAPTER 15

  Cocktail Hour

  Five Miles Upriver from Sviyazhsk, Volga River

  Andrei Fefilatevich Danilov had expected to be in sight of Sviyazhsk in a day and a half. Of course, he hadn’t expected to be dead either. Petr Ivanovich Chaplygin was a wiser, or at least more cynical, man. He had been personally less sure of the steamboat as a weapon of war from the beginning. But the Danilov family were the patrons of his family and he had supported his patron.

  After the first ambush where Andrei Fefilatevich had been killed, they had put troops out on the southwest side of the river. Then they’d been ambushed from the northeast side. Two more mines had gone off, neither sinking a boat but both doing serious damage that had forced them to stop and make repairs. Almost three weeks to cover sixty miles. Leaving the damn boats in Moscow would have been faster. Petr was just angry and he knew it. The truth was that for most of the trip from Moscow the steamboats had traveled at a speed to put the fastest cavalry to shame. But once they got into enemy territory, the weakness of the steamboats became apparent. They were incredibly vulnerable to ambush, and the underwater explosives were deadly.

  Kruglaya Mountain, Sviyazhsk

  Lieutenant Vadim Viktorovich Lagunov walked up the hill to the citadel in good spirits, if utterly exhausted. After the first four days, Major Ivan Maslov had left him in charge and he had spent the rest of the time leading his contingent of scouts and his one supporting steamboat back ahead of the attacking force, slowing them. He was quite proud of his accomplishment.

  “Sergei!” He waved at his brother.

  “Vadim! I have been worried since the red-headed bastard left you out there with just a bunch of Cossacks.”

  Vadim felt himself stiffen. He remembered calling Major Maslov the red-headed bastard himself. Now it was like something from another life. But his brother hadn’t been with them, hadn’t seen…didn’t know. “It wasn’t like that, Sergei. The major…he knows what he’s doing. We delayed four steamboats for almost three weeks, and we only lost four men. They crawled every step of the way, always looking around for us. We bought you the time to get the rockets. Where are they?”

  Sergei was clearly not impressed. “He left you out there, outnumbered and on your own, while he got fireworks. He’s been playing with them for the last couple of days. Taking ranging shots, he calls it. And they don’t even have explosive heads! They have something he’s calling Molotov vodka bottles.”

  “How do they work?”

  “They mostly don’t. Just land in the river and go to the bottom.” Then, apparently trying to be fair, Sergei added, “Well, he got a couple to the far bank and one of them lit the bank on fire for a few minutes.”

  They continued walking up the hill, then climbed up to the bunkered platform where the rocket stands were set up. Major Maslov was bending over a framework, talking to a craftsman in the uniform of a Gorchakov retainer. The captain looked up. “Welcome back, Lieutenant. You did well. You bought us more time than I expected. I’d show you the results, but if we fire a rocket now they will be able to see its arc. And I want them to come as a surprise for our guests.”

  Vadim looked at the stands and then at the rockets. There seemed a lot of rockets. “Do we need so many?”

  “I’m afraid we won’t have enough. They aren’t all that accurate and the Molotovs don’t always ignite. I’m afraid they will get past us.”

  “Should I take the men back out and continue the harassment?”

  Major Maslov shook his head. “No. If we can savage them, so much the better. But General Lebedev has cannon at the Kazan kremlin. They aren’t great cannon, but he does have cannon. And they are making more rockets even as we speak. Also, the general now has over a thousand men under his command. Those four boats aren’t going to take Kazan. Besides, have you noticed the Volga is freezing at night? The ice is thin and it breaks up when the sun comes out, but steamboats are going to stop being an issue in another month or so. The best we can do is the best we can do. Now we wait for the battle.”

  Sviyazhsk

  October 1636

  Ivan looked through the telescope at a stake pounded into the far bank of the Volga and waited. Impatiently. He looked up from the telescope, and saw the riverboats. Eye back at the telescope, he waited some more. Finally the bowsprit of the first converted riverboat came into sight through the telescope and Ivan yelled, “Fire.”

  It took
a few seconds. The rockets had fuses and the fuses had to be lit and burn down. That had all been taken into account, the calculations made. In theory, the salvo of rockets—twenty of them—would arrive at a point in the river at precisely the same time as the lead riverboat got to the same place.

  The fuses burned down and the rockets flew and Ivan enjoyed the consternation of the crew as they saw the lines of white smoke tracing the rockets’ route across the sky.

  They flew mostly straight, but at almost two miles “mostly” isn’t nearly good enough. Of those twenty rockets, only one hit the lead steamer. And all it seemed to do was crash through the rear decking and disappear into the ship. The ship didn’t slow and there was no visible fire.

  Ivan was disappointed, but not dismayed. He had hoped for better, but it wasn’t like he had expected every missile to hit. “Ready the next salvo.”

  Petr Ivanovich Chaplygin was on the second ship again. He had decided early on that the place for the commander of the expedition wasn’t on the first ship. Also, he had spread the ships out so that they would have more time to respond in case of mines. It was, he decided, a very good thing he had. Because one of the rockets landed in the water not thirty feet ahead of his boat. And that meant that he would be in the shot pattern of the next set of rockets. Petr was a quick-thinking man, and the first thing he thought of was keeping Petr alive. This wasn’t cowardice, just pragmatism. He couldn’t do his job if he was dead. Going into that shot pattern would do no good. He could try getting away, either turning around or making for the far bank. But he didn’t know what might be waiting on the far bank and putting his tail between his legs wasn’t going to win him any points with the director-general. “Hard to port,” he shouted. “Make for Kruglaya Mountain and have the other boats do the same. Let’s take the fort.” His ship was the first to turn and it took a bit of time to signal the leader and get it turned. A bit too much time as it happened.

  The lead ship was still in its turn as two rockets from the second salvo hit amidships and in the stern. Blind chance had the second hit strike the edge of the hole that the first rocket had made. It ripped the Molotov cocktail warhead wide open, spreading burning alcohol and fish oil throughout the aft hold. That hold already had quite a bit of flammable liquid in it from the first hit, and that ignited as well. There was a gusher of flame from the stern of the steam boat, then a delay. The crew was busy fighting the fire at the bow, and they failed to notice the fire igniting the fuel for the steam engine. The flames spread and the engine crew were forced to retreat from the engine room. The boiler explosion almost managed to save the day by driving the oxygen out of the compartments, but it didn’t quite put the fire out. Once the steam escaped, the fire came back.

  All this took time, and by the time steamboat one was abandoned, no one else had time to notice.

  The last thing that Ivan Maslov was expecting was that the steamboats would turn and attack. In part that was because it was, in Ivan’s opinion, incredibly stupid. The enemy would be attacking uphill and Ivan had almost a hundred men at arms, not counting the monks, who would probably fight on his side.

  Even if all three boats got here, there wouldn’t be more than three hundred men attacking. Three to one up against defensive positions was not good odds. Ivan looked around to see if there were any more troops coming from another angle. From his position atop the small mountain, he had an excellent field of view. But nothing seemed to be coming this way. There were some troops ashore, but they were on the other side of the Volga.

  Ivan looked back at the boats. The tactic looked like it would work, at least to throw off the aim of his rockets. He would have to raise the rocket troughs and that would increase the flight time while the targets were moving straight at them, so it would be hard to gauge their speed. Ivan calculated in his head and gave instructions. Then another salvo was launched. It flew up and up and seemed to hang there at the top of its arc forever. Then the rockets slowly started back down. By the time they hit the water, they were all well behind the steamboats heading for the docks.

  Ivan considered taking the troughs out of the bunker and pointing the rockets directly at the approaching boats, but that would take five minutes at least. More likely ten. By then the steamboats would be at the docks. He calculated again, adjusted the aim once more, and sent another salvo. But he didn’t watch this one. Instead, he turned to Captain Sergei Lagunov. “Captain, gather the men and head for the docks. It looks like we are going to have company. I’ll try to support you with indirect fire.” It wasn’t an order that Ivan liked giving, but at this point he knew more about firing the new rockets than anyone. Besides, he was going to have to be the one to decide whether the risk to his own people…

  “Got one,” shouted one of the rocketeers.

  Ivan looked over. A second of the steamboats was on fire and turning away. That left one untouched, and coming up on the docks.

  As he watched that single ship coming on, Ivan noted the fundamental difference between land armies and waterborne armies. On land the army would have broken by now, as hundreds of individual soldiers decided for themselves whether to stand or run. Each man who ran made it easier for the next to run and harder for the others to stand. But the boat that was steaming for the docks was doing so because the ship’s captain decided to. The soldiers on the rails, and even more the sailors manning the engines, had very little idea what was going on in the rest of the battle and no choice at all where the boat went. Not unless they wanted to mutiny, which was a whole different question than just turning and running in the confusion of battle.

  Sergei looked at the steamboat and considered his options. The dock was a long stonework dock that went along the bank, so once the enemy debarked they would be spread out. On the other hand, if he charged now he could take the boat. He started up and a hand grabbed his arm. “Sergei, no!”

  Sergei swung around and almost hit his little brother.

  Vadim shouted. “No! If we go out there Major Maslov can’t support us with the rockets.”

  “He can’t anyway, not at this range. He’d be shooting almost straight up. They would go wherever the wind took them.”

  “There is also cover. We have it here and we won’t on the docks.”

  By the time he and his idiot little brother had finished arguing, it was too late. The troops on the boat weren’t on the boat anymore. They were on the dock. On the other hand, Sergei’s men were in place with their AK3s loaded and ready.

  “Fire!” shouted Vadim. “Reload. Quickly now, boys, but don’t forget to prime your pans.”

  The smoke was clearing from the first volley. It had been effective. At least five men were down down there, and the return fire from the dock had not hit anyone. It was the difference between standing in the open and crouched behind cover.

  The commander down there was shouting to his men too. “Reload! Cock and aim. Fire!”

  The enemy were firing their second round while Sergei’s men were still reloading. That was the difference between flintlocks and caplocks. A bullet flashed by and Sergei felt a stinging in his right arm. He reached across with his left hand and felt wetness. Then it really started to hurt.

  “Fire!” Vadim shouted again, and the battlefield was wreathed in smoke. Between them and the attackers, they were firing too fast for the smoke to fully clear before the next volley blinded them all again. And that, Sergei realized, was to the enemy’s advantage. So far Sergei himself was the only one of his people wounded and that was because he was standing up arguing with Vadim, not crouched behind cover. He crouched and shouted. “Wait for the smoke to clear!”

  He looked around and turned back to Vadim. “They are going to charge soon.”

  Vadim nodded, then pointed up the hill. “We need to get some people up there to cover our retreat.”

  Sergei looked down at the docks and up the hill, then nodded. “You do that. Take the men you had out on the march and get up there.”

  Vadim nodded again an
d started shouting names. He shouted some orders and Sergei didn’t pay much attention. He was watching the gun smoke slowly drift away. He could see the enemy again, shadows in the acrid gray fog. “Wait a little longer,” he shouted.

  Suddenly the enemy were running up the hill toward his men. “Fire!”

  The bayonets were an adaptation that had gained rapid acceptance from Russian troops. Everyone wanted one. And by now, with the stamp presses, just about everyone who had a gun of any sort had a bayonet. They were not great steel. Anyone from Damascus would spit when they passed by. But they were sharp and hard enough to cut. And there were scores of them charging his command. Sergei drew his sword with his right hand. His arm hurt, but it seemed to be working. Sergei didn’t have time to worry about it.

  Vadim got his men in place just in time to see the enemy charge strike home. Now there weren’t two forces, just a milling mob. Well, not entirely. His brother was holding—being pushed back, but slowly. “Aim for the rear ranks, men. And only aimed fire now.”

  His men started shooting. Not a volley this time, but the crackle of individual fire. Sergei was holding them in place while Vadim’s boys were sniping them. Vadim looked at the battle and saw a man in the fanciest coat that he had ever seen. The man had a tall fur hat as well. Vadim took careful aim and fired. And missed. Apparently not by much, though. That man was looking right at Vadim. He turned and pointed his pistol up the hill, aiming at Vadim, and started shooting. Vadim was under cover, only his head sticking out, and he was at least forty yards away, so it wasn’t surprising that the man missed with all five shots.