Jim Baen's Universe
Grantville Gazette, Volume 25

Grantville Gazette, Volume 25, 1 September 2009

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Grantville Gazette

A 1632, Inc. Publication
Grantville Gazette
P. O. Box 7488
Moore, OK 73153-1488

What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

The Grantville Gazette originated as a by-product of the ongoing and very active discussions which take place concerning the 1632 universe Eric Flint created in the novels 1632, 1633 and 1634: The Galileo Affair (the latter two books co-authored by David Weber and Andrew Dennis, respectively). This discussion is centered in three of the conferences in Baen's Bar, the discussion area of Baen Books' web site. The conferences are entitled "1632 Slush," "1632 Slush Comments" and "1632 Tech Manual." They have been in operation for almost seven years now, during which time nearly two hundred thousand posts have been made by hundreds of participants.

Soon enough, the discussion began generating so-called "fanfic," stories written in the setting by fans of the series. A number of those were good enough to be published professionally. And, indeed, a number of them were—as part of the anthology Ring of Fire , which was published by Baen Books in January, 2004. ( Ring of Fire also includes stories written by established authors such as Eric Flint himself, as well as David Weber, Mercedes Lackey, Dave Freer, K.D. Wentworth and S.L. Viehl.)

The decision to publish the Ring of Fire anthology triggered the writing of still more fanfic, even after submissions to the anthology were closed. Ring of Fire has been selling quite well since it came out, and a second anthology similar to it was published late in 2007. Another, Ring of Fire III, is forthcoming.  It will also contain stories written by new writers, as well as professionals. But, in the meantime . . . the fanfic kept getting written, and people kept nudging Eric—well, pestering Eric—to give them feedback on their stories.

Hence . . . the Grantville Gazette. Once he realized how many stories were being written—a number of them of publishable quality—he raised with Jim Baen the idea of producing an online magazine which would pay for fiction and nonfiction articles set in the 1632 universe and would be sold through Baen Books' Webscriptions service. Jim was willing to try it, to see what happened.

As it turned out, the first issue of the electronic magazine sold well enough to make continuing the magazine a financially self-sustaining operation. Since then, even more volumes have been electronically published through the Baen Webscriptions site. As well, Grantville Gazette, Volume One was published in paperback in November of 2004. That has since been followed by hardcover editions of Grantville Gazette, Volumes Two, Three and Four.

Then, two big steps:

First: The magazine had been paying semi-pro rates for the electronic edition, increasing to pro rates upon transition to paper, but one of Eric's goals had long been to increase payments to the authors. Grantville Gazette, Volume Eleven is the first volume to pay the authors professional rates.

Second: This on-line version you're reading. The site here at http://www.grantvillegazette.com is the electronic version of an ARC, an advance readers copy where you can read the issues as we assemble them. There are stories posted here which won't be coming out in the magazine for more than a year.

How will it work out? Will we be able to continue at this rate? Well, we don't know. That's up to the readers. But we'll be here, continuing the saga, the soap opera, the drama and the comedy just as long as people are willing to read them.

—The Grantville Gazette Staff

FICTION:

Franconia! Parts 2 and 3

Written by Virginia DeMarce

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PART II
ASK AN AUGUST SKY

 
If that my lines, being placed before thy book,
Could make it sell, or alter but a look
Of some sour censurer, who's apt to say,
No one in these times can produce a play
Worthy his reading . . .
Which to this tragedy must give my test,
Thou has made many good, but this thy best.

Joseph Taylor
(To his long-known and loved friend,
Mr. Philip Massinger, upon his "Roman Actor")

 

Magdeburg, May 1634

 
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door.
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.
 

The guitar provided a driving rhythm behind the young woman's voice as she repeated the refrain for the fourth time. There were many better voices in the world, but perhaps none better suited to this song.

 
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor.
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears,
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.
 

In response to Philip Massinger's wave, the waitress plunked another stein of beer down on the table in front of him. Why hadn't he heard this song in Grantville? It was obviously an up-time song. It was the music, the rhythm, that made it new. The music with the words. The singer smiled at the audience. "I learned that off a Bob Dylan album."

Not that its ideas were new. He had already written, years before,

 
Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of it; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.
 

He had intended to move to Magdeburg for the urbanity, the opportunities, of a large city. He had come to see it, leaving the boys in Grantville with his wife to finish the school semester. He had come to see the capital of this new . . . nation, yes, nation . . . growing and developing. He was no stranger to the idea of nation. Or country, at least . . . And patriotism, if not yet called by that name.

 
What though my father
Writ man before he was so, and confirm'd it,
By numbering that day no part of his life
In which he did not service to his country;
Was he to be free therefore from the laws
And ceremonious form in your decrees?
Or else because he did as much as man
In those three memorable overthrows,
At Granson, Morat, Nancy, where his master,
The warlike Charalois, with whose misfortunes
I bear his name, lost treasure, men, and life,
To be excused from payment of those sums
Which (his own patrimony spent) his zeal
To serve his country forced him to take up!
 

Zeal to serve his country. How did it differ from this "patriotism?" As Tom and Dick's grandfather had written, A rose by any other name . . . Fanciful. Having passed a half century on this earth, he was becoming as fanciful as a man in his dotage. In any case. The song needed to go into the play that the boys were writing. Rewriting. What would the authors care if he added to their work? Or the composer care if he added his song to the opera of other men? They were dead. Or not yet alive. So he would go back to Grantville. Magdeburg could wait for him. For six years, after leaving Oxford, he had toured these Germanies in a troupe of actors. He could tour them once more before finding a safe haven in the capital of this new country . . . this new nation.

 

Grantville

Joe and Aura Lee Stull hosted the cast party for the high school production of Oklahoma! because . . . Amber Higham counted the ways. Their son Billy was stage manager . . . they had room . . . Aura Lee was willing to do it. Unlike pre-Ring of Fire cast parties, it included parents, foster parents, guardians, and anyone who had been willing to loan a costume or a prop, which made it a fairly large undertaking. Amber looked around and concluded that except for her nagging worry as to exactly where some members of the chorus—specifically Anthony Green and Carly Baumgardner—were and what they might be doing there, it was going very smoothly. She moved to the kitchen door in hopes of spotting the truants in the back yard. Warm weather was a blessing. Warm weather was not always a blessing.

A good-sized group of the men had retreated to the back porch. Joe Stull wandered into the kitchen and slid past Amber, with an expression on his face that made her suspect he was vaguely hoping that Aura Lee was too busy to notice his flight from hospitality duty. Not all truants were teenagers.

* * *

"I am a playwright, yes." Philip Massinger waved his hand at someone, a German, whom Joe hadn't met yet. "But an artisan of words, in no way really different from a wheelwright or a millwright. I take materials. Words, perchance immaterial but yet materials. A man can scarce write a play without them. I have my tools. Pen and paper rather than hammer and anvil, but tools."

The other man grunted.

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"A wordsmith," Massinger continued. "Just as you may have a blacksmith or a goldsmith, and there is no more mystery to the craft. It is something that can be learned. True, some write better plays than others, but then everyone knows that some masters in any craft produce better work than others. Some, perhaps, one should just call 'fully competent.' Others have a spark of genius. But that applies as well to the making of saddles as the making of poems." He paused. "I even work frequently with others, meshing my work with theirs. An immature poet imitates; a mature poet steals. Yet I consider myself to be changing the products of others to meet specifications. Improving upon them, I would hope. You have a word for this. I found it when I looked myself up in the encyclopedia. I was known for many collaborations. Most, alas, had been lost by the time of the Ring of Fire, so I presume that I will have to go to the labor of writing them again, those I produced between now and my death, with no idea beyond the titles of what they may have contained the first time I wrote them. However . . ."

Massinger's voice trailed off; then resumed in a different tone.

"Joe, good to see you. Have you met Wilhelm Schaupp from Weimar? He's the uncle and guardian of Zacharias, who's living with George and Lorrie Mundell while he goes to high school. Zach's the boy who translated a lot of Tom and Dick's version of Oklahoma! into German for us. I'm trying to talk him into letting Zach go on tour with us this summer."

"Yeah, I know Zach. Billy's had him over several times. Pleased to meet you." Joe stuck out his hand.

Massinger smiled as he continued his introduction. "Herr Stull is the Secretary of Transportation for the State of Thuringia-Franconia."

Schaupp looked at his new acquaintance with considerably more interest and took the hand that was waving in front of him.

"Herr Stull's son Billy will be touring with our troupe this summer, I hope." Massinger's emphasis was subtle, but unmistakable. After all, what minor bureaucrat in Weimar would object to having his nephew become a close friend of the son of a higher state official? Well, there might be one. Somewhere.

"In your dreams," as Billy would say.

Herr Schaupp would be a summer friend, whose flattering leaves, that shadowed a man in his prosperity, would with the least gust drop off in the autumn of adversity. Not that one should disdain the shade while it existed. Perhaps some patronage might be attainable through Schaupp. Massinger smiled, his pale blond, almost invisible, eyelashes blinking in the flickering light of the gas lanterns that the Stulls had installed at the rear of their house.

* * *

"All the girl who plays Laurey has to do is look pretty and be a soprano with enough volume that her voice fills the theater. She doesn't have to be able to act. She doesn't even have to be a spectacularly good singer, because the sung portion of the role has a lot of duets and ensembles. Amber has assured me of this. The person who plays Ado Annie has to be able to act, but not Laurey. Pretty is enough. Stand, look pretty, and sing a little."

Antonia Massinger frowned at her husband.

"Tom will play Ado Annie, in any case. I have found no girl in Grantville with the proper feel and timing for comedy."

She would play the part of Aunt Eller herself, of course. There had never been any doubt of that, not from the first glimmer of Philip's new idea. One of the many things she hated about the English was that their benighted censors had never allowed her, in nearly twenty years, to appear upon the public stage. Private theatricals, yes, but not public ones. If she hadn't loved Philip so much—if she hadn't impulsively plunged into marriage with him, a foreigner, when she was barely twenty and had a great career before her in Stuttgart—she would have shaken the dust of the place from her sandals and returned to civilized lands. What had Dick's girlfriend told her the word was? "Retro." Yes. England was certainly "retro."

Now that she was back home, she intended to be a full partner in their enterprises, and that included casting the female parts for this . . . cabaret . . . that the boys wrote and which, greatly expanded by Philip, they would include as a novelty in their tour this summer. And going back on stage. Playing any roles that a woman nearing her fiftieth year could play. One had to admit that the English at least wrote meaty roles for a woman of a certain age. Gertrude. Lady MacBeth. Perhaps it was because the playwrights knew that men, not infrequently themselves or their next friends, would be acting them and thus granted themselves starring parts. But one should take a boon where one found it without excessive questioning of the bounty.

"This means?" Massinger steepled his fingers together.

"Barbara Ostertag has the range to sing Laurey's songs. Lorrie Mitchell, the up-timer she lives with, is willing to let her go with us. Even if that were not so, Barbara is twenty, of age as the up-timers see it. She can make up her own mind."

"You. Barbara. Tom. Who else?"

"We can hire local singers for the chorus every place we go. That will increase interest in the piece. Not to mention saving a lot of transportation expense. The music will all be new to them, but it is not that difficult."

"Not as we have transcribed it for the cabaret. My ears are much more at peace with the songs from Oklahoma! when they are performed without the orchestra. With just the melody line and a lute, a couple of violins, perhaps a recorder for the themes. Or violin, viol, shawm and sackbut. Pipes, perhaps? No dissonant overture. No clashing intervals or harmonies. No . . ."

"Old-fashioned, Philip. Grievously old-fashioned. The young people . . ."

". . . rarely have enough money to pay for tickets. It is their parents who pay for tickets. If we offer a play that pains the ears of those who attend the first night, there will be no audience for the second or the third." He shook his head. "Who will understudy Barbara?"

"Anna Maria Reisdorfer. The girl from the 'beauty shop.' In a pinch, she can also understudy Tom. We only need to hope that both Barbara and Tom are not indisposed for the same performance."

"Find someone else who can understudy Tom. I have trust in divine providence, to be sure. But not that much trust. Surely one of the boys from the troupe we gathered together on our way to Grantville can do it."

"We have been here for months. Their voices have all changed. The male roles are no problem. There are three of us who could understudy Dick for the role of Jud. Any of them can also understudy Ned Bass for Will Parker. Two who can understudy Ludovic for Curly. All of them, with enough makeup, can understudy you if the need arises. Don't worry. I will find someone else who can act Ado Annie. As Amber says, that role must be acted."

"I want an up-timer, even if she may be lacking in the timing and feel for comedy. Another novelty. Something we can put on placards to attract the audiences. We're not in this business as a matter of charity. When she isn't needed as Ado Annie, she can sing Gertie. When she is . . . always make sure that one of the chorus members knows Gertie's lines."

"Yes, dear." Antonia's voice dripped honey.

"Ask Amber. She must know someone."

"Yes, dear." A pause. "Do you really think I was born yesterday?"

The motion of her buttocks, as she departed, had to be classified as a flounce. Ah . . .

 
The sum of all that makes a just man happy
Consists in the well choosing of his wife:
And there, well to discharge it, does require
Equality of years, of birth, of fortune.
 

In this matter, Massinger counted himself fortunate indeed.

* * *

"Mariah Collins for Ado Annie," Amber said. "She sang a couple of character roles. And Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls her senior year. Her perpetual case of the sniffles brought the house down, though Grantville always has a pretty generous audience for the high school plays. She graduated in 1632. Not a pretty girl, I'm sorry to say, but she has aptitude. She took the geology summer camp training right after she finished high school. She's been out in the field working, but just finished up her contract and came back to see about her sister Megan. Their parents were left up-time and she's not too happy that Megan's gotten engaged to Ronnie Baumgardner.

"Actually, Ronnie's okay as far as I know, but his father . . . I can see her point. Zane Baumgardner isn't anyone that I would want on my grandchildren's family tree. If I had ever had children, that is. Way too late, now that I finally have a decent man in my sights. He's still not someone I'd want on my prospective step-grandchildren's family tree. Thank goodness, none of my nieces ever got involved with the guy.

"Anyway, since Mariah got back, she's been paying her expenses by checking out sites for the silo corporation, but she's restless. I expect she'd enjoy a summer tour with a theater group."

 

Würzburg

A manuscript version of Franconia! arrived in Würzburg less than a week after Philip Massinger finished his modification to the Quiney brothers' version of Grantville's spring play. His portions, too, Zacharias Schaupp translated. Georg Rudolf Weckherlin received it with the incoming mail, opened it, and was lost to useful work for the rest of the morning. When Steve Salatto and Anita Masaniello got back from an important, and protracted, meeting with the cathedral chapter, they stopped for a minute in the anteroom, frowning.

"What is that?" Steve asked. "He's whistling?"

They stood for a couple of minutes more.

"'Everything's up to date in Kansas City,' I think." Anita wrinkled her brow. " Where did Weckherlin ever hear or see Oklahoma!?"

"Nowhere." Steve barged on into the outer office over which Georg Rudolf Weckherlin presided. "What's that?"

Weckherlin looked up and grinned. "Ah. A splendid new satire. Franconia!, it's called. Marvelous. These songwriters have you Grantvillers pegged. Skewered, even."

 

Jetzt ist alles ganz modern in Grantville.

 

"It laughs about your Frau Higgins and her enormous modern hotel. Grantville had no such building before the Ring of Fire. Nothing even approaching it. No, this great modern up-time town had to come back to the seventeenth century in order to build itself a 'skyscraper several stories high.'"

"That was 'seven stories high,'" Anita commented absently. "And it was Kansas City, not Grantville, where everything was up to date. What on earth do you have there?"

That shot the afternoon for all three of them.

"Damndest thing I ever came across," Steve proclaimed. "Look, 'Hard Times' wasn't in Oklahoma! It wasn't by Bob Dylan, either. Maybe he recorded it, but it's Stephen Foster. You know, the 'Old Kentucky Home' guy—that song they sing—sang—will sing—before the Kentucky Derby. Like 'Maryland, My Maryland,' before the Preakness."

This required some explanation.

"It's not 'Maryland, My Maryland,' really," Anita pointed out. "It's, 'O, Christmas Tree' and that's 'O Tannenbaum,' and that was German to start with."

"We're way off the point."

"Which is?" Weckherlin's smile was more than a little sardonic.

"What have these guys—the Quineys and Massinger—done? I've seen that movie. There wasn't a single place in it where the cast was standing around waiting for William Jennings Bryan to come into town and make a speech. Singing 'Hard Times Come Again No More.' Stephen Foster lived way back when. Back before the Civil War, I think. That has to be a hundred fifty years before Dylan recorded it. This is just a . . . a . . . a mish-mash."

"In many ways the plot is wondrously rational for a comedy. No identical twins separated at birth. Not a single pretty maid disguised as her mistress. No cases of mistaken identity leading to quite incoherent consequences. Not to mention," Weckherlin added rather dryly, "that it incorporates quite a large number of bits and pieces out of propaganda pamphlets associated with the Ram Rebellion into Bryan's speech once he makes his triumphant arrival upon the new railroad. I've seen other plays by Massinger in London. Can we assume that he wanted to play a considerably more prominent part in this . . . project . . . than was available for a man of middling years in the original version."

"Probably." Anita frowned. "There was an older man in the movie who had some dialogue with Aunt Eller, but he sure wasn't a starring role. Do you remember who it was, Steve?"

"Naw. Skinny guy, I do remember that. Which probably means that he didn't make much of an impression on me. It was the two of them, the scrawny guy and Aunt Eller, that sang about how the cowboys and farmers ought to be friends, wasn't it?"

"Is that in here?"

"Yes." Weckherlin flipped through several pages. "Here. With a nice scene in which Laurey's aunt shoots a gun to stop the fight. And she's 'Aunt Gretchen,' not 'Aunt Eller.""

 

Lass' die Ritter und die Bauern Freunde sein.

 

"Not a bad idea." Steve grinned. "Let the knights and the peasants be friends. I'll support that sentiment all the way."

Weckherlin caroled the end of the refrain:

 

Es gibt kein' Grund dass sie nicht Freunden seien.

 

"Um. I think there was probably some reason why they couldn't be friends." Anita raised her eyebrows at her husband. "They sang that just before the big fight at the square dance, didn't they?"

"Fakest fight I ever saw on screen."

"Be reasonable, Steve. It was a musical comedy, not method acting."

"Still the fakest fight I ever saw. I could have lived with the silly ballet, but that stupid fight . . ."

"What ballet? There is no ballet in this." Weckherlin's voice conveyed certainty.

"They probably don't have a cast who can dance ballet. I'm sure they don't have a cast who can dance ballet, in fact. Only Bitty Matowski does. They must have just left it out."

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Anita and Steve started to dissect the manuscript on the basis of what had been omitted and what had been inserted.

"Another thing I'm absolutely sure of," Anita Masaniello said firmly. "No way did Rogers and Hammerstein write 'Is Your Harp Upon the Willow?' That's bluegrass, and it definitely didn't lead into the finale of Oklahoma!" She sang a few lines.

"Franconia isn't exactly Oklahoma," Weckherlin answered. "Nor is it ever likely to be."

"How do they sing 'Franconia' to 'Oklahoma' anyway? The rhythm's different."

"The Latin form is only for the title. See. In the song, they sing, 'Franken, Franken,' doubling up the name of the territory. Which is not Oklahoma, clearly. Just to start, it has no plains for the wind to sweep down."

"Which could explain why they left that part out of the translation. Where's the wind sweeping from in this . . . tour de force?"

"The Thüringerwald, of course. From Thuringia, into our 'brand new state.'"

 

Würzburg, June 1634

"Where did the railroad car come from?" Tania Haun asked over the sounds made by five children under ten, two teenaged boys, and one adult male eating as fast as they could.

Mike Mundell put his spoon down and swallowed. His mom was just death on talking with your mouth full. "Well, Massinger put in the presidential candidate giving the speech. Then it came to me. Something back in eighth grade civics. We saw a documentary with a lot of old newsreel in it, about someone running for president on a train. 'Whistle Stop Campaign?' I think that was it."

"I wonder how long the middle school has had that documentary. We saw it in eighth grade, too, and I've got to be twenty years older than you are. Truman, was it? Or wasn't it?"

"What did you think of the rehearsal yesterday?" Zacharias Schaupp asked a little anxiously.

"It was okay," Johnnie F. said around the last bite of his breakfast. Mike and Zach were staying with him and Tania while the traveling actors were in Würzburg. Frau Massinger had been more than happy when the "American colony" offered to board most of the Grantville kids, up-time and down-time alike. First, it meant that she did not have to supervise them. Second, it saved a lot of money.

Mike disposed of another mouthful of rye bread. "Why just 'okay'? Tom and Dick worked hard on this thing. So did Zach. And Mr. Massinger."

"Well, there's something missing. I was on stage crew for Oklahoma! back when I was in high school myself and I'm darn sure that Laurey wasn't a shepherdess."

"Well, Mr. Massinger says that here, down-time, people who come to see the play need to know right away that the girl the hero is in love with is all right. You know, pretty and virtuous. And shepherdesses are automatically pretty and virtuous. In poems and plays. Not in real life, but that doesn't count. Besides, he wanted to use that stupid 'Lady of the Lambs' poem he found in the library and have it set to music. So Ludovic, being Curly, stands there and sings at her:

 

She walks—the lady of my delight—
A shepherdess of sheep.
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;
She guards them from the steep.
She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.

 

"Barbara can't act for sour shit. She just stands there in the middle of the stage looking cute, so he needed something to make it clear to the audience right off that she was one of the good guys. Of course, Mrs. Massinger—she spent a lot of time volunteering at the high school last semester—went, 'Gag me.'"

"So did Anita after the rehearsal last night. Maybe it'll catch on with the Ram Rebellion people. But Laurey and her aunt were farmers. I remember that much. Maybe Massinger could write the aunt as being the Ewe instead of Gretchen. Or the Ewe in addition to Gretchen . . ."

Johnnie F. worried the idea around in the back of his mind all day and started in on it again at supper. "I guess a shepherdess is okay. Bo-Peep and all that. Mary's little lamb. But still, farmers are more important. Back when I was in college, we learned this song . . ." Johnnie F. started to whistle.

"That's sorta catchy."

"Yeah. But it's the words that were really good. Lemme think . . . It went all the way back to the Grange movement, maybe. I'm not so sure that I remember all the words."

"Can you give me just a general sort of idea? It's not as if Mr. Massinger's exactly short on words, and he'll have to put them into German anyway."

"Sort of. Lemme think . . ." Johnnie F. rapped the words out with a fair rhythm but not much in the way of a tune.

 

The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man,
Lives on credit 'til the fall.
Then they take him by the hand, and they lead him off the land,
And the middle man's the man who gets it all.

 

"Oh, gosh, Johnnie F. We've got to do that one. It'll be easy. Der Bauer ist der Mann, der Bauer ist der Mann . . . 'Hand' rhymes with 'land' in German, too."

"Sounds to me like they're exactly the same words. That's the refrain. The first verse is something like this,"

 

The farmer comes to town with his wagon broken down,
But the farmer is the man who feeds them all.
If you'll only look and see, I think you will agree
That the farmer is the man who feeds them all.
His pants are wearing thin. His condition is a sin.
They've forgot that he's the man who feeds them all.

 

"There's all sorts of 'thems' who've done the forgetting in the rest of the verses. Bankers and preachers and merchants and butchers and cooks. There's a whole bunch of verses."

Mike jumped up. "Hey, Tania. Can I take Johnnie F. downtown to the inn where the Massingers are staying? Right now? Mr. Massinger's got to hear this. Right away."

"It's almost dark."

"But if Mr. Massinger starts tonight, we can have the song in the play tomorrow. That's the way these actors work. None of that nonsense about having a printed script in front of you and memorizing the lines just exactly. They carry a lot of it in their heads. Improvise. Though a lot of the time," Mike admitted honestly enough, "that's because I've messed up something with the props. I was just assistant stage manager for Oklahoma! Billy Stull was the stage manager. He wanted to come, but his dad thought he'd be better off staying in Grantville and taking trig in summer school. Mom and Dad didn't mind if I came, especially since Zach was coming anyway. Plus, Billy's grandma wasn't very pleased with the idea that he might go off with a touring company of actors, even for the summer. You know Mrs. Hudson, don't you?"

"Oh, sure," Johnnie F. said. "I know Vera and Willie Ray. Willie Ray's an okay guy."

* * *

The Massingers were staying with the Weckherlins, having a prior acquaintance with Steve Salatto's "office dragon" and his English wife, who was the daughter of the Dover city clerk.

"Just a few more changes to the script, Philip" Weckherlin suggested during breakfast. "By the way, I'm sorry it's porridge again."

"Cheerful looks make every dish a feast, and it is that which crowns a welcome. Truly, without good company all dainties lose their true relish, and like painted grapes, are only seen, not tasted. You were saying?"

"Much of the pastiche is a bit sophomoric. Especially the jokes."

"This is understandable—and forgivable—given that those who produced it, with the exception of my own additions, were almost all high school sophomores."

"Will is an obvious, traditionally comedic, character. I see no problems with your using him as the boys wrote him. Jud fits much less easily into a comedy. Though this is scarce a comedy, nor yet a tragedy. Jud fits very uneasily into a satire intended to show peasants as the heroes. Nonetheless, if we leave him out of this one, there is even less for Laurey to say and do. And for a full stage production, to display Curly as a protector of the innocent heroine, we need a villain . . . Almost, he needs a play of his own, a true tragedy, if one could conceive of a crude hireling as a tragic figure. The mere challenge of writing a tragedy whose central figure is not of high station at the beginning is daunting. Could one, and still have the outcome be tragic?"

Weckherlin closed his mouth and whipped his wandering thoughts back into order. "In any case. Almost anyone who reads for pleasure understands 'westerns' by now. They are very popular. Let the Reichsritter represent the arrogant cattlemen. If you use this song for a meeting between conservative members of the Bamberg city council and several deposed imperial knights who do hold the opinion that the Ram movement is a scandal—an outrage . . . Es ist furchtbar! Es ist scheusslich!

"Truly, with a bit of 'massaging,' it could reach a more elite audience. Become a staple of your repertoire rather than just an interesting novelty. Perhaps we could contact Melchior Franck in Coburg. Surely he has a few students who could harmonize the original music into an opera score that is more in accord to contemporary taste. I am myself particularly charmed by 'Ado Annie.' I have indeed already, since observing the rehearsal last evening, composed some suggested modifications to her most important song, making the German translations of the verses a bit more sophisticated than your Zacharias Schaupp managed, adding some internal rhymes . . . If you would be interested . . ." He sang, a little raspily, "'Ich bin ein' Magd, die nie "nein" sagt.' Meyfarth in Bamberg, once your players get there, can also probably improve somewhat on young Schaupp's German verses . . ."

"I understand Ado Annie's appeal for you, Georg. A girl who 'cain't say no' must unquestionably attract the author of 'Seduction in the Garden, or Love Among the Cabbages.'"

"More seriously, though. Franconia has already voted to merge with Thuringia and become a state within the USE. Once Gustavus Adolphus finishes the summer's campaigning, though, he will be faced with how to handle his conquests. Now, these lines . . ." Weckherlin picked up the manuscript. "Where the singer admonishes the people that when the territory joins the union and becomes a state, those of all ranks and callings must 'behave themselves and act like brothers.' Perhaps . . ."

"Yes, of course you are right. Those verses lend themselves beautifully to an expansion of William Jennings Bryan's speech. Ah . . . of course, at present Antonia is singing them. She wouldn't be particularly pleased if I took them. Particularly not since my singing voice leaves much to be desired."

"You could speak them. Right after Bryan's attack on corruption. 'Petitions, not sweetened with gold, are but unsavory and oft refused; or, if received, are pocketed, not read.' Then she, as the lead among the women in the audience, could repeat them and break into the chorus . . . I must find some better German than young Schaupp came up with for rhyming 'pals' with 'gals.' How do you intend to handle the sometimes rather harsh criticism of the emperor?"

Massinger cocked his head. "'Detraction's a bold monster, and fears not to wound the fame of princes, if it find but any blemish in their lives to work on.' I'm sure that I can find some suitable approach." He turned to his older apprentice. "Dick, a suitable line, if you will."

Dick Quiney stood up and declaimed.

 

Great men,
Till they have gained their ends, are giants in
Their promises, but, those obtained, weak pigmies
In their performance. And it is a maxim
Allowed among them, so they may deceive,
They may swear anything.

 

Weckherlin nodded his agreement. "True. 'Put not your trust in princes.' God said so himself. The proverb runs that, 'ambition, in a private man a vice, is in a prince a virtue.' We admonish that 'he that would govern others, first should be the master of himself,' yet we also say that 'the desire of fame is the last weakness wise men put off.' Or even, often enough, men less wise. So. What do you—we—say of those Nicodemites who privately agree that there is a need for change, but are too cautious to give those changes their public support?"

Massinger turned his head in the other direction. "Tom?"

Tom hopped up next to his brother.

Factions among yourselves; preferring such
To offices and honors, as ne'er read
The elements of saving policy;
But deeply skilled in all the principles
That usher to destruction.

 

"Apropos. Very apropos." From Master Massinger, that was an accolade. Dick and Tom accepted it as such.

* * *

"We did, in fact, perform it in Grantville before we left. Once, in the auditorium at the Middle School since the high school auditorium is booked well in advance all the time. So the advertisements are perfectly true." Antonia Massinger laughed.

"It was an inspiration to take 'Many a New Day' away from Laurey and give it to Ado Annie. Mariah does a much better job with it. Gives it some bite." Anita Masaniello was perched backstage on an upturned salted herring keg.

"Amber Higham assured me, before we hired her, that she had aptitude for comedy."

A crash came from behind the draperies, accompanied by a shout of, "Hands off, you creep."

Anita raised her eyebrows.

"Mariah acts the part so deftly that it has caused Ludovic some difficulty in believing that in private life, she is perfectly capable of saying, 'no.' He stomps around in the mode of, 'I will now court her in the conqueror's style; Come, see, and overcome.' To which Mariah does not respond well."

"That's Mariah. Aptitude, yes. Attitude, too."

"As to Ludovic, what pity 'tis, one that can speak so well, should in his actions be so ill! If he would only transfer his attentions to Barbara, where they might be more welcome. Perhaps she would find them flattering. She would welcome some flattery these days. She was not happy when Philip told her that Mariah would be singing 'Many a New Day' henceforth. Particularly since Philip had already changed the song about the lovers' taking a carriage ride into a satire about the cost of the Forchheim bypass and given it to Curly and the chorus instead of keeping it as addressed to her. We have all the would-be lovers in Franconia complaining that since that one stretch has soaked up the whole road improvement budget, you couldn't drive a surrey anywhere else in the region if you tried. Philip told her that it was fine, since Curly was singing the shepherdess and sheep song to her, but she found no consolation in that. I have allotted her three more costumes to wear in the scenes where she appears, one of them genuine up-time. That has helped."

Overall, the opening night—or, more precisely, the opening afternoon—of Franconia! in Würzburg, "with the genuine Grantville cast," had to be delayed for four days while the actors scrambled to learn all the rewritten bits and pieces.

 

Bamberg

"Oh, good glory. Well hit, well hit!"

"Otto, what are you screeching about?" Else Kronacher stuck her head through the curtain that divided the sales room from the print shop, glaring at her younger son.

"This line in the new play:"

 

Pray enter.
You are learned Europeans and we worse
Than ignorant Americans.

 

"And precisely who are 'we' in this case?"

"A Persian salesman, slick and oily, bent upon the seduction of the heroine's friend. Presumably representative of all the reprehensible subjects of the Porte who daily threaten the peaceful tranquility of the Germanies."

"Ach, the trash that you read. When in your life have the Germanies been tranquil or peaceful?"

"Why Mutti, you, yourself, told me to set this Franconia! in type." Otto's gaze was the epitome of innocent hurt feelings.

Frau Else knew better.

"For the other, since I was born in 1618, the first year of this war, not a single year."

"I knew you would be a source of trouble the first time I laid eyes on you."

"Mutti, you can fairly and justly hold me accountable for some things. Quite a few things. But my birth was not a causative factor for these wars. Ask Herr Eddie. He will explain it to you."

"Where's Melchior?"

"Out posting the placards. May I see the play when it comes to Bamberg? Please?"

"Why should I let you spend our hard-earned money to see a play when you have already set the whole thing in type?"

"It has music, they say. Music, too. Printing music is not the same as hearing it. I'll do the woodcuts showing the melodic line for each song and its verses on separate sheets after I have finished the dialogue. It will be tricky to put together. On some of the pages, I'll have to end the type in the middle, because the song comes next. They don't always come out even."

"If it looks as if that is going to happen, then use smaller type for a couple of pages until you can back the extra lines to the end of the last full page. There's no point in wasting paper. It doesn't grow on trees, you know. I'm going to the market." Frau Else pulled her head back through the curtain.

Otto smirked at the curtain and whispered, "How sweetly sounds the voice of a good woman! It is so seldom heard that, when it speaks, it ravishes all senses." Aloud he called, "Bye, Mutti."

* * *

Quiet night, that brings
Rest to the labourer, is the outlaw's day,
In which he rises early to do wrong,
And when his work is ended dares not sleep.

 

Tom Quiney eyed the insert he had just added to the margin of a locally printed copy of Franconia! "That works, doesn't it? I nabbed it out of The Guardian. Act II, Scene 4. We just have to change it to the 'Ritter's day.' Who cares that it's not new? We're not doing The Guardian on this tour and it's not as if most of the people coming to the plays are literary critics."

"It's fine." Otto Kronacher found Tom and Dick Quiney to be kindred spirits. "When does Herr Massinger need the revision? Give me back that copy." He jerked it out of Tom's hands. "I can't read your writing. Just tell me what needs to be done and I'll write it in."

"He is scheduled to meet with the Committee of Correspondence on Tuesday. They have made quite a few . . . suggestions, shall we say. Modifications in point of view that a prudent man would make before the play is performed in Bamberg. They want to review the changes at the meeting. Patience, the beggar's virtue, shall find no harbor here."

Otto waved his pencil. "There isn't any harbor in Bamberg. Not unless you count the piers on the river."

"Quit your nonsense." Melchior pulled his brother's nose and then turned to Dick. "That's censorship. They're supposed to be defending freedom of speech. And all the other freedoms of stuff."

"Ah. It's tricky. As Master Massinger has written, 'What a sea of melting ice I walk on!' They are not censoring us. Perforce not. They have in no way forbidden the production of the play. They have merely indicated that if certain unhappy members of the audience should happen to take exception to it as it stands, the forces of law and order might not be able to restrain them from venting their indignation at the first performance. Just a friendly warning."

"But we have friends in the CoC." Melchior's voice was getting louder. "We know them. They aren't supposed to behave like that."

Tom frowned. "Master Massinger says that the changes they want aren't 'substantive.' Well, he wasn't happy with their demands. But he has been censored before, in England, far more extensively. Once they required him to take a whole play and rewrite the setting from modern Spain to ancient Rome because it's comments on politics were too . . . forthright. Even then, the office did not grant him a performance license. So let us do what we must. 'To doubt is worse than to have lost; and to despair is but to antedate those miseries that must fall on us.' Mostly, they want to have their own people shown to be heroic."

Otto grinned. "Then, like Pastor Meyfarth says, 'let us put the best construction on everything.' Don't think of it as censorship, Mel. Think of it as local patriotism. Maybe we ought to stick Pastor Meyfarth into the play, too. Just for a few lines."

Tom cocked his head. "What's he like?"

"Who?"

"This pastor of yours."

Otto provided a short synopsis of the Twelve Points of the Peasants, accompanied by the news that his sister had her eye on the pastor.

Tom and Dick looked at each other. Tom leaped up. "Verily, I say unto you, and with only a few changes in the pronouns,"

 

He, that would be known
The father of his people, in his study
And vigilance for their safety must not change
Their ploughshares into swords, and force them from
The secure shade of their own vines, to be
Scorched with the flames of war.

 

"That's got it. That's exactly the kind of thing Pastor Meyfarth says all the time."

"Fine. In he goes. What else?"

"The Thornton. We could put in the Thornton."

"Let's put in Pastor Schaeffer, too. The one spouting propaganda for Freiherr von Bimbach. Someone can tell him, 'You may boldly say, you did not plough or trust the barren and ungrateful sands with the fruitful grain of your religious counsels.'"

Dick leaned back. "Guys, you're getting off the point. We don't need the Thornton and the Schaeffer guy. I have the notes that I took for Master Massinger at the meeting, so let us proceed onward and see what can be done to suit the CoC. Pay attention, Otto. Jud Fry has to go. Or, at least, he can't be a hired hand, even if you want to keep the name. The villain has to be either a nobleman or the son of a reactionary city council member."

"Check. Just a minute. A nobleman named 'Jud Fry' isn't very likely, is it? Even in England. I don't think they had noblemen in America, did they?"

"So make him the loutish son of a city council member. We don't have time to agonize. Tuesday, remember. Tuesday. Fix your eyes and thoughts on Tuesday. Here, in the long speech, William Jennings Bryan says,"

 

Equal nature fashion'd us
All in one mould.
All's but the outward gloss
And politic form that does distinguish us.

 

"That's when Aunt Gretchen sings,"

 

I'd like to teach you all a little sayin', and learn these words by heart the way you should.
I don't say I'm better than anybody else, but I'll be damned if I ain't just as good.
. . . sei ich verdammt, wenn ich nicht ganz so gut bin.

 

"They don't want Master Massinger to take that song out, but they want Old Käthe to sing it instead of Aunt Gretchen. Because they don't want the audience to get confused with Gretchen Richter. Not that it isn't something she'd say, probably."

Otto marked up his copy.

"Then they want Brillo to come up and say, 'Whaddaya mean I'm no better than anybody else? I'm way better than that Merino ram." Dick sighed.

Otto marked up the other margin.

Tom frowned. "We'll have to make sure that Aunt Gretchen and Old Käthe and the Ewe are never on stage at the same time, because Antonia's playing all of them. Tell Mike Mundell that two of them will have to wear capes. Different capes. She won't have time for real costume changes. Which one of the three needs to be most important? That one won't wear a cape."

"The CoC people didn't say. They ought to be happy if it's either Old Käthe or the Ewe. Those are from around here."

Otto smiled, a wicked, wicked smile. "Does Mistress Antonia absolutely have to play all three of them?"

"Well. She's the only actress in the company who's the right age."

"Does the singer have to be really, really, good?"

"Not for all the scenes. In a lot of them, the chorus is singing, too."

"Then we can solve Master Massinger's 'Ewe problem.' And get to see the play, too. Several times, probably."

Melchior opened and closed his mouth. Also several times. He looked like a gasping fish. He didn't manage to utter any moderating words before Otto stuck his head through the shop curtain and called, "Mutti."

* * *

"I don't want to hear what they told Master Massinger after it's over and done. Not even if he is willing to live with the censorship. He's been . . . Otto, what is that word Herr Eddie uses?"

"Conditioned, Mel. Conditioned. You've got to focus on memorizing those vocabulary lists."

"Yeah. Master Massinger has been conditioned to accept censorship. I haven't. You and Dick and Tom shouldn't be either. It's just . . . wrong, I guess . . . what they're making him do to his play. Plus, maybe he's only telling us what he thinks we ought to hear. Doing like Pastor Meyfarth and putting the best construction on everything. Maybe they've been treating him worse than he has admitted."

"It's not likely that they're making him do things we don't know about." Otto pointed to the type bins. "After all, we're the ones who are printing the script with the changes in it. We have to know what all of them are."

"They could be making worse threats than he's told us about. So I still want to hear what they tell him while the meeting's going on. What's to keep them from looking at this version and telling him to make more before it suits them. And still more. It's creeping . . . creeping something. I forget the word. I want to be there and listen. Wasn't one of those proverbs that Herr Eddie had us memorize that 'power corrupts?'"

"'Power tends to corrupt.' Herr Eddie wants us to memorize them exactly the way they are written." Otto shook his finger. "Remember how Pastor Meyfarth says there's really a big difference between, 'Money is the root of all evil' and 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' Herr Eddie thinks the same way."

Dick got up and stretched. "Master Massinger puts it this way. 'Conscience and wealth are not always neighbors.'"

"What was it that he said? Exactly?" Tom asked.

"Herr Eddie? 'The devil is in the details.' That's why we have to memorize all the proverbs exactly how they are written. He calls it mental exercise." Otto flipped through the pages of the script, looking at the marginal notes he had made. "Anyway, there's a sort of problem with going to listen to the Committee of Correspondence meeting, Mel. Nobody invited us."

"And that is a problem because . . . ?" Tom raised his eyebrows.

With Tom in charge, it turned out not to be a problem. More in the nature of a project. Monday evening, they moved Frau Else's ladder, the one they usually used to wash the shit (literal) thrown at the Kronacher print shop by various dissenting apprentices off the stucco, to a different wall of a different building.

Nobody noticed it, particularly. It was a dirty ladder. Bamberg had a lot of dirty ladders.

The new location happened to be the tavern where the CoC met. However, the ladder was located three rooms behind the CoC meeting room, on the opposite side of the building, and reached to a window one story higher.

The trick was getting out of adult sight on Tuesday morning. Early enough on Tuesday morning.

Tom and Dick told Mistress Antonia, the evening before, that they were going to the print shop again, the first thing, to check any last-minute changes, and would take their breakfast there.

Otto and Melchior didn't tell Frau Else anything at all. They left a message with the elderly maid. Hanna, increasingly hard of hearing, got the impression that someone had borrowed the ladder the previous day and they were going to a neighbor's house to carry it back.

Otto had counted on this. He had, perhaps, worded his message in such a way as to cultivate precisely that impression. Hanna did not question the amount of food that Otto and Melchior took with them on what should be such a brief errand. The need to satisfy their appetites frequently caused their mother to emit despairing cries when she sat down to balance the household budget.

gg2504.jpg

They found the window to which the ladder pointed. Open. Dick had kissed Christina, one of the chambermaids at the inn behind the tavern—kissed her several times—to ensure this fortuitous circumstance, assuring Tom that his efforts proved he was willing to undertake immense hardships for a higher cause. Which Tom doubted: Christina had a gamine face. She looked like a pixie with straight black hair. The hair around her face did not grow long, but rather fell in wisps down over her forehead. Tom would have been willing to kiss her himself if he had the chance. In any case, it was just as well she hadn't wanted money. Gold—the picklock that never fails—was one thing that none of the boys had.

Dick had met Christina through Otto, who had met her at Pastor Meyfarth's church while he was chaperoning his sister Martha during her weekly devout attention to the pastor's sermons—or to the pastor who was delivering the sermons, more likely. He had taken her backstage to a rehearsal, telling her to wear her brightest clothes and then hiding her among the local hires for the chorus. Where she had performed just as well as anyone else, to his surprise. She had a good alto, even though no more training in its use than any child got in a village school.

Christina would have been happy to open the window without the bribe of Dick's kisses. A couple of years older than any of the boys, she had been a chambermaid at the inn since she was thirteen. She was tired of it. Bored with it to the point of being willing to assume some risk if that risk brought along a chance to do something else. Like join a troupe of traveling players, perhaps.

She was waiting for them in the early dawn, giggling a little. Her brown eyes were dancing. She led them down a set of back stairs, but not into the tavern kitchen, which was already bustling with activities that involved boiling, frying, and fricasseeing. Instead, because the tavern consisted of two originally separate buildings that had been combined in a remodeling, they went through a storage pantry, up a similar set of back stairs on the other side, and down a hall. The door looked like any other door. It didn't open into a bedchamber, though.

"See."

A well-run inn clearly required a very large supply of bed linens. A room full of them, stacked neatly on shelves. None of the boys had ever seen so many all in one place.

"I can't stay. I have to put the key back before the mistress realizes that I snitched it. She always leaves the key ring on the door handle for a while in the morning so the housekeeper can get things without disturbing her while she is casting the accounts. Don't stay in here. The housekeeper will be locking it and unlocking it all morning. Look."

Clearly, the linen closet had once been the bedchamber of some wealthy Bamberg burgher. A couple of centuries before. A burgher wealthy enough to provide himself with a privy. A privy with a nice hole in the floor. A hole that, as a result of some remodeling, was now blocked off by the ceiling of the room below.

A ceiling in which Christina, at Dick's behest, had drilled a much smaller hole.

The hand-held drill was courtesy of Mike Mundell. Putting up and pulling down stage sets required a troupe of actors to have a pretty comprehensive set of tools. Since his dad was working in Nürnberg, he'd brought along everything in the basement except what his mom said she absolutely had to keep if the house wasn't going to fall down around their heads.

The first requirement that they had to meet for successful spying was that all four of them must be absolutely quiet for three or four hours. This was harder than they had expected, since after they were in place, it occurred to them that they had not decided in advance which one would get to drape his body across the old privy and put his ear to the hole in the ceiling. Melchior naturally thought that he should, since it was his primary concern and he had suggested the idea in the first place. Dick was of the opinion that for services rendered, he should have the honor. This led to some scuffling until Otto reminded them that they were supposed to hold still and be quiet. While this was going on, Tom slid down through the privy opening and spread-eagled himself upon the ceiling beams below in such a way that they could not pull him back up. Not, at least, without causing a lot of noise and destroying the entire enterprise.

The others had to recognize Tom as the winner by default. Not without thinking of various forms of reprisal to be administered at some future date.

The CoC members arrived, as did Master Massinger. The meeting, duly eavesdropped upon, took place. The four boys above remained still. So still that the mice who resided in the ceiling and were quite used to voices and movements from the room below ventured out upon their ordinary business. One, young and not yet wise in the ways of the world, ran up the back of Tom's neck and across his face. He twitched, jerked, and part of his lower body slipped off the beam onto the wattle-and-daub that filled the spaces between the beams. A shower of shattered plaster and dried-out twigs, accompanied by a few half-grown mice, landed in the middle of the CoC meeting.

Tom managed to hold onto the beam. Only one of his legs protruded through the ceiling.

This proved to be enough to grasp the attention of the people seated in the room below.

Before any member of the Bamberg CoC decided to do anything rash, Philip Massinger, a tone of deepest resignation permeating his voice, admonished, "Come on down."

Tom slid over, grabbed the beam with his hands, swung his legs off it, and lightly dropped the remaining two feet onto the table beneath him.

"I can't let Tom go down there by himself. The whole thing, the whole idea, was my fault." Melchior slid down into the ceiling space and swung himself after Tom. Prudently looking to be sure that Tom was out of the way first.

"If these two were up there," Massinger said to the leader of the CoC group, "then there are two more." He looked up. "Dick. Otto. Now."

The other two entered the meeting by the same method, which meant that they all arrived covered with plaster dust and mouse droppings. Massinger looked at them disapprovingly. "As the index tells us the contents of stories and directs to the particular chapter, even so does the outward habit and superficial order of garments (in man or woman) give us a taste of the spirit, and demonstratively point (as it were a manual note from the margin) all the internal quality of the soul; and there cannot be a more evident, palpable, gross manifestation of poor, degenerate, dunghilly blood and breeding than a rude, unpolished, disordered, and slovenly outside."

"Yes, sir," Tom replied.

"We're sorry, sir," Dick added.

"Moreover, perhaps you should have taken to heart the maxim that the over curious are not over wise."

"Don't blame Tom and Dick. The whole thing, the whole idea, was my fault." Melchior stepped forward, prepared to shoulder the blame. "But I'm not going to apologize until I know what happened. Tom, what did you hear while you were listening."

Tom looked from Melchior to Master Massinger to the CoC members. Then, finally, back to Melchior. "You were right. At least, they're still trying to make him change the play to suit them better. None of them threatened him this time, but they have a whole list of stuff that they want him to put in to make them look better. Such as having the men in the chorus be CoC members instead of Jaeger."

Massinger opened his mouth.

One of the other men raised his bushy eyebrows before Massinger could get any words out. "Don't I know you? From somewhere?"

"I'm Melchior Kronacher. Frau Else's son."

That information landed on the chairman of the Bamberg Committee of Correspondence, also since the previous autumn the chairman of the Bamberg city council, like a large blob of unbaked bread dough.

"Ah, yes. We all know Frau Else. Could you provide me with further information in regard to 'threatening' and 'this time'?"

The boys could. And did.

"We—we actors—know that we are foreigners, of course," Dick summed it up. "We are here at your sufferance and pleasure. You—the government of Bamberg, which is now the Committee of Correspondence for all practical purposes—can forbid us to play. You can tell us what to play. By looking away, you can permit the destruction of all our sets and costumes by the city mob. By saying a few words, you can encourage the mob."

"But you're not supposed to." Melchior's voice rang with disillusionment. "You're supposed to be making things better. Better than the old city council and the way it treated Willard Thornton and Johnnie F. last fall."

The bushy eyebrows came down. Then went up again. "Herr Massinger, if I might speak with you privately for a moment. If privacy is to be found in this tavern, that is . . ." A few moments later, in the innkeeper's own cubbyhole, he asked, "What do you make of it?"

"Ah, young Melchior. The soul is strong that trusts in goodness. Yes. There was an earlier meeting—at which threats were uttered."

"Thank you. Although you have spoken no names, I observed the direction in which your eyes moved, almost against your will. Like a rough orator, that brings more truth than rhetoric, to make good his accusation."

"In my profession, I would hope to have the rhetoric as well."

* * *

For the entire length of their walk back to the print shop, Melchior continued to make it plain how unhappy he was that Herr Massinger had not made any grandiose statements of principle in opposition to the imposition of censorship.

"Young man . . ." Massinger began. "Ah, well. You are no apprentice of mine. I cannot ream you out. I shall leave that to your master."

"Don't have one."

"Then to your father."

"He's dead."

"Then, I suppose, to the redoubtable Frau Else. But a few words of wisdom I will give you. We have the word of the good chairman that there will be no more threats. That we may play Franconia! as it is written now, with no further changes required, and with no . . . excessive supervision . . . of any changes that may be necessary to render the cabaret . . . current, shall we say? topical? . . . as time passes. There is no need for me to posture; no need to require that the CoC officers publicly abase themselves with apologies. For a flying foe, discreet and provident conquerors build up a bridge of gold."

* * *

"Since we are the ones who are putting the scripts into type," Otto suggested, "Maybe in a few places we could have the chorus consist of the Ewe's fine, strapping, sons. They might not notice until it was too late."

Melchior looked at him.

"Just teasing."

* * *

"We never planned on staying in Bamberg so long." It was a month later and Mistress Antonia was fretting over the bookkeeping. More precisely, over the bottom line. There were only so many people in the city, and of those, only so many attended plays.

"This is no prudent time to leave. The rebellion makes the roads between here and Bayreuth very chancy."

"Then you will simply have to write a new play, Philip. This week. If we are not all to be reduced to beggary."

"Unlikely, since once more the members of the 'American colony' have been kind enough to house and feed us."

"But we need to leave appropriate gifts when we finally can go. We can't leave without acknowledging such generous hospitality."

"We can. It would merely be discourteous."

* * *

"Who is this famous Herr Eddie you keep quoting, anyway?" Tom asked. "And where is he?"

"Eddie Junker. From Grantville. He's a down-timer from somewhere in Thuringia, I guess, but everybody thinks of him as coming from Grantville. He's been teaching us English since . . . oh, about February, I guess." Melchior looked at Otto. "February or March?"

"March, at least. He's a friend of Noelle Murphy's."

"Why hasn't he been around?"

"He's up somewhere around Bayreuth, I think. So's Noelle. Has been since March or April."

"Darn." That was Mike Mundell. "I like Noelle. It would have been great to see her again."

"Where did you meet her?" Otto asked.

"She used to baby-sit for us sometimes. And her mom used to be the office manager for the doctor's office in Fairmont where my mom took us to the pediatrician. The factory where Mom worked had its group health plan there."

All four of the down-time boys just looked at him. It was Otto who finally got over his pride enough to ask what those words meant.

* * *

"Then Mariah yelled that Ludovic was a veritable octopus; a many-handed monster. She's starting to speak in blank verse. The wordplay on the hydra, the 'many-headed monster,' was splendid, and quite spontaneous."

Otto looked at Dick critically and concluded that the praise was genuine and honestly meant.

"It is good that Master Massinger was there."

"Why? After all, if he hasn't managed to make Ludovic stop it so far, he isn't likely to now."

"He is writing a new play, for Antonia. It will be called The Americaness. He has used a lot of what he learned from observing Mistress Higham and Mistress Piazza. Originally, there was not to be any up-time role for a younger woman, but more and more I suspect that there will be a place for a character based upon Mariah. The taming of a shrew is always a popular theme."

"Black detraction will find faults where they are not. Mariah's not a shrew," Tom objected. "Not most of the time. Not a 'diva,' like the girls in Mistress Higham's class last spring would call someone. Not if Ludovic would just leave her alone."

* * *

"Your voice is changing."

"If you were a Papist, Mistress Antonia, I would expect you to summon the Inquisition and set it upon me any moment now. For my sins, my sins, my most grievous sins."

"You are also miserably impudent, Tom Quiney."

"For this, you can scarce blame me. 'Tis the work of Mother Nature."

"Who is to understudy Mariah for Ado Annie now? At least you are still a tenor, so you can understudy Ludovic for Curly and not be a total waste and a burden upon all the rest of us. But the new timbre simply will not handle some of Ado Annie's songs. If Philip had not assigned 'Many a New Day' to her, perhaps you could last the length of the summer tour. But he did."

"I am not a total waste. That I can say with great righteousness. I am singing six different roles that Master Massinger has added to the play since Würzburg."

"Six very small roles," Mistress Antonia countered. "And the hope is that the audience will not notice that the same actor is playing them all. Please note. On the new programs that we now distribute, you are listed by six different names."

"Another valuable contribution, giving the patrons the impression that we are a far larger and more prosperous company than the truth would warrant. Not to mention more cosmopolitan. Tomas Quiroga singing the Spanish spy. Hah!, I say, Mistress Antonia. Hah!" Tom took a breath. "You're going to need somebody else to understudy Mariah, anyway. Master Massinger wanted an up-timer for the advertisements, but we all know that she only signed on for the summer. She'll be going back to Grantville, I suppose. You need a new Ado Annie. Or you will."

* * *

"You are in the chorus, for now," Mistress Antonia said to Christina. "But I will teach you. By next summer, if you prove to be adept, you will sing Ado Annie. And you will prove to be adept, given what I will have to pay the innkeeper to let you out of the rest of this year's employment contract."

There was a crash behind the draperies, followed by a shriek of, "Hände weg, Du Schwein."

Mistress Antonia sighed. "Ludovic seems simply incapable of becoming interested in any girl who might welcome his affections."

"You don't have to pay the innkeeper, Mistress. You can trade someone to him."

"What?"

"Barbara Ostertag hates being a player. She thought it would be fun, back in Grantville, when she agreed to come, but it's a lot more work than she expected. Now she truly hates it. It's not just the lines she has to memorize. It's Ludovic. She told me that at first she thought that it would be nice to have Ludovic's attentions. But he showered them on every other young woman first, Mariah, Anna Maria, every temporary chorus member hired in every town, so she knows that he is only pursuing her now as his very last choice. She hates being his last choice. She calls him 'Sir Ludovic of the Many Hands.' He claims that since she sings the song about people saying that they are in love so sweetly, she must perceive him as a man to adore. She knows he is lying. He does not adore her. She does not adore him. She would rather be a chambermaid than spend one more day on a stage with 'you pig.' Let her go to the inn and I will come to you."

"Then who is going to sing Laurey?"

Christina shrugged. "Anna Maria? She's the understudy. Presumably the costumes fit her. Any other little idiot of a soprano you can find in Bamberg? All she has to do is stand there and look pretty."

Mistress Antonia looked at Christina thoughtfully.

A soul mate.

Possibly, once Philip decided on an heir, a successor.

Another crash. "Ich habe dir gesagt, Händeweg!" Followed by a seriously sincere scream. "What part of 'hands off' don't you understand, you creep?"

Which was followed by a high-pitched shriek. And a thud.

Mistress Antonia ran, Christina following her. Master Massinger arrived next, with Tom. Frau Else preceded Dick, who had been running her through her lines as the Ewe. Mike Mundell and the stage crew, who were working on improvements to William Jennings Bryan's railroad car, followed.

Barbara stood in the middle of the stage. Mariah was at the edge of the platform, looking down.

"He ripped my bodice," Barbara howled. "He broke the drawstring in the neckline of my shift." Her voice raised to a high-pitched squall. "He yanked on my laces so hard that he tore out one of the eyelets in my bodice and it is practically new." She walked to the front of the platform, looked at the ground.

Ludovic was there, sprawled ungracefully.

She cleared her throat mightily and spat. "Du Schwein." She didn't miss.

"Good going, sister." Mariah gave her a high five.

Master Massinger announced, "Nor custom, nor example, nor cast numbers of such as do offend, make less the sin."

Barbara looked at him. "For all your fine words, I will not remain here one more day. One more hour. One more minute."

Mistress Antonia looked at all of them. "Tom, you are no longer the understudy for Curly. You sing Curly. Beginning this afternoon."

Tom nodded.

"Ludovic. You are demoted to understudy. And . . . and . . ."

"And you are going shopping," Christina suggested helpfully.

"Yes," Antonia agreed. "That is quite right. You are going to visit a seamstress. You are going to pay for the repairs to Barbara's shift and bodice from your own funds."

"You are going shopping with us," Frau Else added. "With Antonia and myself. With the boys also, so you do not change your mind and flee."

"The bodice is practically new," Christina added. "Barbara has said so herself. In addition to buying a new drawstring and paying to have the eyelet repaired, you must also buy her a new bodice as compensation for your misdeeds. Of the very finest wool. The new merino. With some embroidery on it."

Antonia was feeling more optimistic by the moment. Soul mate. Successor. Dick was kissing the girl in any case. Christina would make him a splendid wife. Likely, he would think it was his own idea when the time came. The girlfriend in Grantville was surely only a passing fancy.

* * *

"For evil news rides post, while good news waits. Ill news, madam, is swallow-winged, but what's good walks on crutches."

"The news these past few days has been about as bad as it gets," Janie Kacere said. "Here it is, August already. I'm sure I don't know where the time goes, and I'm so worried about Emma Thornton and Pastor Meyfarth."

"It is very gracious of you to dine with us, under the circumstances. We would not have been offended had you seen a need to cancel." Since the players were still trapped in Bamberg by Massinger's reluctance to risk traveling during an ongoing peasant revolt, Antonia had invited Janie Kacere, whose husband was "somewhere" because of the exigencies of handling the rebellion, and Anita Masaniello, whose husband was in Würzburg, equally absent from the marital bed even if she knew his location, to dinner.

She had invited them quite expressly so she could study the mannerisms and "body language" of two more mature American women before she undertook the role of "The Americaness" on stage.

Neither of them had been offended by her frankness.

"Do you ever wonder if, over the summer, someone could have seen something, done something, that would have prevented this?" she asked.

Anita Masaniello shook her head. "It's August. That's my favorite song in Oklahoma! 'Many a New Day.' There's no point in asking this month's sky where the month before went. Or what one might have done differently during that month. None. Not a single bit. 'Never have I wept into my tea, over the deal someone doled me.' Yeah. 'Many a red sun will set, many a blue moon will shine before I do!' The only thing that counts now is what I can do to get our people back from that idiotic Freiherr von Bimbach, slimy poseur that he is. He really has to be out of his mind to think that taking a few hostages will bring a halt to something of the dimensions of the Ram Rebellion."

Antonia and the two up-time women continued their conversation.

Massinger sipped his wine, mentally writing another major speech for The Americaness.

* * *

Philip Massinger was writing at the same time he dictated to Tom and Dick. Antonia, with a list of characters in her hand and Mariah and Anna Maria in tow, was creating chaos in the costume department.

There had to be a new play commemorating the events that took place in early September. Immediately. The end of the Ram Rebellion had been so spectacular. The taking of the Freiherr von Bimbach's castle under the leadership of Noelle Murphy as the youthful heroine, and Judith Neideckerin, as a formerly complaisant mistress who, because of the villain's cruelty to her mother, turned upon him and became a heroine as well. That might not be exactly what the newspapers had reported, but it made good drama and was close enough. Plus Eddie Junker as the youthful hero, since every play needed one.

Tom was writing Judith's dialogue. Dick was writing Noelle's dialogue. And Eddie's, since almost all of Eddie's scenes involved Noelle. Every now and then, Massinger would poke a finger at one of them and tell him to have the character say "something along these lines to whomever."

Tom was also writing dialogue for Constantin Ableidinger as the Ram. Dick was also writing dialogue for Else Kronacher as the Ewe (Massinger had decided that the new play would sublimely ignore the fact that she had not been present at the culminating events—for the sake of dramatic symmetry, she had to be).

Massinger was writing the dialogue for Anita Masaniello.

Antonia insisted that no matter what had happened in the field outside the Freiherr's castle when Frau Masaniello faced down von Bimbach and his evil adviser Lenz, she did not wish to be depicted as giving birth, even offstage.

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Massinger wondered, reasonably enough, why not. After all, on their troupe's tour from Calais to Grantville, she had, in the course of various plot elements in his earlier plays, been the object of attempted father-daughter incest and the victim of two rapes, had endured an abduction for nefarious purposes, and had experienced numerous other catastrophes (all of which took place offstage, of course—she merely reappeared in the next scene looking wretched and disheveled while someone described the agonies she had suffered). Not to mention her portrayal of the Emperor Domitian's lustful wife in The Roman Actor, which had been superb. Antonia was capable of crying out, "Libidinous beast!" on a level with the most accomplished actresses of the day. Why quail at depicting the pangs of parturition?

Antonia still declined to give birth, even off stage. Firmly. So. In the play, Anita Masaniello would not be a nine-months-pregnant negotiator. She would be a presentable negotiator as accorded with Antonia's preferences and baby Diana would not come into the matter at all.

"Faster, faster, Mike," Massinger called. "I need the stage design for the scene in the field outside Bimbach's castle at once. We must play Bimbach the Buffoon at least once before we leave Bamberg. Preferably more than once, so that by the time we get to Bayreuth, it will go smoothly."

"Rehearsals. What are rehearsals?" Mike muttered to himself. "We don't need no steenking rehearsals when it's a Massinger production in full steam." He paused between strokes in his sketch. "Ms. Higham would be having cat fits."

Bayreuth, late September 1634

"At least we finally got out of Bamberg," Philip Massinger smiled at his wife. "Are you happier now that we have fresh audiences.?"

"Margrave Christian has responded very generously to your dedication of Bimbach the Buffoon to him. Even though, I fear, each performance demonstrates that you cobbled it together rather hastily from a half-dozen other plays in between the newly authored lines."

"The margrave is a true patron of the arts. Not to mention that I portrayed him as playing a most noble role in the events of earlier this month. I can improve upon it during the winter and add some more original lines."

Antonia always complimented her husband when it was his due. That was one of her unbreakable rules for happy, successful, pleasurable matrimony. "Yes. Even as it is now, the introductory scene is most impressive where Margrave Christian tells Meyfarth and Weckherlin that he has not made up his mind to join the USE to seek advantage, but as a matter of sincere conviction. 'True dignity is never gained by place, and never lost when honors are withdrawn.'"

Tom interrupted. "According to Melchior and Otto, who got it from their sister Martha, who got it from Pastor Meyfarth, who was there, that's not exactly how the conversation went."

Antonia frowned quellingly. "Very generously. Very generously. Very generously. To quote Mistress Higham during one of the rehearsals of Oklahoma! last spring, 'Can you get that through your thick head, Tom Quiney?' We can hire a wagon to take the railroad car for William Jennings Bryan's scenes back to Grantville, and then on to Magdeburg."

Dick propped his chin on the heel of his hand. "It was ingenious of Mike Mundell to design that center swivel on a jack, so that when we don't need it as a railroad car, we can just rotate it and the other end can serve as a small stage when we stop in villages."

"Or as the floor of a balcony." Massinger jumped up. "Or a podium in the Roman Senate, if we should decide to play The Roman Actor next season. The throne room pedestal in The Great Duke of Florence. The executioner's platform in The Old Law. Or . . . What did Mike call it, Mariah?"

"Multi-purpose. A multi-purpose facility."

"Plus we got to put the Thorntons in it," Dick said. "In the Buffoon, I mean. And Pastor Schaeffer. Practically every pompous sentence he's ever uttered. Well, at least the sentences that Otto and Melchoir knew about—Schaeffer has probably said a lot of other stupid things in his life. They were a little pissed off when we didn't put those characters into Franconia!, so they should be contented now. I sent them a copy to print."

"Ah," Tom thumbed his nose at his brother. "What is contentment? Should we consider its true meaning? Is Dick Quiney truly content when he kisses Christina Pittlin? Or has he not yet attained true contentment? Will he catch her or she catch him? Watch out, brother dear. But married once, a man is stak'd or pown'd, and cannot graze beyond his own hedge."

Dick pulled at one leg of the stool on which Tom was sitting. It tipped and he landed on Mistress Antonia's ledger, wrinkling up the open pages. Christina, moving fast, tried to rescue the inkwell. But failed. Most of the ink spilled to the floor. The rest of it, she dumped in Tom's hair. From his position on his back on the floor, he chanted, "Dickie dotes on Stina. Dickie dotes on Stina."

Massinger shook his head.

 

To all married men, be this a caution,
Which they should duly tender as their life,
Neither to dote too much, nor doubt a wife.

 

He kissed Antonia's cheek. She patted his and ordered Tom, as the instigator, to get up, call a maid to clean the spilled ink, and then to go scrape the carbon block and make her some more.

Mariah leaned against the window frame, ignoring them. "Just how come is Ludovic back in your good graces? I see that he will be singing Curly this evening."

Antonia frowned. "In all truth, Mariah, he sings better than Tom."

Christina turned around. "Plus, we have had our revenge. We made him carry the bodice in his own hands, explain to the seamstress precisely how it came to be ripped, and forced him to pay whatever charge she deemed appropriate under the circumstances. Nor do I think that either you or I will have difficulty with his hands again."

Massinger stood up. "What is more, he quoted my own words at me. 'I must be bold to tell you, sir . . . 'tis tyranny to overcharge an honest man.' I have to admire such impudence. As for Anna Maria . . ." He looked at his wife, but it was Christina who answered.

"We owe our thanks to Mike again. He has explained to Ludovic that in Grantville, Anna Maria is the foster daughter of a woman of the Masaniello family. The foster daughter of Anita Masaniello's first cousin Shawna, to be exact. Mike explained to him about Italians, and the 'mafia,' and things like that. He even managed to refer to Harry Lefferts—although he admitted to me privately that as far as he knows, although Lefferts' mother's father was Italian, he was not related to the Masaniello family. Still. Since Ludovic has also memorized his lines for Bimbach the Buffoon and knows very well that Frau Masaniello is of high status and higher determination when she confronts a villain . . ."

Antonia nodded. "We have a good lead tenor again. We simply have to be practical, Mariah. Tenors do not grow on every tree. Tom will be a very good actor in his prime, probably better than Ludovic, but for now he is only sixteen years old and the same is true of his voice. If he over-strains it now, trying to fill a theater, it will be useless by the time he is twenty. We have to plan ahead."

Remembering Tom, she looked down. He was still sprawled on the floor.

"Get up, you worthless lazybones, and do as I have told you."

* * *

"I like that part of the play," Eddie Junker said, standing in the common room of the inn where he and Noelle were staying. "After Bimbach's execution, where they have the mercenary look at Otto Schaeffer and say, 'If you like not hanging, drown yourself; take some course for your reputation' and Schaeffer answers,

 

Death hath a thousand doors to let life out.
I shall find one.
'Tis the only discipline we are born for;
All studies else are but as circular lines,
And death the center where they all must meet.

 

Mariah Collins nodded. She wished that Eddie had noticed her part, even though it wasn't—very large. Antonia had played Anita, of course. Anna Maria had appeared as Noelle. She had been fobbed off with Judith, who appeared in only two scenes, and then only as a foil for Noelle. It was pretty hard to be noticed on a stage when you just stood there like a clod while another actress told you to dry up the tears you were shedding for the fate of your aged mother.

Eddie kept right on with his literary criticism. "Those are nice lines for Margrave Christian, too, when he rebukes Schaeffer:"

 

He that kills himself to avoid misery, fears it,
And, at the best, shows but a bastard valour.
This life's a fort committed to our trust,
Which we must not yield up, till it be forced.
He is not valiant that dares die, but he that boldly bears calamity.

 

"Everyone in the audience will understand that this brave and valiant layman, allied with the noble Emperor Gustavus Adolphus, understands the Bible better than the . . . well, he's a pompous ass of a preacher who claims to be a better Christian than others just because he graduated from theology school."

"I can't say that my family was ever much for going to church." Mariah started to say something more. She stopped, trying to figure out how to complete the statement she had started without offending Eddie. She had no idea what his religion was, but one real difference between the twentieth century and the seventeenth century was that no matter how they behaved, all the down-timers seemed to belong to some church and you never knew when they might get touchy about it. She'd found that out while she was working for the geology survey.

Plus, Eddie Junker behaved very well, so maybe he was really attached to his religion, whatever it was. And . . .

"Ever much" was an understatement. On her mom's side, the Baxters, her aunts and uncle had gotten converted at some point, at a big revival meeting at the Church of Christ that Aunt Della's husband went to. After that, they hassled her mom to get converted, too, so she hadn't seen much of them. Mom hadn't taken well to being hassled. On her dad's side, except for her aunt Samantha, who was more like a cousin because she was only five years older—one of Master Massinger's renegados, clearly—and who had married Steve Jennings a couple of years before the Ring of Fire and agreed to join his church, no one in her family ever went to church at all. Well, except for other people's weddings and funerals. Left to themselves, the Grantville Collinses got married at the courthouse and buried from the funeral home. Her cousin Gayleen had even talked Ron Sanderlin into dropping out of his church when they got married, on the grounds that the women there just weren't her style. Which was perfectly true.

She didn't want to offend Eddie. What she'd seen of him so far, she really liked. But she didn't want to tell him lies, either. At one of their rehearsals, one of the guys had recited a really good line for this kind of situation.

 

I am driven
Into a desperate strait and cannot steer
A middle course.

 

"Uh, well," she finished. "I guess that's a good thing. I'm glad you liked the play."

"Uh." Eddie was stymied, too. Noelle was his good friend but Mariah was . . . a little different. As in, maybe available. "I, uh, have to go back to Bamberg for a while, just as soon as things are sorted out here. But I won't be there forever. I just have to close out some stuff with the CoC and find someone else to teach English to the apprentices. That is. When I get back to Grantville, could we have a date? Or will you be off on tour somewhere?"

"I'm not really an actress. I only signed on as Ado Annie for the summer. It seemed like it would be more interesting than certifying ground conditions for silo sites. Most good work for the geology survey isn't right around Grantville, any more. The area's been pretty well covered. So when I find another decent-paying job, it'll probably be somewhere else. Wietze, most likely, considering the problems they've had this summer. Or up around Stassfurt. But . . . yeah, if I'm in town. Sure."

They stood there, looking at each other? Now what?

It was something of a relief when Noelle walked in.

"I'm here, finally. At least I think I am. I thought that meeting would run forever. Am I late? Not? Oh, good. But almost. I just have to run to the privy and wash my hands. I can skip lunch. Nice to see you again, Mariah—it's been ages. I saw Bimbach the Buffoon yesterday afternoon, with Eddie, but it will be a lot more fun seeing The Americaness from backstage. Thanks so much for inviting us. At least the girl who was playing me is a dishwater blond, too. You aren't much over half Judith's real size. It was just so funny to watch it all. Or more weird than funny, maybe." She vanished through the back door and, presumably, up the stairs.

Mariah looked after her. "We didn't really know one another that well. Noelle grew up in Fairmont, mostly. I think she was a junior in high school when her mom moved back to Grantville. Maybe a senior. Anyway, she was a couple of years ahead of me. Quiet. Sort of, 'I dare you to say a word about it.' She's going back home next, isn't she? When?"

"She's leaving Bayreuth in a week or so, but she has some work to do on the way."

"Even so, she has to be as nervous as a cat. I'll make you a bet, though. By the time she gets there, she'll be so calm and controlled that no one will ever dream she went through a spell of yakking like that before she sucked in her gut and faced them all."

"All who?"

"Grief. She hasn't even told you, has she. And you're her friend, from what I hear. At least as much as she's ever had a friend. Her parents got back together."

"This is bad? This isn't good?"

"She's . . . never met her dad. Her mom was married to someone else."

"I will be kinder to her for the next week."

"She probably won't appreciate it."

"That's okay."

* * *

"I'm going home," Noelle said, "but you'll probably get there first. You're going the long way, but the roads are better. I'll be riding by way of Kronach and Saalfeld, stopping to look at some things that Matt Trelli and Johnnie F. want me to take a peek at. So here's the address of Joe Stull. He's my uncle. It's sort of complicated, but anyway, I've heard from Steve and Anita that everything came out in the wash at my grandma's funeral last July."

Massinger took the slip of paper and thanked her.

"You can tell him I sent you. Joe's mother, my grandma, Juliann Stull her name was, had a stash of old 33 rpm records and the turntable. I expect they're still at her house."

Massinger nodded, waiting patiently for the point of this.

"Your play this afternoon. The Americaness. Since Franconia! has made you quite a bit of money as a musical, I thought you might be interested in putting some up-time music into The Americaness, too." Noelle looked a little uncomfortable. "Uh. Dick and Tom told Eddie and me your motto about 'immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.' You don't mind?"

"Not at all." Massinger bowed. "The line is my own."

"Grandma had an old original cast recording somewhere in that pile of 33s. Well, she had several, but only one that's important for what I'm trying to tell you. The songs were pretty cute, there was a good role for an actress about Mistress Antonia's age, and one for a pretty soprano to stand around and look cute."

"What is the name of this . . . album . . . that I am looking for?"

"Oh, gosh. Didn't I write it down? It was about a lady ambassador. Like Sharon Nichols in Venice, now. Or Anita in Bimbach. So I thought that maybe you could make something of it. The name was Call Me Madam!" There isn't any copy of the play there, but the back of the album case gave a sort of general summary of what happened in each act. Ask Joe to let you into Grandma's house to listen to it."

Massinger now understood. "Before we left Grantville last spring, there was a cast party at the home of a man named Joseph Stull and his wife Aura Lee. Their son Billy was the stage manager for the production of Oklahoma! in which Dick and Tom sang roles. He is the Secretary of Transportation for the State of Thuringia-Franconia. Is there some connection between the honorable secretary and your uncle?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Noelle was a little taken aback. "They're the same person—Grantville really wasn't a very big town before the Ring of Fire."

 

 

PART III
DRAMA II

 

Grantville, late September 1634

"Of course, they've missed the first few weeks of school."

For Lisa Dailey, who spent her days doing those things that assistant principals do, prominent among which was monitoring attendance, missing the first few weeks of school was a grave misdemeanor.

"They'll miss the last few weeks of the semester, too. Philip—Master Massinger—plans to go to Magdeburg for the Christmas season. He's already booked a guild hall in advance."

Lisa practically growled.

"But they're here now," Amber Higham said placatingly.

"In class?"

"Well, not this very minute. The troupe only got back from Franconia yesterday. Philip came by to enroll Dick and Tom again. You know that, which is why we're having this meeting. Then he went over to book the auditorium at the middle school for several performances of the revised Franconia! and a couple of new plays he wrote over the summer and he took Dick with him. The Massingers don't have any children, so he's sort of decided that Dick will be his heir and expects him to learn the business angles. After that, they're going to see Lorrie Mitchell and tell her that Barbara Ostertag decided to stay in Bamberg and work as a chambermaid at an inn. He says it is very respectable and that she will be well treated. They're taking along a girl who used to work at the inn and joined the troupe in Barbara's place as evidence. Tom already told Juliana and brought her a letter from her sister."

She paused a little. "Mike Mundell is in class. Well, not in class, but in the building. At least, he's on the campus. He says that he's going to Magdeburg with the troupe when Massinger finishes up here. He plans to become a stage designer. It's okay with his mother and George is still in Nürnberg, so he really doesn't have much to say about it. Mike said that his dad just wrote back that he ought to take all the math and technical courses he could this fall, and he brought the letter to prove it. George thought that if Mike even might decide to try to get into the engineering school even part-time while he's working in Magdeburg, he should get the prerequisites now. So he's actually over at the Tech Center, I think, dual enrolling there as well as here at the high school."

"So?"

"So Tom is actually in class. I think." Amber smiled. "And Zach Schaupp. He's going to stay with Massinger too, though, instead of finishing school here."

Lisa frowned.

Amber turned to Victor Saluzzo. "But I do have good news. While Philip was here, I broke the news that I'm engaged to Heinrich Schütz and told him that I'm moving to Magdeburg, too, in December. He was delighted. He's going to see if his people can participate in the drama curriculum at Duchess, even if they aren't enrolled in any of the other classes. But, also, he says that he'll find a replacement for me here in Grantville. I know you were worried that you might have to call on the Jesuits again and some people in town have been complaining that there are too many Jesuits on the staff already. Philip says that he knows a qualified young man. M.A. from Oxford and has actually had a couple of plays produced in London. With the commotion going on in England these days, if his friend hasn't died in some epidemic already, he's pretty sure he'll be willing to come."

The principal didn't emit any negative body language, so Amber forged ahead. "If you can stand the thought of hiring sight unseen, just on somebody else's recommendation, Philip will see you when he finishes his business this morning and send a letter off this afternoon. If the mails aren't delayed and the weather isn't so bad that it really delays travel in the middle of winter, he could get here before I leave."

Saluzzo nodded. The seventeenth-century definition of "cultural diversity" differed from the twentieth-century version, but it was still something that he had to take into consideration when he recruited his faculty. Racial balance had dropped out of the picture, but religious balance had taken its place. The down-time citizens of Grantville, who far outnumbered the up-timers, were a fairly self-selected population. Now that central Germany wasn't an active war zone any more, those who didn't like the way Grantville did things tended to leave again and settle someplace else where life was more comfortable and familiar, since the laws and constitution of the State of Thuringia-Franconia now made settling in any of its towns a lot easier than it used to be. Those who stayed had, by and large, adapted to the concept of non-religious public schools. But they still watched the faculty closely for what they considered a "reasonable balance" of Lutherans, Calvinists, and Catholics among the new down-time hires. There were so few down-time Jews willing to teach in a secular school that they hardly counted. Particularly, since he was a Catholic himself, the Protestants kept an eye on how many Catholics he hired. "Just in case," one of them had told him. "Just in case you start turning it into a Catholic school behind our backs and those Jesuits convert our children."

Which, he had to admit, the Jesuits on his staff were highly tempted to do. Converting people was their reason for being. Victor had to keep an eye on them himself. "Not on school time" had become his mantra, with a strongly worded letter from Lawrence, Cardinal Mazzare, to back him up. Even with that, he'd had to have a couple of chats with Athanasius Kircher about keeping a tighter rein on his team.

Which meant that a Protestant English drama teacher might not be a bad idea. M.A. from Oxford. Two plays produced in London. "Tell him to go ahead," he said to Amber. "It's not as if it's a lifetime commitment. I'll write a letter for him to enclose, spelling out the salary and offering an eighteen-month contract. That's time enough to find out whether or not he'll fit in. What's the guy's name?"

"I honestly didn't think to ask."

"That's okay." He turned to Lisa. "Just do a generic position description, to start with. We can do the specific letter later."

* * *

Master Massinger and Dick weren't back by noon.

"Lorrie Mitchell probably invited them for lunch," Lorie Lee Carstairs said. "It's the sort of thing she would do. She's a pretty nice lady." She looked at Tom Quiney across the cafeteria table. "Just who did you say this Christina Somebody was who went with them?"

"Christina Pittlin. Or Pittl, I guess you would say. She's the replacement for Barbara Ostertag. Barbara decided she didn't like acting."

Lorie Lee, who had inherited a lot of her mother's temperament, went straight for the jugular. "Is she his new girlfriend?"

"More or less. I guess you could say." Tom was pretty sure that Lorie Lee wasn't going to suffer for long from Dick's diversion in another direction. Mainly, she'd be annoyed that he hadn't written and broken things off himself instead of leaving it to his brother. "Master and Mistress Massinger like her and she has good sense."

"Is that what they call 'the handwriting on the wall'?"

"Dick doesn't know it yet." Tom laughed. "But, yeah. Probably. If things work out over the next few years. She's a bit older than Dick. Nobody's going to make them get married, like in a play plot. But it will be easier for them to marry each other than for either of them to marry anybody else. And Christina's pretty enough. A girl almost has to be if she's going to be a heroine on a stage."

"And he deliberately left it to you to tell me?"

Tom nodded. "Yeah. He didn't say so, but I think that's how he managed to work things out."

Lorie Lee munched on her hard roll. It took her about three bites to relegate Dick Quiney to his proper place in the universe, which was "long gone."

Tom leaned across the table toward her. "Tell me something."

"What?"

"I went down to Sternbock's last night."

"The coffee house."

He nodded. "Actually, tell me two things."

"If I can."

"Why does 'Bohemian' mean 'unconventional and artistic'? I mean, with all due respect to Wallenstein, "left wing" isn't the way anybody would be likely to describe him. And not that I've ever been to Prague—though Master Massinger would like to do a tour there, one of these days, if things work out right—but even though Emperor Rudolf II employed a lot of artists in his day, it's not like it's Italy."

"Umm, I don't know. We can probably find out if we go to the library."

"Let's then, after school, unless you have something else to do."

"Band. I have band rehearsal. We can do it after that. I'll call Mom."

"Then, something else. For people who want to be 'Bohemian' that way, why do up-timers consider tights to be so avant garde? That's what one woman called them. They're hopelessly old-fashioned, really." Tom sighed. "My grandfather wore them."

* * *

"We need more play books," Philip Massinger was looking around the middle school auditorium. "We'll start with the new version of Franconia! We can do The Americaness and Bimbach the Buffoon. Several of my older plays should suit Grantville's tastes. The Renegado. The Bondman. We should work up A New Way to Pay Old Debts again before Magdeburg. The audiences there will expect a different play for each evening of the twelve nights of Christmas, with something special on Twelfth Night. The CoC people should support Old Debts by buying tickets. But we need something else. Some exciting attraction. If Master Saluzzo agrees to hiring my friend, he can bring his own plays. The two that have already been produced—Holland's Leaguer and A Fine Companion—and any new ones he's written since we left England. That will give us a couple more."

"Since you'll be writing to England anyway," Dick said, "I'll send a letter to Aunt Susannah. She has a batch of Grandpa's old papers and she hates storing stuff. I'll ask her to send them along with the new drama teacher. There could be his own copies of some of his play books in with the rest of the papers, even though the ones annotated for performance stayed with the King's Men."

Massinger nodded with approval. "Do that."

"I never got to go to London to see the plays there. Is Holland's Leaguer patriotic? Or historical? It sounds like it from the title."

Massinger cleared his throat. "The full title of the printed version, as I recall it, was Holland's Leaguer, or a Historical discourse of the life and actions of Dona Britanica Hollandia, the Arch-Mistris of the wicked women of Eutopia, wherein is detected the notorious sinne of Pandarisme, and the execrable life of the luxurious Impudent, with the rare frontispiece of the celebrated brothel. . . . 'Leaguer' is the name of the brothel."

Dick interrupted. "Have you mentioned to Principal Clinter that you intend to put this on the stage of his middle school?"

"Why should I? It was performed before the court of King Charles to great approval. His other play was also acted before the king and queen at Whitehall, several times and to great applause."

"Because . . ."

"The Leaguer has a moral. Even though Lord Philautus is conceited and a pleasure-seeker, encouraged in his folly by his steward and parasite Ardelio, he is brought to his senses in the end by Faustina, who turns out to be his sister." Massinger, something of an expert on the next topic, added judiciously, "Marmion handled his borrowings from Juvenal and Petronius Arbiter very well."

"Master Massinger," Dick said. "I don't think that's going to help." He stuttered a bit, looking for the right words. "Up-timers are different. They're really, really, prudish, a lot of them. Especially when it comes to kids. Uh. Maybe we'd better save that one for Magdeburg. And don't mention it to Master Saluzzo this afternoon. Not if you want your friend to get a job teaching high school in Grantville."

* * *

"All right then," Victor Saluzzo said. "All we have to do is put a name on the letter. I had my secretary type it and just leave room for the address. What's his name?"

"Shackerley Marmion."

Victor looked up. Massinger had a perfectly straight face. For him, obviously, the name had no significant difference from "Henry Jones" or "John Smith."

"Do you have any idea what a classroom of hillbillies is going to make of a moniker like that?"

"What would the problem be?" Massinger asked. "Here, in town, I have been introduced to a man named Haymond Shackleton. People call him 'Stacks.' From 'hay,' I presume."

"Yeah, but . . ." Victor paused. "I guess it's all in what you're used to. He's going to be facing a class of teenagers for whom his name will be something new."

"I will warn him."

 

Early October 1634

"Hey, Mariah. Who's that you're with? I thought you had a date with Eddie Junker for the play." Suzi Barclay smiled maliciously.

"He asked me, but then Tony Adducci sent him and Noelle up to Erfurt to hunt up more evidence on the Bolender thing. He'd already bought the tickets, so he gave them to me and I asked Hans-Fritz."

"Isn't he your relative?"

Mariah stopped a minute to think. "He's . . . my sister's . . .

"fiancé's . . .

"mother's . . .

"third husband's . . .

"stepson," she finished triumphantly. "Can it, Suzi, that hardly counts as incest."

* * *

"I saw it at the Middle School again. Franconia!, I mean. It's really delightful," Amber Higham said. "Ten times funnier now than the first version the boys did in class last spring. It should do well in Magdeburg."

Annabelle Piazza shook her head. "We saw it, too. Somebody seems to have left out 'Do not' at the beginning of 'fold, bend, staple, or mutilate.' It sort of reminds me of what happens when barbed wire snaps at the post and rolls itself up. What a tangle."

"The original version of Oklahoma! wouldn't make much sense to most of the people who come to see this play. Philip didn't like the music. Heinrich says that he doesn't care for a lot of it himself, and he is actually taking the trouble to understand how it developed between now and then. He says that Franck's students from Coburg did a really good job adapting it, musically."

"I suppose." Annabelle looked a little doubtful. "What are they doing next?"

"Three or four down-time plays. Then . . ." Amber grinned. "Master Massinger wrote a new play. The Americaness. Then he came back from Bayreuth with a letter letting him listen to the original cast recording of Call Me Madam!"

"Oh yikes! There's going to be another one?"

"Yep. Another musical. The boys are working on it right now."

* * *

"We have the first version ready," Dick said. "I can't believe that it took us a whole six weeks."

"The recording only had the songs, and a little synopsis of the plot on the back. We couldn't find out any more about it," Tom consoled him.

"We even put an ad in the newspapers to see if anyone had a video of the movie." That was Dick.

Tom again. "But it seems like nobody does. So in addition to translating the songs, we've written all new dialogue. That's what took us so long."

Amber Higham kept turning her head. The verbal ping-pong between the Quineys went on as usual.

"So we moved it from the Grand Duchy of Lichtenburg to Rome."

"For one thing, we couldn't even find out where the Grand Duchy of Lichtenburg was."

"Some emperor probably created it between now and then."

Amber tried to say that she thought it was meant as a fictional amalgamation of Luxemburg and Liechtenstein, but Dick and Tom just kept going.

"So we moved it to a court in Italy."

"That was the obvious solution. In a pinch, set any play in Italy."

"We kept Princess Maria and Kenneth. They were sure crowd-pleasers."

"But we've made him a Scots cavalryman instead of an American public relations flack."

"Just to keep Jabe McDougal from getting a big head, you know."

"And called the princess 'Giulia' instead of Maria. That name's just too common."

"And everybody has heard how some old fogies were offended by Mike Stearns' informality at the Congress of Copenhagen."

"Well, not everybody."

"Everybody who's alive and awake?"

"That'll do."

"When we have the grand duke coming in for the first time, he's preceded by his herald."

"The herald introduces him with a list of titles that go on for a page and a half."

"Some of them are pretty cute, if we do say so ourselves."

"Then, right after this proclamation, Sally Adams says, 'Call me Madam.'"

"The chief of her bodyguards steps up."

"He says, 'And she will call you Sir.'"

Amber was starting to get dizzy from turning her head back and forth, but there was no stopping the Quineys in mid-spate.

Tom picked up the dialogue again. "Master Massinger likes Irving Berlin's music a lot better than he did Rodgers and Hammerstein."

"Mistress Antonia really, really likes Sally Adams. She's going to play the role."

"We've made her an ambassadress from Albion. The Scots cavalryman is the head of her bodyguard."

Amber stopped turning her head and just listened.

"The grand duke is facing a peasant revolt."

"Don't tell me," she said.

"The leader of the peasant revolt is the hero. He's named Constantino."

"We thought that it was quite providential that the man that Sally fell in love with was named Cosmo Constantine. Surely it must have been foreordained that we write this play."

"As if it was fate for us to meet Noelle Murphy and for her to tell Master Massinger about her grandma's recording." Tom stopped, looking a little concerned. "Has anybody found out yet exactly what happened to Noelle?"

Amber shook her head. "Not that I've heard."

* * *

"Lost your boyfriend again?"

Mariah Collins turned around with exasperation. "Eddie Junker isn't my boyfriend. I wouldn't have minded, not a bit, but it just didn't work out. Every time he asked me for a date, something came up with his work. Now nobody even knows where he is, since he went chasing out of town with Noelle after Suzi and her father and the other creeps who defected to Austria."

"So who are you with?"

"Hans-Fritz Zuehlke."

"You're dating some bureaucrat from the state personnel office?"

"Look, Micaela. Just because we did the geology survey together, that doesn't give you a right to diss my friends. He's . . . okay. All right? Somebody has to do that sort of stuff."

"All right. No offense meant."

"None taken."

* * *

"I suppose we should have expected that Franconia! wouldn't be a one-time thing." Annabelle Piazza sipped her coffee. "Ed says that the rest of the USE—the rest of Europe for that matter—isn't just going to adopt twentieth-century American culture intact. The down-timers are going to take pieces of it, modify it, put it through a wringer, and mangle it. What comes out the other end of the sausage grinder won't be a duplicate of the up-time world, but it also won't be what happened in Germany after 1648 up-time, either. That, I guess, is what Mike Stearns is aiming for. Something different, even if we can't predict exactly what it will be."

"Something better." Amber sipped her coffee. "Although with Dick and Tom Quiney in the forefront of anybody's mad charge toward a brave new world . . ."

* * *

"Actually, if you do a few rewrites, I think we can put A Fine Companion on the stage here before Christmas." Massinger looked at Marmion. "But not Holland's Leaguer."

"But you'll have to change the name of the friend of Aurelio and Careless," Dick said firmly.

"Why?"

"Because up-timers think that 'Fido' is a dog. It'll be a distraction. They won't mind 'Lackwit' and 'Crotchet.' Just . . . umm . . . tone down some of the language, like Master Massinger said. They'll like the plot well enough."

"It's not as if I haven't heard all this before," Shackerley Marmion said. "There are critics of the stage aplenty. Indeed, I wrote lines for one of them in the prologue:

 

By my consent I'll have you
Banisht the stage, proscrib'd, and interdicted
Castalian water, and poetical fire.
'Tis this licentious generation
Of poets trouble the peace of the whole town; . . .

 

"But I had heard that there was no censorship in Grantville."

"There isn't," Dick said. "Nothing like the Lord Chamberlain's Office. No licensing of plays before performance. But there is . . . public opinion, I guess you'd call it."

"Even so," Philip Massinger added. "Dick has the right of it. While you are in Grantville, endeavor to moderate your muse. Think of yourself as a guest, deferring to your hosts."

"You might even sit down and read some of the up-time plays we studied in class," Dick said. "The tedium of them—even the comedies—is sometimes beyond belief, but they are what is considered acceptable in the classroom. And they'll applaud Aemilia's lines. I like them, myself."

 

Come sister, though our liberty be straightened,
Our minds stand free without compulsion,
There's none can make a rape upon our will.
Well if they understood a woman truly,
They would not seek to curb so, whose nature
Rejoices like a torrent, to make way
Spite of the impediments. Now, if their wisdom
Should let us alone, we might perhaps ourselves
Find out the inconvenience and prevent it,
Which they like a false perspective would seek
To multiply upon us.

 

He looked at Massinger. "Christina would rather play Aemilia than Valeria, if that's agreeable."

"Of course. Antonia will take the part of Mistress Fondling, of course, and I will play Littlegood. We need someone for Dotario."

Marmion shook his head. "It's hard to get used to having women on the public stage."

"You'll get used to it. You'll have to," Dick said. "More than half of the students in your drama classes at the school will be girls, too."

"Well, I'm used enough to that. And to the fact, as I have Aemilia saying, that females are inclined to stretch their brains."

Dick twirled his pencil. "They stretch them a lot, here in Grantville. Now look at the passage right before that, when you have her commenting about her mother. This one:"

 

Although her husband be penurious,
Hard as the metal that he dotes upon,
Yet she can make him malleable, and work him,
And turn, and hammer him, and wire-draw him,
And rule him with as much correction
As one would wish to govern.

 

"Can you bring in something topical there? The machine shops in Grantville with their tools? The agreement with the Upper Palatinate regarding iron? Negotiations with Jacob Durre and the other metal merchants in Nürnberg, since Mike's father is there? Something to pull the audience into the action?"

The conversation got down to the practical, serious business of putting on money-making plays. Unsubsidized plays. Plays that would make enough money, year in and year out, to support a couple dozen people.

* * *

Amber Higham made a preemptive strike and informed the students of their new teacher's name well in advance of his arrival. It helped. Some.

The first three days he taught, she stayed in the classroom to observe.

The fourth day, she told them that Master Marmion was a playwright himself. Then they took the class to a matinee performance of A Fine Companion.

The fifth day, she threw him to the mercies of Drama II (advanced level, open to juniors and seniors only).

"Aurelio was stupid," Michelle Matowski said. Then she added. "Pardon me, Mr. Marmion, but he was."

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"Personally," Lorie Lee Carstairs said, "In my opinion, Othello was stupid, too. I just don't have any patience with these guys who get a stolen handkerchief or ring or something and immediately conclude that their girlfriends are cheating on them. It's really dumb to be that jealous. Really, really, dumb. If they'd just use a little common sense, they'd ask a few more questions and pretty soon they'd know better."

"But what would that do to the plot?" Tom asked.

"I don't want to live my life in somebody's plot."

"Is there no romance at all in your soul?"

"Probably not," Lorie Lee admitted.

Shackerley Marmion drew a deep breath. "Positing that both of the men were stupid, or at least not responding in a fully logical manner, what makes Othello a tragedy and A Fine Companion a comedy?"

Wolfgang Fischer looked thoughtful. "Desdemona died and Valeria stayed alive?"

Marmion remembered that Mistress Higham had assured him that Wolfgang had a fine bass voice. She had said nothing about his intellectual powers.

Michelle shook her head. "If you ask me, the tragedy in A Fine Companion, is that Valeria forgave that stupid Aurelio and took him back. No one in her right mind would want a husband like that. Does she want to end up in a shelter for abused women in a few years?"

Dick interpreted the term "shelter for abused women" to Master Marmion.

"We never had one in Grantville," Lorie Lee said. "We've all got more common sense than to be abused in the first place."

"That's not really true," Robin Kerns interrupted. "My mom says that at the hospital . . ."

Lorie Lee gave the new teacher a reproachful look. "You made Valeria go mad, too, just because someone tried to ruin her reputation. Women are tougher than that. You should have made it plainer that she was just pretending, to trick her father."

"But she didn't drown herself, like the girl in that other play," Robin pointed out. "Aurelio disguised himself as a doctor and cured her."

"What makes Hamlet a tragedy and A Fine Companion a comedy?" Marmion tried once more to direct the discussion.

Wolfgang Fischer thought again. "Ophelia stayed insane and died, but Valeria got better and stayed alive?"

"The essence of tragedy . . ." Marmion said rather feebly. He started to recollect, possibly too late, all the essays that had been written, from antiquity to the present, on the unhappy lot of the schoolmaster.

Drama II went on.

* * *

"At least, they got Noelle and Eddie back. I heard he got a broken arm out of it."

"He did. I haven't seen him, though, except just to say 'hi' in Sternbock's. He was with Gerry Stone and a couple of other kids—Denise Beasley and Minnie Hugelmair—getting his cast autographed. Hans-Fritz and I went over long enough to put our names on it."

Micaela Garrett wrinkled her forehead. "Giving up."

Mariah nodded agreement. "He's cute, but he's a lost cause. Who wants a boyfriend who's never around? Hans-Fritz is taking me to the new play tomorrow night."

* * *

"Come to the play with me, Lisa. It's the last performance before Massinger's company leaves for Magdeburg. How long is it since you've gotten out of the house for anything except school functions."

"Since they sent Allan to Magdeburg last spring."

"That's about what I thought. When are you going to join him? Or are you?"

"Next spring. At the end of the school year. A year apart is long enough. I've told Victor, but it isn't public yet, so please don't say anything, Amber."

"Good. It'll be great to have you there. Not so good for the high school, but good to have you there. Still, do you plan on not ever getting out for another six months? Come to the play."

"But. . . ."

"No muttering about a sitter. Bring the kids. They're old enough to sit through a play and behave themselves."

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"What's on?"

"Something down-time. Love's Labours Won, according to the ad in the paper."

"There's something familiar about the name of that play," Lisa commented.

"It just reminds you of Love's Labours Lost. At least, that's what I thought of first."

"You were an actress. I was an English Lit. major. Okay, I'll go with you tomorrow night, Amber. But first, I want to go home and look a couple of things up in one of my old textbooks."

* * *

"I'm not trying to rip you off, Philip. Really I'm not. Neither is Lisa. Could we just please, please, pretty please, take a look at that satchel of papers that Shackerley brought Dick from his aunt? Please."

Massinger made no move to get out of his chair.

Amber looked at Dick and Tom Quiney. "They're really yours, aren't they?

Dick grinned. "I'd be tempted to bargain this for a better grade, Mistress Higham. Except that I have the highest grade in your class already. Aside from being tied with Tom, that is. I don't suppose there's any way to use it to improve our grade in civics?"

"None. Absolutely none at all."

"You are asking us to let you look at this purely out of the goodness of our hearts? Purely as a matter of Christian charity?"

"Yes. That's what I'm asking."

"There ought to be something in this for us."

"If I didn't know you were teasing . . ."

"Let them look," Tom said.

Massinger nodded. "In that case, scamp, you climb the stairs and fetch the satchel."

A half hour later, Amber and Lisa thanked them and left.

"Let's go to Tip's. I need a drink," Lisa said when they reached the street. "Something stronger than coffee. They have Cardenio in there, too. An autographed copy, I think."

Amber nodded. "Me too. A drink, I mean. If we were still up-time and found the stuff in that satchel, we'd be the two most famous scholars in the world. You could be a professor of English literature at Harvard. I could go back to Minneapolis and become artistic director of the Guthrie Theater. And every scrap in that satchel ought to be in the bank vault with Grantville's very few prohibited books."

"That's if we were up-time," Lisa said with a sigh. "Here—they're just a bunch of play books that Massinger wanted to use to expand his company's repertoire. And it's not as if they were major plays. If so, they'd already have been printed like the rest of them. But we really ought to encourage the boys to get them copied and published before they head off to Magdeburg next week. Can't you just imagine what could happen to those papers while that bunch is traipsing around Germany. A cartwheel breaks and they fall into the mud. Someone drops them getting out of a barge and they fall into a river. Or. . . ."

"I don't even want to think about it. Tip's, here we come."

* * *

 

Note for readers:

In OTL, the original time line of human history, both Thomas and Richard Quiney died in January 1639, probably of the plague.

Scholars who become upset about the "lost years" of William Shakespeare have certainly not done much comparative research on other Englishmen of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Almost everyone then alive has "lost years" as far as the historical record is concerned. These might better be described as years during which a person either didn't generate any documents or generated only documents which have either disappeared over the course of time or which still rest undiscovered in some repository that no researcher has utilized.

No scholar has thus far documented where Philip Massinger was or what he was doing from the time he left the University of Oxford shortly after his father's death, some time between 1603 and 1606, until he appeared in London as a playwright (in jail for debt) in 1613. The hypothesis that he was with a group of touring English actors in Germany is only one of those that has been offered. I have chosen to adopt it for Franconia!

Even more surprisingly for a man whose father was a high-level employee of the noble and literary Herbert family (the earls of Pembroke) and whose parents and siblings are in the historical records, nothing is known of Massinger's wife. That he was married is documented only by the fact that one patron paid out a small stipend to his widow after his death. I have taken advantage of this lacuna by presenting the plausible explanation that she was a German actress whom he married in his early twenties and brought back to England with him. This would explain why she was never mentioned as the sister, daughter, cousin, etc. of some other man in London's literary circles.

 

The Mill on the River Kymi

Written by Terry Howard and Mic Sjostrom

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Late 1634, Pomerania, USE

The Lord High Chancellor will call on Field Marshal Hermanni Wrangell, Baron of Skokloster, on Wednesday next.

Signed for and by the order of The Lord High Chancellor, Axel Ochsenstern, Count of Södermöre.

The usual note for a social visit or a routine call in the line of duty would read something like: "Hermanni, set up the chess board. I'll be there Wednesday, Axel." This was a formal note, though, which meant official business.

Something out of the ordinary, something important, something most probably unpleasant, was about to land in Hermanni's lap, or on his plate. It might be his head. As the Lord High Chancellor, Axel did not do pleasantries. This was not like other notes from him.

Hermanni reviewed the accounts. He could find no discrepancies. There were no notable disciplinary problems, nor civil unrest. Why, then, a visit from the high chancellor? Why now? The newly-minted Baron of Skokloster was worried, with good reason. Whose neck was on the chopping block and why?

Wednesday

"Sir, the chancellor's party is in the courtyard."

Hermanni glanced at the chessmen on the table where glasses waited, along with a new bottle of Axel's favorite liquor. "Bring him in immediately Berendt."

"Yes, sir," Berendt replied.

A few minutes later Axel stepped into the room and stopped just inside the door. Hermanni took the hint. "Close the door, Berendt, and see to it we are not disturbed."

"Hermanni, my old friend, we have a problem." Axel said.

"Ah." The tension flowed out of Hermanni's neck and shoulders. His old friend had a problem. A problem could be addressed and survived.

"Gustav has gone all Vasa," Axel said. The founder of the Vasa dynasty a century ago had built a power base by supporting the commoners against the aristocracy. For the most part Gustav supported the rights of the old noble families, but with his exposure to Grantville the occasional fits of "going Vasa" had increased.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Write to your brother Hannes."

"Hannes? What foolishness has he gotten into this time?"

"The sawmill and crown lands he purchased in Laajakoski on the Kymmene älv back in '29? He needs to sell them immediately."

"Axel, you know why he bought the property." Colonel Hannes Wrangell's salary from the crown, as a high officer in the Swedish army, had gone unpaid for several years. As part of the agreement, the pay arrearages were applied to the price of the purchase. "And I know for a fact he's sunk a wheel-barrow full of money into it on top of the purchase price."

Axel replied, "What he did was build a grand manor house. He didn't spend more than a handful of copper coins on the sawmill. No upgrades, no improvements, nothing beyond immediate repair. The mill has broken down again and is slow getting back into production. The shipyard the mill feeds is behind schedule and they are blaming it on the lack of lumber. We both know if it wasn't this they would have some other excuse, but they don't need another. This one works just fine. Hermanni, there is a war going on. That mill is supposed to be producing strategic material needed for the war effort. Gustav is not a happy monarch."

"I'll speak to my brother. He will send more money." Privately, Hermanni wondered where they would find it. It would have to be found. This made the whole family look bad. Letting the mill sit idle, normally, wouldn't matter. The shortages to the shipyard, however, had already been noticed and Gustav was in a rage. Yes, Gustav sold the property, in part, to cover a debt he owed Hannes, but he still expected the sawmill to meet the objective for which it was built.

"Don't bother. Tell him to sell it," Axel said.

"Is that necessary? We can get things caught up as quickly as anyone."

"Hermanni, I told you, Gustav has gone Vasa over this. Sell it or see it confiscated!

"You know Countess Anna Marketta Bielke, your late wife's cousin?"

Hermanni wondered why Axel was introducing a complete change of topic. "Her husband, the count, is governor-general of Mainz and Frankfurt. She is one of the empress's ladies-in-waiting." The mention of the queen's court caused Hermanni's thoughts to wander. First there were his own efforts to find a third wife from amongst the ladies and widows of the imperial court. Then there was the tension between Gustav and his wife.

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It might be going a little far to say the king and queen were feuding, but their daughter was in Magdeburg and the king did not get home to Stockholm, or wherever the queen was holding court, very often. There were people who thought the queen should aid their aspirations, and she was unhappy because he wouldn't be generous to her favorites. The queen, now empress, Maria Eleonora, was whining a great deal and wanting Gustav to come be with her, and to be considerate of her. She was even willing to come to him, preferably someplace reasonable. Unfashionable, raw Magdeburg was more than she really wanted to endure, but she would even go to that war-ravaged town if that was what he wanted. Gustav would not let her. He found her nagging and whining easier to endure at a distance.

Axel pulled Hermanni's thoughts back to the topic at hand. "The countess has some dower money and they desire to buy a property somewhere. The count wants a manor with a strong, steady cash flow, and he is also enamored with the new technologies.

"An officer on the count's staff, Captain Johannes Matinpoika, grew up in the Kymmene district. He is familiar with the mill. He assured the count it can be consistently profitable if it is well managed. Also, he is of the opinion that there is timber in the area which is perfect for making Grantville-style plywood."

Hermanni nodded, relieved. His family would not be left holding the bag. Axel already had a well-connected and approved buyer.

Axel continued, "The countess is currently visiting her husband. I became the godfather of their son. The count is in Gustav's good graces and no longer wants his wife involved in the intrigues of the empress' court." Axel smiled. "I remember when he was quite proud of having his wife as one of ladies-in-waiting to the queen. Now, going to her newly-purchased estate, would be a perfect excuse for her to not return to court."

If the governor-general thought it was a good idea to exile his wife to a country estate, Hermanni quite understood. Wives are best kept occupied. Taking care of an estate while rearing children would be a good occupation, plus there was some political liability that could be avoided.

"The count, my cousin," Axel continued, "has decided his wife is interested in American plywood. The forests upriver are reportedly ideal. The new manor house Hannes built instead of upgrading the sawmill will make the purchase more tolerable to the countess. This way, your brother can recoup his investment. He might even manage a small profit. And Gustav will climb down off of his high horse."

Midwinter 1635, Mainz

After the countess purchased the forest, manor house, sawmill and the lands of several villages on the Kymi River, her husband, Count Niels, told her, "You should retain the services of Johannes Matinpoika's young wife, Kristiina von Houwaldt. Johannes' family estate is on the Kymi. I have campaigned with him for years and have met her socially on several occasions. She is from Germany and her family claims some minor nobility. She is a practical young woman with an impressive intellect and a solid grasp of commerce and trade. Her brothers are pursuing military careers. I doubt if she brought Johannes much if any dowry, but you can figure out why he married her at first glance.

"I am more taken by her drive, analytical abilities, and skill with languages than I am with her beauty. Johannes wants to take her home to meet his family, so I can assign him the task of escorting you to our new estate this spring. I want you to go there to start the industrialization as soon as the weather permits the voyage."

"Niels, if you feel she would be helpful then by all means I will put her on staff," the countess said agreeably.

* * *

When he brought the topic up, Johannes Matinpoika's found his young wife, Kristiina von Houwaldt, to be much less amenable.

"Kristiina, you really should do this."

"But, then I will be away from you."

"If I get called to the front we will be separated in any case. Raising children in the camps is not good. Besides, a boy should be raised on the land which will be his some day."

"But if I am managing this lumber project, when will I raise the children." She patted her belly.

Johannes smiled with certain pleasant memories but he came back to the practical subject at hand. "I am sure your compensation will cover a nanny, and a wet nurse if you need one."

"What is this really about, Johannes?"

"You can see right through me, can't you?"

She smiled. Johannes felt his heart melt. But, he pulled his mind back to the conversation in hand instead of pursuing a pleasure in the bush. "I still need to introduce you to my family. The general is going to have me escort his wife, the countess, to their new estate this spring. If you are in her service, they will take care of your travel, too. From the look of things, little Johannes will be my brother's heir as well as mine. While I am there I can formally take possession of the farms I am getting in lieu of my back wages and someone will need to oversee them. That someone should be you. If you are in the employ of the countess, you can live in the manor instead of with my brother Iivari. His house is small, and the estate is little more than a large farm with some hired help, so that would be much more comfortable.

"But, really, for me this whole project is about Finland. As it is now, the grand duchy of Finland is too much under the control of people in Stockholm who do not even understand our language. Emperor Gustav is the grand duke of Finland in a long, and often forgotten, list of other things. He doesn't give Finland a passing thought as long as there's peace. It is a poor country, full of trees and not much else except for fish and furs. North country summers are short and the winters are cold and snowy. There isn't enough farm land to ever produce much of a surplus. There is no significant reserve for hard times. If we industrialize early, we can get ahead of the pack. Plywood will make a difference in the world. Finnish plywood will make a difference to Finland. As it stands, if the crops fail people starve because there is no other means of livelihood. If we have industry, then there is another source of income in hard times.

"I've seen people hungry in the spring, and there was nothing we could do because our own barns were bare and there was not enough money to buy for our own and for others too.

"I know you are competent and compassionate. You know how to deal with people. You understand how to make a profit. Remember, I watched you help your uncle in his businesses before I proposed. So tell the count 'yes.' Go raise my son in his own land. I will seek an appointment to Viipuri province when I can. It should be no more than a few years, if this war ever eases."

February 1635, Grantville

Kristiina von Houwaldt,her chambermaid Annika, little Johannes and his nanny, and Jussi Kallenpoika, one of Countess Anna Marketta Bielke's retainers, disembarked from the train at the Grantville station. Markus Heikinpoika and the hotel concierge waited with a horseless carriage to take the party to their hotel.

Kristiina was complying with the count's instructions: "Go to Grantville. Research the area of the estate in the library. Choose a shop and commission them to build the machines needed to make plywood. Then explore what other ways and means we might employ to make the estate more productive."

Kristiina stopped and looked at the elegant and truly impressive horseless carriage. She sounded out, and pronounced, the words written in the brightest of silver over the front wheel. "Ford Econoline." The words sounded tentative. She could read English but not speak it, unless you counted what the Scots spoke as English. She had learned to read Italian and Latin as a child, along with her native German. She learned to speak Scots while her husband served with Colonel Alexander Gordon's company. Then she taught herself to read English. There were so many works waiting to be translated, and many that had already been translated read so poorly that it was annoying.

The concierge from the hotel heard her hesitancy and took it for a question. "Yes, milady. It's a Ford Econoline fifteen-passenger van. Grantville's newest and grandest luxury hotel, our very own Holiday Lodge where every stay is a vacation, bought it for a courtesy limousine now that gas is available, even if it is still outrageously expensive. We offer the limo service since we're out of town a ways, but don't worry. The trolley line to Grantville stops right outside our lobby. The limo rides a little rough with the wooden wheels. The rubber tires wouldn't hold air anymore.

"This way please, and watch your step."

During the trip the guide kept up a constant chatter about things of interest, starting with the train station. "The station is from up-time and quite old as they counted such things," and ending with, "That cut in the cliff was blasted out to give the near-by village direct access to Grantville without going miles around. When Grantville annexed the village they widened the cut and extended the trolley line."

The newly-built Holiday Lodge stood in a wooded setting surrounded by what would be an impressive formal garden in a decade or so when it had established itself. The most visually striking thing about the three story building was the enormous quantity of diamond-shaped panes of glass. Individually they could not hold a candle to the plate glass in the old buildings downtown, but collectively they were quite impressive. "Holiday Lodge has sixty suites and guestrooms." the guide said. "Though half of the rooms are as yet neither finished or furnished. There are over two hundred windows using thousands of panes of glass." The van stopped under the canopy built over the trolley stop in front of the main entrance.

The next morning Kristiina and Markus took the trolley into town to interview research assistants. She settled on a bright young woman, Barbara Falke.

"I need to find out as much as I can about the area around the Kymi River," Kristiina said.

"Let's start by looking at a map," Barbara said. "Just where is the Kymi?"

"It's in the part of Sweden called Finland."

"Okay. Here is Finland. It's in a different color here on the map, so up-time it was no longer part of Sweden . . . and here is the Kymi River."

"My husband is from right about this area," Kristiina said, pointing to the mouth of the river. "But this town or city, Kotka? He has never mentioned it."

"Let's check the encyclopedia. I'll be right back." She was barely gone before she returned. "It's no wonder you never heard of Kotka. It doesn't exist yet. Its main exports were lumber, plywood and paper. Now what else do you want to know?"

"We have a lumber mill, and we are interested in building a plywood mill."

"Sure, I can look plywood up for you. Carlo Rainaldi researched plywood while he was studying here in Grantville. Did you know he's listed in the encyclopedia as a cathedral builder? His wife Angelina ran away from her rich uncle in Italy to marry him. It was all quite romantic. They both work for the navy in Magdeburg these days. If you want to talk to him, you can get to Magdeburg in only a day since they've opened the rail line."

Kristiina was a bit unsure as to why what she had just been told was important. "I will need to have the machinery built to make plywood."

"Then you definitely need to talk to Carlo. He designs things, mostly for the navy."

"You said the encyclopedia mentioned lumber, plywood and paper. Why ship rags to a shop in the middle of a forest and then ship paper back?" asked Kristiina. "The transport cost would eat up the profit."

"I think up-time paper was made from wood pulp, not rags," responded Barbara.

"Wood pulp? How?"

"Let's see what we can find out."

At the end of the day, Kristiina summarized: "So, ideally everything cut should be used: the large trunks for plywood and lumber, the smaller for paper pulp, the best of the rest for fire wood, and everything else for charcoal. The only thing left should be the stump and it holds the soil in place while new trees grow. And there is a use for each different type of tree.

"Charcoal burners can be hired, if there is any market for the charcoal. But I can't see the count doing paper. There is not enough detailed information available. It would take forever and a small fortune, if we were lucky, to figure out what they did."

"If you wish," Barbara said, "I can check everything in the library while you're in Magdeburg, but I don't know of anyone in town with any real experience with making paper out of wood pulp. All the paper makers are down-timers."

The next day Kristiina caught the train to Magdeburg .

Somewhere past Jena, Jussi, her security escort, asked Annika softly, so as not to be overheard, "Is she all right?"

The lady was sitting very still staring out the window of the coach but she did not seem to be really seeing anything. He thought she looked uncomfortable, or even ill. If she were, he should know. If it were serious, he should tell the countess.

"Don't trouble yourself over it, Jussi. She gets lost to the world like this when she reads, too. There are things on her mind, that's all."

"Does the train ride not agree with her then? She looks a little green, or even like she's in pain?"

"You've got a good eye for a man."

"I notice things. I'm supposed to watch for trouble before it happens. You didn't answer the question."

Annika smiled. "Well, Jussi, I am her ladyship's personal servant. I don't discuss my lady's personal life."

"Annika, I am just as much her personal servant as you are. If it affects her, it affects me. You are, rightly, mindful of her privacy, but I am part of her privacy now, and will be for years to come, from the looks of things. So tell me about it."

Annika looked defiant. Jussi just stared at her. In the end Annika giggled. "It is nothing really," she said. "She's worried about the task and she's unhappy about being separated from her husband. On top of which, the morning sickness was bad this morning."

"Oh." Jussi said. "I didn't know she was carrying."

"Yes. She is. And while she and the nanny have been weaning little Johannes, she's not dry yet so she is uncomfortable, on top of everything else, but mostly the project is weighing heavy on her mind."

"And what weighs heavy on your mind, Annika?"

"Don't even think about getting frisky with me, Jussi," Annika said. But she smiled when she said it.

* * *

Count Niels Brahe, governor-general of the newly-established Mainz province, had a very busy schedule while in Magdeburg. Most of his mornings and early afternoons were full of meetings with the new ministry of the interior and with various military offices. His wife managed to fill his evenings. With Kristiina's arrival, the count hastily arranged for a meeting with the navy's rising star in design and development.

Getting the appointment proved to be easier than freeing up time from his agenda. When he announced he wanted to talk about plywood, with an eye toward opening a mill in Finland, it became a question of: "When can you come?" Marine grade plywood was something the admiral was very interested in. Unfortunately, the only time the count could free up was a late morning, when his wife would be attending a tea given by the admiral's wife for the senior military wives who were in town.

* * *

"Your Excellency, I'm Ensign Baltzer von Karsten with public relations. I am very happy to meet you, sir. And you must be Lady von Houwaldt. Please come in. Lieutenant Rainaldi will be here shortly. I've sent someone to fetch him." The ensign said it with a smile. Carlo's habit of getting absorbed in his work on a drawing board and losing all track of time was a standing joke in the shipyard. "Don't get rainy-day on me," meant, "Pay attention to the world around you."

Carlo Rainaldi walked in with a dozen large rolls of paper tucked under one arm and an inch-thick stack of paper in his other hand. Without introduction or preamble of any sort he spread the first roll of two-by-three-foot drawings out on the table and started talking. Ensign von Karsten shook his head, but Rainaldi had the count's attention, so the ensign did not interrupt to apologize.

"This assumes you have enough of a water drop to run a large overshot water wheel or enough water flow for a massive undershot wheel," Carlo said. At a nod from the count he continued. "You could have an all metal water turbine with a metal gear train made up, but that would take a lot of time unless you could get a priority slot since the shops are all back-ordered, and it would cost a lot of money. Or you can build it almost all out of wood. I was told you would be building the plant in the middle of nowhere. Would you prefer something you can repair without sending away for parts?"

The count nodded. "Yes."

Carlo rolled up the top three drawings on the stack. He then pointed to the one left. "This design is for a plywood plant that has metal parts only where it is impractical to use wood. It can be made almost completely on site."

Carlo walked the count through the whole process of making plywood, going from one drawing to another, with frequent thumps on the pile of papers, and the oft repeated words, "The details are spelled out in here.

"You should take the time to tour the local plywood shop sometime when it's running. They've got a new peeler and press but they have trouble getting the right trees in the right sizes. And wood is expensive, so they don't have any plans on expanding. That's why you should build a plant somewhere with plenty of cheap trees."

He ended with a discussion of the different glues needed for different purposes, and where to get them. "Greg Ferrara's people came up with an additive for the fish head glues. It stinks to high heaven but, so far at least, it is keeping it from going moldy. You will probably have to set up a subsidiary business to meet your needs. Fortunately, fish heads are plentiful. There is a small outfit in Wietze that can make a good waterproof glue. If you want large quantities give them plenty of lead time."

The presentation lasted two hours. When Rainaldi finished the count simply shook his head. "You did all of this in the day and a half since I asked for a meeting?"

"No, sir. The drawings have been ready for months. As I said, the admiral expressed an earlier interest, but government funding was not available. Besides, I need a plywood plant if I am ever going to get pre-formed single-piece small boat shells and aircraft bodies.

"Let me show you the plans for a preformed boat mold and . . ."

"Carlo," the ensign interrupted, "we need to break for lunch." He turned to his senior guest, "Is Your Excellency free this afternoon?"

"Actually," the count responded, "much to my regret, I have another appointment."

Kristiina spoke for the first time since arriving in the conference room. "But I am free. And we are very interested in making small boats and aircraft bodies, are we not, sir?" she asked, turning to the count.

"Yes, of course. We have trees and start up capital. We need the industry. Exporting farm products is not going to provide any significant cash flow in Finland. We might even have to import grain in bad years, so farming is not a good focus for the new estate."

After lunch the ensign sat in the conference room while Lieutenant Rainaldi walked Kristiina through making molds for shaped plywood. "When you go back to Grantville you can see what molded plywood looks like. There is bent plywood furniture in the waiting room of the optometrist's office and his wife has a large formed plywood bowl and half a dozen small ones, what she calls her salad set, at home. They will be happy to show you if you ask."

When Carlo finished the ensign asked—rather facetiously considering Carlo's extensive presentation—"Is there anything else we can help you with?"

"Not that I know of," Kristiina answered. "What we have are trees and a sawmill. Now we have plans for a plywood mill. Thank you. It's a shame we can't build a wood pulp paper mill. No one seems to really know how to do it."

Carlo rolled up the copies of the drawing they were not giving away and said, "That's not so. There is a very knowledgeable person in Grantville. When I was researching building techniques and was trying to find someone in Grantville with hands-on experience in making plywood, I was told it was too bad I wasn't interested in making paper. Joe said he knew someone who worked in a paper mill in some place called Michugina." Carlo gathered his materials and started to leave.

"Carlo, you're forgetting something," the ensign said.

Rainaldi looked around. He counted the rolls under his arm, and the number of drawings still on the table. "No, I don't think so," he said.

"The name, Carlo, the papermaker's name?"

"Oh, yes, you're right of course. Go see Old Joe Jenkins. He lives in Grantville on the top of the mountain. He can tell you the man's name."

Late Winter 1635, Grantville

"Welcome to Grantville, Your Grace." Kristiina and the concierge were waiting at the station. There was a fancy carriage for any other guests of the lodge. A wagon, for the luggage, was also on hand. Today the limo was reserved for the countess and her party. This time it would not wait for a trailer to be loaded. Fortunately there was a compromise route to pick up and deliver passengers to the train station which avoided the daylight restrictions on downtown traffic.

"There is a lot to see in the next three days, before we go back to Magdeburg and start for the new estate," Kristiina concluded.

At the end of the three days Countess Anna Marketta postponed their departure. Johannes, by now a major, was waiting in Magdeburg. When the departure was postponed he went to Grantville to be with his wife and Anna Marketta's party, which was turning into quite a party indeed. Three weeks later a rather stern letter arrived from General Count Brahe. Anna Marketta and her party boarded the train to the river and started the long trip to Finland.

June 1635, Frankfurt am Main, the Governor's office

General Count Brahe read the communication from his wife and shook his head. He had sent her to Grantville for three days to see the sights. She stayed three weeks! That was three months ago. It looked like he would be putting up with her Grantville mania for the next three years, if not the next thirty. When she wasn't talking about going back, she was talking about making the new estate as much like Grantville as possible.

The first things she wanted when she got to the new estate was central heating. Fortunately she was willing to listen to Kristiina who was proving to be a level-headed jewel of a young woman.

". . . Kirsti says the heat runs have to be installed when the house is built. It cannot be 'retrofitted,' an American word for 'put in afterwards.' Tommo agrees. Tuomas Manunpoika is the manager of the lumber mill. He is a master carpenter and was a builder before coming to Kymi to run the mill. He oversaw the building of the manor house and other projects in addition to running the mill. Kirsti has enlarged his duties to include construction and operation of the new plywood mill. His assistant foreman is running the existing . . ."

Things had changed after his wife went to Grantville. One thing was her relationship with her servants. The count asked Kristiina what happened. She wrote back, 'Her Grace, the countess, viewed several movies in which the up-time lords and ladies addressed their staff on a first name basis, just as the admiral's wife did in Magdeburg and, in at least one movie, the lord had insisted the staff do the same. I am afraid your lady wife has decided she likes having friends to talk to even when there are no other nobles in residence." Brahe fervently hoped his wife would keep things in order when she encountered other high nobles again. Swedes had never been as aloof as the stupid Germans, but still, they were not overly familiar with their help. What his wife's servants did in private was fine as long as they remembered to be polite and deferential to her—and to everyone else, of course—when they encountered other aristocracy again.

". . . and Kirsti says a new manor house will have to wait until the new mills are up and running. Tommo and the construction crew will be too busy and she says some of the parts for a central heating system will have to be shipped in. Tommo is quite excited about the plywood mill. He can't wait for spring to try it out. The right logs are already being cut up-river. We'll float them down . . .

"I realize television is completely out of the question, but you still have not responded to my request for a radio technician to bring an antenna for a radio tower. Tommo says building a wooden tower will not be a problem . . ."

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Brahe sighed. His wife wanted the impossible. She wanted to receive the Grantville area radio programs in Finland. She thought all she needed was a bigger antenna. He'd asked the people who knew these things, just to be sure, and they'd said it couldn't be done for any amount of money. A broadcasting station in Finland in a few years might be possible, given enough money. For now, she would have to be content with the phonograph and records. What they could get, and would within six months, was a marine radiotelegraph station near the mouth of the Kymi. Then they'd at least be able to exchange Morse code messages with the outside world. Thank the Good Lord his wife would listen to Kristiina and that young woman had a firm grasp of the bottom line. Her reports were concise and neither optimistic nor pessimistic. The work went apace. The sawmill was meeting the needs of the shipyard, so at least one thing was bringing in a return.

". . . We have started to plan some festivities to celebrate the 300th anniversary of our new residence's municipality. It's next year. Husband, would you be in position to visit? Please inform us about likely dates of your arrival and departure. Can we attract some luminary, even one of the imperials, to visit?"

Brahe sighed again. Did she ever stop to think what things cost?

Autumn 1635, Frankfurt am Main

A packet of letters arrived on Brahe's desk, including two from Kymenkartano.

In the middle of a long rambling letter from his wife with news of the children, second-hand gossip from court, a long list of things she wanted, she wrote, ". . . Husband, do we have the money for all these investments?"

His jaw fell open.

"We purchased grain and other supplies which were not on hand in adequate quantity for the people working on the construction projects. We really must hold off on the electric power turbines, as much as I would like to have electricity in the house."

It had to be Kristiina's influence.

"The building for the paper mill is underway. Tommo says he will be free when it is time to build the paper machine at the new mill. But can we afford the equipment?"

Brahe shook his head and muttered about miracles.

"It would seem to me the purchase is well beyond our means . . ."

The letter from Kristiina was, as always, well written and to the point.

Your Excellency,

I strongly recommend we continue with the paper project, if the capital can by any means be found. The machine builders in Grantville already have our designs for those parts which need up-time tools to make and we have received a priority placement on the order. If the capital can not be found, these orders should be cancelled immediately. The blacksmiths and the carpenters are busy making everything else. The special felt has arrived.

All up-time sources agree, this location is perfect for a large paper industry. We are already harvesting the trees for plywood and lumber so there are a lot of smaller parts which will go to waste without an additional end use. In the other universe paper helped make the region rich and provided work for tens of thousands of people. It is a model for predictable success. Perhaps you can raise the money with a public offering, if need be. Steam engines and turbines can wait for better timing and lower prices.

The plywood plant should be on line in time to cover some of the costs of the paper mill start up.

The local blacksmiths, along with the two you sent from Germany, are good but they are not up to doing everything we need done. I wish to send some younger mechanics to Grantville for additional training as soon as feasible.

Your obedient servant

Christine von Hohenwaldt

Count Brahe addressed a return letter to the two ladies jointly.

Anna Marketta, Kristiina,

. . . will proceed with the paper mill project. I am arranging financing. We will form a "Compagnie" and accept outside . . .

Autumn 1635, Alongside the Dock at Kymi, Province of Viipuri, Finland

Skipper Siffred Ollinpoika stood on deck looking at the small town springing up along the riverfront. Upon his return from the USE he realized it was starting to resemble a real port, small for now, to be sure, but just as thriving as many of the merchant townships in the rich south.

It was not very far from the hamlet of farm and fisher cottages his ancestors had inhabited since time immemorial. His village had once had a small harbor, but its river access had been poor. Now, instead of trading and warehouses, there was only farming and fishing there.

His forefathers traded all over the Baltic. The family still maintained boats, mostly for fishing but they did some shipping even if they no longer had a township with necessary privileges.

This trip he had sailed to and from the Saxon coast under a letter from the new countess to haul a cargo of complicated small metal parts bolted together into odd shapes.

The new port—it didn't even have a name yet—had good river access and was growing rapidly. If the rumors were true about the mills and other things, it was only a matter of time before the new port had a charter to trade abroad. He considered what this could mean to his family.

Skipper Siffred thought it might be time to request burgher rights for himself and some of his kinsmen. It was also time to ask if they could send some of the boys to the manor to learn how to read and write properly.

Early 1636, Frankfurt am Main
Residence of General Niels Brahe, Governor and Administrator of the Province of Main

Axel Oxenstierna advanced a bishop and said, "Checkmate! Niels, your game is way off." Brahe usually defeated his cousin four games out of five and the fifth game was usually a close call. "What is on your mind? You can't even concentrate on a simple chess game."

"Axel, I was reading a letter from the Kymi estate when you arrived. My mind will clear overnight, I am sure."

"Is there a problem? Do you need to go to your wife? Is my godson well? How about the new baby?"

"Marke had an easy labor and my youngest son Eric is healthy—as are the two older children.

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"No, it's the damned plywood mill. Von Houwaldt, our director there, says everything works except for one thing. She has written to the designer, Carlo Rainaldi, asking what they are doing wrong. They cannot get a consistent, clean cut of the right thickness from the shear. If they could, we would be in production. The rest of the system works. We have produced enough to know that the press over the charcoal oven works. The glues work. The feeding system to the shear and from the shear to the press table over the kiln works. The system of moving the logs from the reservoir pile to the feed line for the shear works so well that they are reproducing it to use at the sawmill, which will free up six men there for other work.

"Right now ninety plus percent of what the plywood mill makes is scrap. They will have a vast supply of material ready to go into the digester at the paper mill as soon as it's ready to run.

"I find myself wishing I had never approved the project. But the drawings for the plywood mill made it look so simple. The plan called for a minimum of special tooling and equipment. Most of the system could be made on-site."

Oxenstierna said, "I told the family the paper mill was a good idea. But you know that. We've invested a lot of money in the project. If you can't get the plywood mill to work, I'm worried about the paper mill."

"I am, too," Brahe said. "The only good news is the sawmill. It's ahead of schedule."

Oxenstierna nodded. The Kymi shipyard already had a different excuse.

Brahe continued, "We are even looking for somewhere to market the surplus.

"Would it help if we could get Simpson to send Rainaldi to look at the problem?" asked Oxenstierna.

"That would work if anything would. But why would the admiral do such a thing?"

Oxenstierna smiled an odd smile. "Leave that up to me," was all he said.

Summer 1636, Kymenkartano, Finland

"Kaarlo." It amused Angelina to pronounce her husband's name as the locals did. She had waited until his pen was off the paper on the drawing board and on its way back to the ink pot before she spoke her husband's name and called him back into the smaller world of reality where things had to be built and paid for, instead of just imagined. When he had made the transition she asked, "Is this the new manor house for the countess?"

"No. That plan is done. This is a smaller one for Kristiina. Central heating, flush toilets, hot and cold running water, modern kitchen, everything the countess has, except not as many rooms, no ball room, no billiards room, no music room, no indoor swimming pool, only one sitting room. A Grantville-type home with servant's quarters up under the eaves and over the garage."

"It is time to come to dinner," Angelina said. She took his left hand. He preferred for her to walk on his sighted side. "I have been thinking," She said. "I don't think we should return to Germany before next spring."

"Why not? I need to get back to work."

"You have plenty to do right here. They are going to need help getting the paper plant running."

"True, but I've got the mechanical problems all worked out."

"Yes. But there is a lot more to it than that. Besides I don't want to give birth who knows where on the road." Angelina was late in her term. "And I sure can't handle our daughter being seasick like she was on the way here. Her nanny was useless. The poor woman was sicker than the child was. And it will be even worse in the rougher weather. We can justify the decision by pointing out the need to work with the pulp paper plant. You got the plywood mill running, for now, but you should stay awhile to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"That was easy. I only needed to change the gear ratios so the mill's peeler turned faster and cut at a higher speed, using momentum rather than brute force. If you want to wait until spring I don't see why we can't, though when it comes to making paper I'm in over my head."

"Why don't you get the old man who told you how to design the plant to come help?"

"He won't want to leave Grantville."

"Well, maybe it's time to do some arm twisting."

August 1636, Grantville, Thuringia-Franconia

Vernon McCabe looked at the letter from Magdeburg. It had arrived yesterday and he slept on it overnight after he discussed it with his late wife. Okay, maybe talking to her was not normal or even sane. After bickering and fussing and fighting like cats and dogs for fifty years, she was gone. The peace and quiet was deafening, so he had started talking to Mel. After all, he knew what she would say anyhow. The only bad part of it was that the family had caught him at it.

Not long after the funeral someone said, "Vernon, with Mel gone you need to start thinking about moving into the old folks home. You're going to need someone to look after you."

"Shoot, if I go down to the old folks home it'll be to look for a widow who still has her teeth and her mind and who has a family that don't want her. I'm sure she wouldn't want to be there any more than I would. On the other hand, maybe I should just find me a younger gal and start another family."

"Vern? At your age? You've got no business talking about getting married again."

"Who said anything about getting married?"

"Vernon, you need to sell the house and bank the money to live on."

"Either that or get a job."

"Vern, grow up! You're seventy-six. Who is going to hire you at your age?"

* * *

At breakfast Vernon started to read the letter aloud again.

Dear Sir,

. . . office is in receipt of a request for your services. They are asking that you come to Finland to share your expertise in paper making.

Please find enclosed herewith a train ticket to Magdeburg . We look forward to discussing the request with you. We consider this to be of the highest importance and we strongly encourage you . . .

"What they really mean," Melvina's voice said in his head, "is 'Get your ass in here so we can tell you where you're going.' A man your age has no business traipsin' off that far from home. No tellin' what'll happen to you while you're gone."

"Well, they can't send someone else. I'm the only one in Grantville who has ever worked in a paper mill. True, that was back in the fifties and the machine was built in the eighteen eighties and still running because old man Brown was too cheap to replace it. But right now that's a plus."

"Tell me something I don't know, Vern. I was there, too. I had to listen to you gripe about how old it was, and how the owner was too tight to update it. And when you weren't griping about that you were griping about the weather and missing home. Or are you so old you've forgotten? You didn't like the winter in Michigan. You sure won't like it in Finland, for crying out loud."

"Well now. Seems to me you were the one who thought I oughta' go to Magdeburg and help that navy fella' to draw up the plans for the paper machine," Vernon said. "Looks like that sweet little girl went home to Finland and built a plant, and now she can't get it to work."

"Well, you weren't doing nothin' else and the pay was good."

"Well, I ain't doing anything now, either."

"But you'll probably be gone all winter."

"So? What else do I have to do this winter? Besides, like you said, it will pay a whole lot better than anything I can get here in town and I'm already involved."

"They got no business asking a man near eighty years old to go to Finland."

"I ain't eighty yet!" Vernon said, getting his back up.

"You're closer to eighty than you are to seventy!"

"Well, I can at least go to Magdeburg and talk about it."

Late Fall 1636, Kymi Paper Mill

Tuomo, Carlo, Kristiina and Vernon stood at the end of the line, watching, while a large roll of rough brown paper was lifted off the end of the machine with a yoke rigged to a block and tackle. A new roll was already filling with paper.

"Mahtavaa," Tuomo said.

"And that means?" Vernon asked.

"Umm, translate it as 'great!' in this case. Are you sure we can sell this?" Kristiina asked.

"Ship it to Grantville if you can't sell it closer. They'll buy it. Or make paper bags here and sell them. We've got the machine working, now, but I know we can make better than this."

"But Master Verni, if we can already sell this, is it worth the extra work to make it work better?" Tuomo's German was getting better almost by the day.

"Yep. Yes, it is. When they said paper, I don't think this is what they had in mind. While we can sell this, we can sell typing paper for a lot more.

"Back when I was your age, I used to talk all night long with an operator almost as old as I am now. We worked swing shifts, so every third week we worked nights. He'd been around from the beginning, or next to it. He'd seen it all, and remembered it all, and told me all about it. Amongst other things, he told me what-all they did during the war when they couldn't always get what they needed, and had to scrounge and make do."

Vernon turned to Kristiina and said in English, "But, I told you all of that when we talked in Grantville and Magdeburg.

"That master dyer and the university-trained alchemist you hired out of Gribbleflotz's labs seem to know what they're doing. What they've done about making peroxides and chlorines with that one little generator is amazing. That thing ain't hardly more than a toy.

"I ain't gettin' back on that boat till spring gets here and the water calms down, anyhow, so we've got all winter to work it out. Don't go fretting about it, young lady. Between the dyer and the alchemist, and with what-all I've got tucked away up here—" He tapped the side of his head. "—Well, we may not get your paper to snow white. But we can get close enough. I am absolutely sure we can get to typing grade in something light enough that you won't have to worry about selling it.

"Even if they can only make enough bleach for every tenth batch or so, we'll have it worked out. You can get a bigger generator later."

"What did he say?" Tuomo asked.

Kristiina smiled. "He said we can make it work"

Spring 1637, Magdeburg, Warehouse Office of David Solomon, Merchant

"What are you saying?" a shocked Adalbert Schmitt demanded. "You told me you would take all the paper I could get you."

David Solomon replied, "I did. And I will. But the market price has dropped. I can't pay what I did before because I can't get what I did before."

Adalbert asked, "Why? Is demand down?"

David answered, "No. With the lower price my volume is actually up."

"Up?"

"Yes. Up! With the lower price I'm selling more paper. Printers are planning more books because they will be able to sell them for less."

"What can you give me?" Adalbert asked and sighed.

David named a price.

Adalbert blew up, "What? David, we've been doing business for years! Don't do this to me! Quit wasting my time and yours trying to bargain me down. Tell me what you will give me or I'll turn around and leave. Someone will buy what I've got. I'll carry it from printer to printer, if I have to."

David stood firm in the face of an empty threat. "That's the price, Adalbert. You will do a bit better in retail, until you factor in your time. But that is the best wholesale price you are going to get in this town. Yes, we used to pay the best price around, which is why you brought it here. Now we're not. Are there places you can do better? Yes. Not for much longer, mind you, but for right now, yes."

Adalbert caved in and asked, "What's going on? That's less than we were getting five years ago before the boom. The way you've been going through paper, the rag pickers are living like kings. There's a rag shortage now. I heard of a footpad who was ripping the clothes off of peoples backs because he could get more for rags than he could for their purses."

"Surely you jest!"

"Of course. It was a joke. But papermakers are paying twice what they did for rags and still can't get enough to meet demand. David, if I hadn't known you for years I'd call you a liar. There is no way anyone can get enough rags cheaply enough to sell paper at that price."

"They aren't using rags."

"Then, it's not the best quality paper. I've got top of the line white linen rag paper. Don't go trying to tell me it isn't worth more than what you're getting elsewhere?"

Adalbert continued, "What is it, anyway? All hemp? It would have to be at that price. You can't get a good all-hemp paper. You know anything over fifty/fifty just won't work for books. Broadsides? Maybe, but this is book quality paper you're turning your back on."

David brought an opened sheaf out from under the counter. Adalbert looked at it and paled. David kept a straight face. It would not be just a metaphor to say that Adalbert's face was paler than the paper. The stack on the counter was a soft tan or pale yellow. It was not as white as new snow in the sunshine. It was not as white as the white linen rag Adalbert was selling. It was not even quite as white as common cream. But, it was white enough to be called white.

Adalbert picked up a sheet. He held it up to the sunlight. There were no tears in it. There were no inclusions, no specks. There were no fibers to be seen. There was no watermark either. It was a rare papermaker's screen without a watermark. Adalbert could tell by looking it wouldn't pull apart. Sure it would tear, any paper would, but just pulling on the two ends of the sheet would not cause it to separate. Adalbert's heart crawled up from his chest and lodged in his throat. The quality was good enough, too. Was it the best he had ever seen? No. If David Solomon was telling the truth, which Adalbert knew he was, even if he didn't want to believe it, it was selling for less than what he had to get to turn a profit.

"How?" a cowed Adalbert asked.

"You know the navy here in town has been one of my biggest customers." David said.

Adalbert nodded.

"Well, a week ago their buyer canceled their standing order."

"Ohhh?" The sound carried pure sympathy.

"It's worse, and it's better. He says to me, 'Look, Herr Solomon, we've always done well by each other, I need to unload some surplus, can we help each other out?' And it turns out this isn't a one-time situation. He wants me to buy his surplus on an ongoing basis. He can let me have it at a price I can't pass up, and you've seen the quality."

"What is going on?"

"Someone in Sweden is using up-time techniques and turning wood pulp into paper."

"David? How did it happen without you hearing about it? It's not like you to let something like this slip by unnoticed."

"Oh I heard about it, but I didn't believe it. The people who knew about it all said not to worry; it would be years before they could be anything more than a novelty. I was told there would be months of poor quality paper, barely suitable for broadsides, or butcher paper like the grocery stores in Grantville want, while they worked out the bugs, before there was any book-quality paper. But they sent a mechanical genius from the navy yard to the back side of nowhere in Sweden last fall to work on something called plywood for building ships and things. Well, he got iced in and didn't come back till spring. When he did he brought a ship load of that." David pointed at the stack on the counter. "And a contract for a regular supply. I got a cancellation, and a contract to buy their surplus." He shrugged.

"You said wood pulp? How?"

Solomon shrugged again.

"This could put the papermakers out of business," Adalbert said.

"Yes, if they don't want to learn, and won't invest in the new equipment. The buyer told me you can't make this in a shop. It takes a mill. Building a mill costs a fortune. A shop can turn out nine rieses a day. A mill can do that in an hour.

"Look, Adalbert, I know you brought the paper here because I said I'd buy it. I can't give you the old price, but some customers are still buying rag paper, so I can still sell it. Now here's the best deal I can give you." He named a price. "But only if you take it out in the new paper."

Adalbert started to object. Why would he sell paper to buy paper? Before the words were out of his mouth his mind kicked in and did the math. It was a simple equation, after all. Probable price upon sale at points A, B, and C, minus purchase price and transport costs, equals . . . "Deal!" he said with a smile.

* * *

A Nerd at Sea

Written by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

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Portsmouth, England, 1633

Captain Erasmus Waddle didn't waddle, Jeremy noted. He seemed likely to, being a short, portly man of middle years with graying hair. If you saw a portrait of him you might well assume that he waddled like a duck. Instead he moved with a stiff, but forceful, precision, that seemed to say "Step aside or be run over! I've important business and you're interfering with it." Jeremy let such thoughts occupy his mind as his father and the captain disposed of his future without so much as glance his way.

"I'll train him to command if he's up to it, Mr. Toot," Captain Waddle said. "You can't tell till you see them in action, but he'll gain the skills right enough."

"Well, do what you can, sir." From his father's expression, he didn't expect much. The men shook hands, then Jeremy's father put his hand stiffly on Jeremy's shoulder. "Do what you're told, son." Then he left. Just like that. Jeremy was used to it and didn't really think his father didn't love him, but it hurt anyway. The England of Jeremy's birth was rather closer to Shakespeare than Rule Britannia. Its navy was closer to Drake's than Nelson's. Jeremy knew of Drake but nothing of Nelson or the traditions that made him. Those traditions were just being born, as much in the British East India Company and merchantmen as in the Royal Navy.

"Well, Mr. Toot, you're an apprentice master's mate aboard the Hazard now and I would imagine that it's going to be a bit of a shock," Captain Waddle said. "It might help you to know the reasons why things are so different before you are faced with it." He snorted. "It certainly would have helped me. A ship at sea isn't like a farm or a croft. People can't leave and there's not room for them to go off by themselves. Even a simple mistake can kill not only you but everyone on board, if it's just the wrong mistake at the wrong time and there's no place to run to get away from the disaster and no one outside the ship's company to come to our aid. The answer to that is ship's discipline in order to minimize the mistakes people make."

Jeremy was aware that the Hazard was named for the dice game. He'd heard his parents talking about it. Still the name seemed all too prophetic for comfort.

* * *

Out of Portsmouth they sailed to Hamburg, while Young Mr. Toot learned what ship's discipline meant at the frayed end of a piece of rope. He also started learning navigation, ship handling, rigging, and the location of everything on board ship.

"Why Hamburg, Lieutenant Wesley? My da said we were going to the Indies," Sam Townsend asked. Sam was one of the five other special ship's boys, the ones whose families had paid to have them trained to be ship's officers. The ones that the captain and Lieutenant Wesley called "midshipmen" to differentiate them from the regular ship's boys, and because they were housed amidships, while the regular crew were housed before the mast and the officers in the stern.

Mr. Wesley gave Sam a hard look and Jeremy was glad he hadn't asked the question. Then the first mate shrugged. "Since we're at sea it doesn't matter, but I will have a few words with Mr. Townsend when we get to shore about speaking out of turn." Mr. Wesley, as was often the case with first mates, was the backer's representative on board. "After I've talked with your da, I imagine he'll have a talk with you. He did at least tell you not to mention the Indies, didn't he?"

Sam nodded.

"We're going to Hamburg for two reasons," Lieutenant Wesley continued. "First because that's where we told the government we were going. The Governor and Company of Merchants of London Trading into the East Indies has exclusive license from the crown to do business in the East Indies. So sailing straight from Portsmouth to the East Indies would be a crime—which your father, Mr. Townsend, would be assumed to be a party to. However, after going to Hamburg to pick up various goods, the captain's instructions are, officially, simply to look for opportunities for trade and shipping. If we should happen to end up in the East because that's where contracts or the trade took us, that's a much more iffy matter . . . and can hardly be considered the fault of the investors.

"The other reason is to buy trade goods. No doubt you've all heard of the up-timers." He looked around at the midshipmen, collecting nods and more than one doubtful look. "I'm not sure I believe everything I've heard, either. But wherever they come from, they have some unbelievable goods—many of which can be had in Hamburg. Goods that become more valuable the farther you get them from where they are made. I haven't seen all those goods, but I know a German captain who bought a set of clocks that he swears are accurate after months at sea. If they are, then any captain that puts to sea for a long voyage without them is a fool. Now explain to me, Mr. Townsend, why is that? What is the advantage of having an accurate timepiece at sea?" Which brought the discussion back to issues of navigation. They spent another half hour on navigation problems then an hour discussing maritime law, after which they were released to the second mate.

Mr. Wesley taught them the book learning; Mr. Burnside oversaw them as they took sightings and other work having to do with managing the ship. Jeremy rather enjoyed their time with Mr. Wesley, but none of the midshipmen enjoyed their time with Mr. Burnside. Nor, as he made quite plain, did Mr. Burnside enjoy wasting his time on a bunch of puffed up ship's boys whose parents had more money than sense. Mr. Burnside was a quick man with a rope end.

* * *

"Now be quiet in here, Mr. Toot." The captain was a stickler for manners. Hamburg was Jeremy's first visit to a foreign port. He was moderately well educated and surprisingly well read, but his German was, at best, spotty. He could worry out written German well enough, but understanding what was said was another matter. Which was why he was trailing along in the captain's wake while Captain Waddle went looking for clocks.

The store was easy to find. It was located in the most upper-class section of the port area of Hamburg, near a tavern where captains and officers from the ships came to dine and discuss business. It also had a rather large sign saying Naval and Navigational Equipage in the florid German style. Inside were clocks, true enough, but there were more than clocks. There were sextants, much more accurate than the Davis Quadrant that they had been using on the trip over. Sextants, as the shopkeeper explained, used adjustable mirrors to locate the distance from the horizon.

Jeremy watched with some amusement as the shopkeeper noted that they were English and pointed out that the first use of the technique was by the famous, not yet born, English scholar Sir Isaac Newton. He wondered who the fellow would have credited with the invention if they had been French. Probably a mythical viscount or something. The device, sextant, from the arch of one sixth of a circle, was no laughing matter at all. The clerk demonstrated it and the accuracy was amazing compared to the Davis Quadrant and so was the ease of use.

Absent knowledge of the exact time, it was more accuracy than would do you any good for longitude but for latitude . . . it could tell you within a mile of where you were. Then the clerk showed them the clock sets. Each box showed three clocks. As a safety feature, the clerk explained. It would be much later before Jeremy learned why the works of the clocks were oriented differently, or why there were springs made of combined metals. The little booklet that came with the clocks didn't say. But if they worked, it would mean you could tell longitude as well as latitude. They were expensive, but not exorbitantly so. Which was surprising when they got a look at the works.

Then they looked at the charts. "These are a combination of the locations provided by the up-timers maps and rudders and more precise, well, more detailed, maps we already had access to," the clerk said.

"How does that work?" the captain asked.

"The up-timers have very accurate maps," the clerk said, "but often they don't have a great deal of detail. They will give, either in the maps themselves or in a listing, the exact location, longitude and latitude, of a geographic feature that we also have records of. For instance, they have the location of Surat, but the maps of the coast near Surat are not at a useful scale. They lack detail, so we use the location of Surat from the up-timers references and combine that with coastal maps, and that gives us the location of cove and coast for miles around the city. It works even better when we have two or three features that are on both one of our maps and one of theirs."

Jeremy couldn't help it. "You guess," he blurted out.

The clerk started to look offended, but Captain Waddle laughed, then nodded. "Mapmakers have always guessed, Mr. Toot. A worthwhile thing to remember."

"Granted, Captain. But the up-timers maps and records make the guesses much better. Using this technique, we have chart books of greater accuracy than can be found outside the Ring of Fire and greater detail than can be found inside it." Then the clerk looked Jeremy up and down. "A likely lad. Perhaps he would like to examine the more general references we have from the Ring of Fire while we talk."

It was clear even to Jeremy that he was being gotten rid of while the clerk tried to make a sale. But the captain nodded and waved Jeremy over to the general knowledge section.

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It was in the general reference section that Jeremy found A Compilation of Useful Up-timer Knowledge Gleaned from the Encyclopedias and the Mother Earth Booklets. It was in English because the author—transcriber might have been a better word—had rushed to print without taking the time to translate, apparently in an attempt to get there first with the most. Considering that there were several copies gathering dust in a back corner, it seemed likely that it was a less than astute business decision.

Jeremy paged through the books. The print face was uninspired and the spelling was atrocious, but he was used to variations in spelling and if the print face was dull, it was quite legible. And there were quite a few pictures and diagrams. It occurred to Jeremy that these books would probably sell rather better in London than in Hamburg. There were designs for irrigation systems, wash boards, tillers, all manner of things. Jeremy found himself caught up in a discussion of hydraulics.

When Captain Waddle and the clerk had finished their business, Jeremy showed the captain the books he had been reading. And whispered that they would probably be worth more in England than here, "because at least we can read them." The problem was that they weren't headed for England. Still, the captain let Jeremy buy one copy of the set.

* * *

"You, boy!" Captain Waddle shouted. "You, ah, Perkins, isn't it?"

A scruffy ship's boy with brown hair that looked like a haystack ran over. Captain Waddle handed him the bag he was carrying. "Take this to my quarters. Toot, you help him. That bag is heavy."

As soon as Captain Waddle turned away, Perkins sneered. "Don't need any help, Mister Toot. You gwan back to your books and figures, why don't you?"

"Because I'm under the captain's orders just as much as you are," Jeremy said. "And I'll not be wanting to get my rear end kicked up around my ears anymore than you do."

Perkins just snorted and Jeremy didn't know what to do. His rank was sort of higher than the ship's boy's, but only sort of. A hundred years later, even fifty years later, when midshipman had become an official rank of the Royal Navy he would have put Perkins in his place. Fifty years earlier there would have been no distinction; he would have been just another ship's boy. Jeremy had no way of knowing that he was caught in the middle of making a tradition. So he helped Perkins carry the load to the captain's quarters. Then collected his books and went back to his place amidships.

* * *

Bob Perkins wiped the sweat from his eyes. It was hot in the hold. They were stowing pallets of copper plate. Which Bob had heard wasn't what the captain had wanted. It wasn't that there wasn't stuff from that Grantville place in Hamburg. Just not enough of it. Perkins had seen the weirdest stuff and you could buy it. Well, Bob Perkins couldn't, not on a ship's boy's pay. But all the officers and most of the Middies had bought something or other. There just wasn't enough to fill a hold. So they were shipping copper plate. Which First Mate had said was little better than shipping ballast. Some better because they could get a fair price for copper in the Indies but nothing like they would have got for a load of electrics, steam motors, or pumps. The bos'n said they had gotten the copper plate at a bargain price because there was some new process for making it and they'd made too much of it.

Perkins looked up at Mr. Jeremy Toot standing by the bos'n while the bos'n told him how the pallets were to be distributed to keep the weight of the ship evenly balanced. No heavy lifting for the midship boys. Stuck up little snots.

* * *

From Hamburg, they sailed northwest around the British isles, threading the needle between Far Isle and the southern tip of the Shetlands. Then south/southwest for the Azores, all the while avoiding the sight of land, partly as a test of the new navigation equipment, and partly to avoid the channel pirates. They didn't quite manage to avoid all sight of land. The lookout saw Far Isle, though it wasn't visible from the poop deck. But they did hit Ponta Delgada dead on. They reprovisioned at Ponta Delgada and used the northern trades to take them southwest to the equator. They made it slowly through the doldrums to the southeast trades, where they ran into a storm. It wasn't a hurricane. All the officers were sure of that, because hurricanes didn't happen in the south Atlantic.

* * *

"Damn it all, boy!" Second Mate Franklin Burnside screamed over the storm. "You blasted lubber, you did that on purpose."

The "that" in question was Midshipman Jeremy Toot's last meal, which had heartily offended his stomach and been forcefully ejected from it. Jeremy was convinced that had the meal returned to the bowl it had started from no one could have told the difference. Disgusting going in and only slightly more disgusting coming out. However, Jeremy's aim was lacking. The former contents of his stomach were now decorating Lieutenant Burnside's left boot and trouser leg. The leg that had been sticking out from the table. Vomiting on the lieutenant's boot and pants hadn't been intentional, not even the aim, though Jeremy privately felt the outcome was just. Lieutenant Burnside, among his other faults, had an iron stomach and enjoyed showing it off.

The ship heaved again but this time Jeremy managed not to. The storm had lasted for the past two days. It was the worst pounding the ship had taken since he had been consigned to it.

Burnside raised a fist and Jeremy tensed but didn't flinch. He had learned that flinching or cowering didn't help, and any show of defiance brought utter disaster. But this time all Burnside did was shove him away. "Get on deck, mama's boy. Maybe we'll get lucky and the storm will take you."

Jeremy made his way on deck with considerable difficulty, where he was put to work under the bos'n. For two more days, he and the rest of the crew worked the ship out of the hurricane's influence, on little food and less sleep. They survived, but not intact.

* * *

"Have a look over there, Mr. Toot. You, too, Perkins," the bos'n said.

Jeremy squeezed around the barrels and bundles in the hold, Perkins following resentfully. Jeremy didn't know what the ship's boy had against him. They were in the same boat after all.

Being bookish on the Hazard had not made life pleasant for Jeremy. While navigation and the keeping of accounts was held in high regard, reading for enjoyment and doing maths not needed for accounts or navigation was considered decidedly odd. Not exactly effeminate, but snooty. Jeremy, whose reading was better than Mr. Burnside's, had been assigned to teach basic reading and math to the ship's boys, relieving Mr. Wesley of that duty. And Perkins was doing pretty well. He certainly worked hard enough at it. But every time Jeremy had to correct him, he could almost feel Perkins grinding his teeth.

"Well, now. Isn't that a mess?"

Jeremy gulped. This did not bode well for the ship.

Bos'n Garry Jordan shook his head. "A right mess." He looked over at Jeremy. "Ah, now. Come along. Best to get the bad news and make what we can of what's left."

"Aye, Bos'n." Bos'n Jordan was a hefty fellow, strong as an ox. He heaved aside one of the broken water barrels. Jeremy did his best to help, but he was slight compared to Bos'n Jordan. "How bad do you think?"

Jordan had picked his way to the barrels that hadn't overturned and smashed. "'Tisn't good. Not good at all. See here?" He held up the end of the rope that usually helped hold the barrels in place. "Frayed. The storm will have finished it off."

They continued to pick their way through the destruction in the holds. Jeremy noted that many of the barrels that hadn't broken were sprung at the seams and leaking. Worse, when they opened a cask, the water tasted of salt. The bilge water had seeped in to the barrel.

"Bos'n!" That was Perkins, on the other side of the hold. "Come see!"

* * *

"It's nah so bad, lads." Bos'n Jordan clapped Jeremy and Perkins on their backs. "Old Cookie, he can use the saltier water in the porridge. 'Snah like we're not used to salt, after all."

Jeremy shook off his shock. He was a midshipman, after all. "I'm sure we'll manage, Bos'n." He paused a moment. "Well, I'd best report to the captain."

There was enough water for about three weeks. With the Hazard in the condition the storm had left it, they were at least five weeks from any known land. If they got rain—enough rain—they might make it. But it didn't look good. Sailing ships didn't follow the shortest routes; they followed the best winds. They were in the mid-Atlantic, actually closer to the Americas, but when the storm let them loose they were at thirty-three degrees south in the Horse latitudes closer to where the southern westerlies blew from west to east. The closest place in terms of travel time was Africa.

* * *

The second mate, Lieutenant Burnside, stared down his long, long nose. "So, Toot, just what is our status?"

"Forty-eight barrels, sir." Jeremy Toot didn't want to give this report. "And fifteen of those are iffy. The bos'n said we might have to use them anyway."

"Not good. Not good at all."

"No, sir. But there's worse, I'm afraid."

"Well, don't just stand there, Toot." Burnside stood and tried to tower over Jeremy, although he wasn't really tall enough for the full effect. Jeremy wasn't all that short. "What else?"

"It's the beer, sir. The beer barrels are all empty and broken. The ropes broke. So, it's water or nothing . . . and soon enough, it will be nothing."

* * *

"Perhaps if we head west?" Lieutenant Burnside set down his mug and looked up at Captain Erasmus Waddle. "Turn north and catch the trades. We're closer to land westward."

Captain Waddle shook his head sadly. "Not much closer, not much at all. And I don't want us stuck in the Horse any more than we can avoid." He took a sip of his own water ration, which had been topped off with a bit of his private stock of rum. "We're best to continue as we are, I'm afraid. If we keep the men busy, they won't have time to worry and fret."

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"Well, then." Burnside stood up and fetched a map the captain pointed out. "We're here, by this morning's sighting." He studied it for a moment. "If we sail southeast we should get into the westerlies and fetch up in southern Africa. That's if we can ever get free of the Horse." The Horse latitudes were a high pressure zone extending from roughly thirty to thirty-five degrees where the winds didn't blow well or consistently.

Waddle worked out some figures. "Yes. I wish we were a bit further south, but if the wind cooperates, we may make it."

Burnside nodded. The winds were not being especially cooperative. Since the storm, they'd died down to light breezes. The ship wasn't moving quickly at all.

* * *

"The Hazard is owned in part by Captain Waddle," Jeremy explained to the ship's boys. "I understand he did quite well while serving the British East India Company. And the rest is owned by a cabal of investors." Including Jeremy's father but Jeremy didn't mention that part. "She was bought at auction, refurbished, refitted and renamed. Originally built for the often hostile eastern trade, she's five hundred tons and carries twenty guns."

The guns meant that the Hazard carried a larger crew than might normally be expected of a merchantman. More crew meant more provisions which decreased her cargo. Jeremy didn't mention that either. He didn't want to remind the boys that they were low on the most vital provision—water. "The truth is that the Hazard is halfway to being a smuggler and a quarter of the way to being a pirate. Which was perfectly clear to anyone in Spithead that cared about such things. What they couldn't tell, from her provisioning was where she's going to do her smuggling." Jeremy kicked himself mentally. He shouldn't have mentioned the provisioning. The main reason for the second hour of classes each day was to keep them occupied and keep their minds off the lack of water.

"Navigation," Jeremy rushed on, "that let's us stay out of sight of land and hopefully other ships is important to the captain's plans once we reach the Indies. He hopes to be able to contact friends he made there without the factors of the East India Company ever being the wiser. We can buy a load of spices and sell them in Spain or Scotland and all have a major bonus." Which was another reason that Captain Waddle had been willing to try the new navigation gear they had bought in Hamburg. And why Jeremy had—with an advance on his wages—gotten a three book set in English, sort of, called A Compilation of Useful Up-timer Knowledge Gleaned from the Encyclopedias and the Mother Earth Booklets. Jeremy didn't know what a Mother Earth Booklet was. He had no way of knowing about Mother Earth News magazine, which described its version of how to live in harmony with nature, and which had been quite useful to the up-timers in making their cheat sheets. Nor did he care all that much. What he cared about was the information contained in his book set on subjects as diverse as food preservation and solar water heating. Information he could get back to as soon as class was over. He loved those books. They had made much of the trip since Hamburg more pleasant.

So why not use them?

* * *

Bob Perkins kept his mouth shut with an effort as Mr. Toot went and got his silly books. Showing off his education as usual. Yet Bob found himself interested as a simple solar oven was described. A situation not to be borne.

"It might work like it says," Bob said. "But where on earth would you get mirrors that big, is what I want to know. Or a glass container big enough?"

"That's a good point, Perkins," Mr. Toot said. Bob hated it when Mr. Toot said things like that. He always sounded so bleedin' pleased, almost surprised. Like his half-trained dog had just fetched him a stick. The truth was that Jeremy Toot was pleased, honestly pleased, to have provided knowledge to a fellow human being. Bob Perkins was unprepared to admit that even to himself. Especially now when he was scared that they were all going to die when they ran out of water.

"The directions for the 'simple solar oven' are indeed simple enough," Mr. Toot continued. Then, checking the books title page, "For an . . . up-timer, but as Perkins points out, simple isn't the same as practical. Not that Cookie being able to cook without fire wouldn't be a good thing. It would be a saving on wood, assuming you had sunshine, of course and more importantly, open flame on shipboard is dangerous. Still I imagine the directions for making a solid gold chamber pot are as simple. They probably start with 'buy five pounds of gold' and I think we'd all find better uses for five pounds of gold than making it into a chamber pot."

Bob snorted in spite of himself. "So, does your book have a way to turn salt water into fresh?" he asked, almost congenially.

Mr. Toot froze as if he'd been struck by lightning. Then he was running his finger up and down the contents listing in the first book, mumbling like a madman and all the other boys looked at Bob as though asking what he'd done to Mr. Toot.

Mr. Toot stopped only his eyes moving back and forth. "Solar distillation. How to distill water using the sun. Book two, page one forty-three," he said. Then he grabbed the second book and was flipping through the pages.

All the boys knew what distill meant. It was what you did to make rum, scotch and brandy. Which was all they knew about it. But in Bob's mind a light went on. If you could distill the spirits out of mash to make rum, could you distill the salt out of water to make fresh water? Now, that was something they could use. And Bob was caught by conflicting emotions. If there was such a device, they might all be saved and that was a good thing. But their saving would come out of Mr. Toot's bloody useless book and that was very definitely a bad thing. While Bob was balancing dying a slow and painful death on the one hand and having Mr. Toot be their bloody savior on the other, Mr. Toot had been reading through the article.

"Damn it to bloody hell!" Bob heard Mr. Toot's curse with disappointment not unmixed with relief. "They do have a solar distiller for making fresh—what they call distilled water," Mr. Toot continued with a defeated air. "It will work on salt water. According to the book, it will even work on piss. Unfortunately, it's like the solar oven or the solid gold chamber pot. It requires glass and quite a bit of it to make it work."

Almost against his will, Bob said, "Well, maybe if you put that one together with something else in there, you might have something that would work. 'Sides there is some glass on board. The captain's wife made him buy them big glass winders for the captains cabin." Most ships had glass windows, made from little bitty bits of glass held together with lead. But the captain's cabin on the Hazard had bigger squares of glass held together with wood. The captain's wife had insisted over the objections of everyone else and paid for them. Being the younger daughter of a baronet, she got her way.

* * *

Jeremy followed Perkin's advice after dismissing the class to other duties. He didn't have to look that far. The solar water heater was only a couple of articles over and it mentioned that while the glass and reflectors made it more efficient it would work without it. Black pipes were all you needed. But there was a problem that Jeremy didn't even know was there. What he had wasn't a book on thermodynamic theory. It was a how-to book. Long on what, but really short on why. The picture showed the water flowing through the pipes getting hotter. And it mentioned in passing that the reason the solar water heaters worked was because hot water rose. That was enough for Jeremy to guess that if they put their small solar still on top of a solar hot water heater, it ought to work just fine. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—the book didn't mention the heat of vaporization in the bits Jeremy was reading. Five hundred and thirty-nine calories per gram would only have depressed him.

The book didn't mention that both a solar hot water system and a solar still are open thermodynamic systems. That radiant energy, sunlight, is converted into thermal energy. That the thermal energy is concentrated temporarily because the hot water rises faster than it loses its heat to its surroundings. It didn't mention the second law of thermodynamics at all or the fact that someone who wasn't all that familiar with it might assume that the temporary concentration of thermal energy violated it. Which it didn't, because in terms of heat transfer the solar hot water heater, the solar still and the bastardized half and half that Jeremy came up with were all open system, not closed systems and didn't violate it at all.

On the up side, Jeremy proceeded in a sort of blissful ignorance that more closely resembled wisdom than the sort of certitude of impossibility that a partial understanding of thermodynamics' second law might have produced. On the down-side it meant that he had a vague and limited understanding of what was going on and even less notion of what was important. He didn't, for instance, realize how important the transfer of heat from the outer surface of the pipes to the water in the pipes was.

Jeremy wasn't at all sure that it would work. There were things the books stressed, like how the pipes had to be dark, preferably black. That black absorbed more light and so got hotter, sooner, in sunlight. What he had in mind wasn't exactly like any single thing in the book. He would take it to the captain.

* * *

Captain Waddle wasn't as intimidating as Mr. Burnside, Jeremy told himself. At least, not intimidating in the same way. Besides, this was for the ship. Jeremy knocked on the door to the captain's cabin and discovered not only the captain but the second mate in his cabin. Mr. Wesley was on watch.

"What do you need, Mr. Toot?" the captain asked.

"Ah. Well, sir . . . I was teaching the ships boys using those books I got in Hamburg and Perkins had a thought. When I looked it turned out that there was something to it. According to the books the up-timers had a way of . . ."

"Bushwah!" Burnside stared at him. "Bushwah, Toot. Now is not the time to get lost in fairytales 'bout mythical magi from the future."

Captain Waddle harrumphed. "Leave the boy alone, Burnsey. The sextant and the clocks have proved useful enough."

Jeremy winced. The captain had used a fake Scot accent, which was guaranteed to put Burnside in a foul mood. He insisted that he was English to the core, not a Scot. Only the captain could twit him about it, though.

"What does this up-timer book have to offer us?" Captain Waddle pointed at the book. "I assume it's in that one?"

"Yes, sir. It's called a solar still, sir."

"You want to make rum?" Mr. Burnsides asked.

Jeremy shook his head. "No, sir. It's a way to distill fresh water from sea water, sir."

"Now see, Mr. Burnsides? The lad has solved all our problems." It was clear from the captain's tone that he didn't believe it would work but he had decided to be amused rather than angry.

"Yes, sir," Mr. Burnsides agreed in the same lack of belief but taking his cue from the captain. "No doubt. And with the added benefit that it doesn't require taking off our clothes like Seaman Crocker's rain dance. Your scheme doesn't require me to strip, does it, Mr. Toot?"

"No, sir!" Jeremy felt his face turning red.

"Well, if Mr. Burnsides' modesty is assured," Captain Waddle said, "trot out your plan, Mr. Toot."

So Jeremy did, showing them the drawings in the books of the solar still and the solar hot water heater. And describing how Perkins had suggested that there might be some combination of other things in the books."

"And what do you think of Perkins?" asked Captain Waddle.

Jeremy was caught. Perkins hated Jeremy's guts, of that Jeremy was sure. And truth be told, Jeremy wasn't that fond of the resentful ship's boy. But . . . "Sir, Perkins dislikes me and all the midshipmen, but he doesn't let that interfere with the good of the ship. He's smart and hard working, sir. He works harder at everything than any of the other ship's boys. I just wish he'd give up the chip on his shoulder."

Jeremy waited as the captain and Mr. Burnsides exchanged looks. Jeremy realized that that they disagreed about something but Mr. Burnsides was the captain's choice, unlike Mr. Wesley, who had been selected by the owners. Neither man gave ground and the moment passed.

"And you'll need glass?" Mr. Burnsides asked. Then he grinned. "My modesty is safe, Skipper, but not your windows."

"Yes. There is that," the captain acknowledged. "But just think . . . if I doesn't work I shan't have to explain it to the Mrs."

"Aye, sir, there is that."

"Take your project to the bos'n, Mr. Toot. Have him look it over and advise you."

* * *

After the boy had left, Captain Waddle turned to his second mate and long time friend. "Jeremy seems to be shaping up fairly well, don't you think?"

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"And Bob Perkins, Skipper," Sam Burnsides said. "My problem with your midshipmen is that they're coddled. They've been coddled all their lives and they're still being coddled. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Perkins may not have the education that Toot has, but he has more grit. And I'd say more sense as well." At the captain's glance Burnsides shrugged. "All right. Your Mr. Toot did acknowledge that Perkins had the idea and that speaks well of Toot. But, Captain, Perkins deserves his shot and it's not fair to have these pampered mama's boys put ahead of likely lads because their parents have more money."

"The world's not fair, Franklin. It never has been and never will be. You know it as well as I. The midshipmen's parents have paid for their education and the education they bring with them makes learning what they need go faster."

"So what do you think of this solar still, Skipper?"

Captain waddle snorted. "I think the same thing you do, Franklin. It will keep the crew occupied and not brooding. There's a good chance they can keep tinkering with it till it rains."

Burnsides nodded grimly. "Or till we're all too weak for it to matter."

* * *

"Never work." Bos'n Jordan spat over the side. "Not possible, not on board a ship."

"But, it shows how . . ." Jeremy started to say pointing to the combined drawings he had made.

"Shows how on land, lad. Think a moment, you with your seasickness. The motion of the ship—that's the problem." Jordan pointed to the solar still part of the drawing. "Look. 'Tis a long, flat box, not a bit higher than, say . . . oh, the length of my hand. This is a ship. It rolls and yaws with every wave. What do you think would happen when that long box tilts with the motion of the ship? Whoosh . . . sea water in this section here all flows to one end, then up over the wall betwixt it and the fresh. All the way up to splash the glass, if we had glass. Near as I can tell from what this shows, it's the drops of water on the glass that are the good water, yes?"

Jeremy hadn't considered that at all. He let himself slump against the rail. "Well . . . well . . . damn."

"Let me take a look at that book again." Jordan held out his hand. "We'll see if there's something that might work a bit better." He grinned. "Downright pity it doesn't tell how to make beer."

Jeremy grinned. "Aye to that. But right now, I'd be happy to have a bit more than a mug of water a day. Especially in this heat."

A cloud passed over the sun, and they both looked up hopefully. Unfortunately, the cloud was high and white, not the type that portended rain.

They bent to their studying.

* * *

"There must be something we can do." Jeremy slumped back against the wall. "Something. Anything."

"Could be. Could be. We'll start at the beginning," Bos'n Jordan said, pointing at the pipes of the solar hot water heater. "Now what do these pipes do again?"

"They make the water hot." Jeremy said. "The water comes in the bottom cold and gets hotter as it goes up through the pipes."

"This bit here?"

"That takes the hot water from the hot water heater to the still."

"And the flat box with the windows is the still," Bos'n Jordan confirmed. Then pointed to the pipe that went from the still back to the solar water heater. "What's this for?"

"It takes the salty water back to the heater."

"I can see that, lad, but why?"

The problem was Jeremy wasn't really sure why. "Well, the drawings of the solar hot water systems all have that circular flow in them. I think the water has to be able to flow for it to work. I almost had the distilled water go back but would just make it salty again." He shrugged. "I'm not totally sure we need it but better to have it when it's not needful than not to when it is."

The bos'n nodded. Then pointed back to the solar still. "What does the glass do?"

"That's a bit confusing," Jeremy said. "The drawings in the book show little arrows which must be light going through the glass and hitting the water . . . maybe going into the water. It's hard to tell. And they show the water collecting on the glass and dripping down the side of it. But it doesn't explain what's happening." What the drawings from the book showed but didn't explain was that the light didn't turn into heat till it was stopped by something. Because the light passed through the glass rather than being absorbed by it the glass stayed cool so the water vapor condensed on to it.

"Let me think on it. Meanwhile I'll get the ship's carpenter on these pipes."

"If you say so, Bos'n. But they need to be put together a bit odd. See here?" Jeremy pointed to the drawing. "Can he do that?"

The pipes were obviously meant to be metal, but all they had was wood. That would mean carving and forming a hollow channel in the wood, then putting two halves of channel together, probably with glue, then covering the seams with pitch. And the rather odd configuration would be very difficult and have a lot of seams.

"Well, I'm wondering if it has to be that shape." Jordan pulled the drawings toward himself and looked at it again. "From what you said the hotter the water gets, the higher it will rise. So why this shape? If it will rise, why not maybe this?" He drew a Z shape in the air. "The bottom starts low, goes up a bit, then the next bit is a bit higher, it turns, goes up more, turns again and goes up to your still? Looks to me like if the water will rise in the one, it would rise in that. If we can make it hot enough in the first place."

 "I don't see why that wouldn't work." Jeremy ran his finger across the page as he read aloud. "'The pipes should be painted black and should not be very big around.' I've been thinking about that, too. We don't have black paint, but we do have ink. Perhaps stain the wood with the ink? Make it darker?"

"Ah. That might work. I'll go speak to Fred."

Jeremy was just as glad it would be Bos'n Jordan going to see the ship's carpenter. Fred Grundy was about as big as Jordan, after all. And a lot less patient.

"We'll need some container to draw off the water. Glass would be best so we could tell how much we're getting and maybe adjust stuff," Jeremy pointed out.

"You leave that to me," the bos'n said with a gleam in his eye.

* * *

"It's a waste of time, Bos'n," Fred Grundy complained.

"Ah. Beyond your skills is it, Chippy?"

Fred just looked at him and Garry Jordan gave back a half grin. A ship's carpenter was the elite of all carpenters, at least according to ship's carpenters. A good ship's carpenter could build a ship, given the supplies and time. A more prideful set of craftsmen you'd not find on land or sea.

Fred was no less prideful than any other ship's carpenter, but he was wise to the ways of the bos'n. At the moment, Jordan knew that Chippy was inclined to agree with the second mate on the value of the work he was being set to. "It's the captain's orders, Chippy," Jordan finally said with a bite in his voice. Then, in a more reasonable tone, "Listen, Fred. If it don't work, at least it's something to do and if it does even just a bit it could make the difference. Myself, I'm starting to think it might. I've listened to the midshipman as he read from the book and it makes sense."

Fred sighed. "Show me what you want."

Of course, once he had seen what was needed and had why it was needed—as Jordan knew it—explained to him, neither the book's nor Jordan's design would do. First making a whole set of pipes, solar water heater design or not, would be a pain in the rear end. For what they wanted, they didn't need pipes. Instead, he made a simple, very flat, box with internal supports that acted as channels for the water. There was a wall between the back chamber and the front—the sunny side and the shaded side—that went to about half an inch above the bottom of the box. The water he explained would "flow down the back chamber and up the front." The front chamber was only about a half inch thick internally so there was a lot of surface area for each cubic inch of water in the box.

* * *

Garry Jordan didn't creep. He was an experienced seaman and doing no more than his duty, after all. He did make note of the fact that the second mate was on watch and would be away from his cabin for some hours before he got around to collecting the clear bottle that Mister Toot required for his device.

He picked up the bottle and admired the rich dark amber color, not of the bottle but of its contents. Then he carefully wrapped it in a cloth he had brought along for the purpose. This was to protect the bottle from breakage and had nothing to do with the fact that wrapped in the cloth it might be anything at all.

The bottle being wrapped, Jordan took it to the crew's quarters and called together the ship's petty officers. "Lads, I have a problem." Jordan unwrapped the bottle and held it up for all to see. This produced some nervous looks. For it was well known that Mr. Burnsides liked one thing and one thing only about the Scots. Their whiskey. "Now, Mister Toot needs a clear bottle for his project. He told me so himself. So I collected the only clear bottle on board. However, it's almost three-quarters full, since it was filled shortly before the storm from the second mate's personal stock. What we need is an empty bottle. Now, I considered the simple solution of pouring it over the side, but that seems wasteful."

The mid-watch crew chief looked around him at the many containers that might store the whiskey. Before he could speak, he was kicked in the shins by the chief cook. "Don't be trying to think like an officer, Dobbsson," Cookie told the junior chief. "You don't have the brains for it."

"We all must make sacrifices for the welfare of the ship," Chippy said portentously. "I am very much afraid we are going to have to . . ." He paused and shuddered, then visibly forced the words out. "Drink it!"

"What a clever notion," Jordan proclaimed. "Get your cups, lads."

The cups were gathered and Jordan, with great ceremony, poured a shot or so into each man's cup. Dobbsson took his down in a shot, much to the disgust of the others present. This was, after all, fourteen-year-old sipping whiskey. Mr. Burnsides had commented on it several times.

* * *

The bos'n smiled pleasantly at the second mate. "Mister Toot needed a clear bottle to collect the water. The captain said that he was to have what he needed and you had the only clear bottle on board."

"And where is my whiskey?" Lieutenant Burnside looked around the crew's quarters.

"Well, sir, I poured it out," Jordan told him quite truthfully. "We just needed the bottle, not what was in it."

"Into what? A jug? Which one?"

"Why, what a clever thought, sir. I never thought of such a thing." Jordan shrugged self-deprecatingly "That's why there's officers to think of things like that, sir."

* * *

"He claims he poured out good whiskey." Lieutenant Burnside pointed at Garry Jordan.

"If Garry Jordan says he poured it out, then he poured it out. I've known him for years. He's an honest man." He looked over at Jordan. "What did you pour it out into?"

Burnside interrupted. "I asked him that, sir. He denied pouring it into another container."

The captain gave Jordan questioning look.

"I didn't poor it into a jug, sir," Jordan said.

"Of course not. What did you pour it into?

Caught, Gary thought. "Cups, sir."

The captain sighed. "Sit down, Mr. Burnside." He waved Jordan out, with a glare that said "I'll take care of you later."

* * *

The still had lots of little boxes in it, that would keep the water from sloshing all over the place. Each little box was filled with black cloth to hold the water and absorb the heat.

"But how do we fill all the boxes from just the one tap?"

"They leak, Midshipman. Just not real fast."

Along one side was a trough and a higher partition between the trough and the little boxes. The wall between the trough and the boxes, thankfully, didn't leak.

* * *

Lieutenant Burnside was beginning to look as ragged as the rest of them by four days later. The water was down to thirty-five barrels, with a half ration of water per day per man. Still, Burnside wasn't being at all helpful, although Captain Waddle kept him out of the way most of the time.

Meanwhile, the port side of the poop deck looked a mess. The contraption, side on, looked a little like an upside down L, or perhaps a weird P, with the vertical hanging off the port side of the poop deck. The vertical was the solar hot water heater. The bulgy horizontal was the solar still. With the larger-than-they-should-have-been windows Captain Waddle's wife had insisted on.

"It couldn't be helped, sir." Jeremy very carefully placed the window in position, then covered the edge with more pitch. "They're all we've got and something has to let the light in, so the sun will keep the water hot."

"If we get another storm, Toot, you'd best make your best effort to save that glass. The wife will have my guts for garters if it gets broken, indeed she will."

Jeremy hid a grin. Captain Waddle had a fund of "the wife" stories. The woman sounded like a terrible scold, but Jeremy had seen her once. Tiny, a good bit younger than the captain, and very dainty. There was no way that little thing could have the captain truly fearful. "I'll do that, sir. Meanwhile, I think we're ready."

Jeremy looked over at Seaman Timothy Booby. "Start filling the tank, Tim, and we'll see how it works."

* * *

The wait was excruciating. Finally . . . drip drip drip. Water—not a lot, but some. It tasted a little of tar but not of salt. It would help but it clearly wasn't enough.

* * *

In spite of the small amount that had come from the tap, the crew was suddenly very interested in the up-timer how-to book. There were discussions on how it might be improved. Still, water barrels were emptying and the men were getting weaker. The still had made no real difference. Bob Perkins was irritated about the solar still. It seemed the worst possible outcome. Not enough water and Mr. Jeremy Toot was the darling of the crew.

Bob was convinced that there was something wrong with the still because it did work, just not well. If it worked, that meant that the books weren't just fairy stories and if they were real, then it ought to be working better. He went to have a look at the still only to find a horde of crewmen watching water bead on the glass sheets. Then he and all the others were quickly run off by Mr. Burnsides. Having failed to get a good look at it, Bob went to Mr. Toot, mumbling about the unfairness of the universe the whole way.

It was when he talked to Mr. Toot that things got really weird. Mr. Toot didn't act at all as Bob was expecting. He invited Bob to look at the books, helped him with the odd words. Pointed out places where he was confused by what he read and asked Bob's help in understanding them. He even took Bob up to the poop deck and let him examine the still.

* * *

"Excuse me, sir," Mr. Toot said to Mr. Burnsides. "I'd like to give Perkins a look at the still. He may be able to find ways of improving it."

Mr. Burnsides waved them to it without a word. Bob got to touch the glass which was cool to the touch and the thin wooden box which was hot but not as hot as, say, a cannon that had been in the sun for a few hours. And it was in that touching that some of the things that had been in the books but not made a great deal of sense suddenly did.

"That's what it means by conducting heat," Bob said.

"What do you mean, Perkins?" Jeremy asked.

"It's the wood, Mr. Toot. It don't conduct heat. Not like bronze or iron." The wood box that was supposed to be pre-heating the water was almost useless. Bob was sure of it and there was a part of him that wanted to call Mr. Toot a fool in front of Mr. Burnsides. On the other hand, Bob was a fair-minded boy and Mr. Toot hadn't dismissed him but had talked to him and asked his help. Shown him the still and explained what did what and why. Also, the last time he had shown disrespect to a midshipman, Mr. Toot as it happened, Mr. Burnsides had taken a rope end to him. Ultimately, it was more Bob's fair-mindedness than fear of Mr. Burnsides that held his tongue. He waited till they were back in the midshipmen's quarters and even then didn't call Mr. Toot a fool. Instead they talked about what was happening inside the still and what wasn't happening well.

Then, between them, they designed a new box, one that used one of the copper sheets in the hold for the front of the box, painted with lamp black and linseed oil. "We don't want the whole box made of metal, Mr. Toot, just the part that will be facing the sun," Bob told him. "'Cause the metal bits'll take the hot away from the water as fast as they brings it."

Then Bob froze. There was something he had seen, something he had felt. The little droplets of water beading up the inside of the glass. And the water droplets forming on the mug of cold beer he'd had in Hamburg. That was quite unlike the warm beer of England. "We don't need glass to make it work, Mr. Toot," Bob said. "All we need is something that'll say cool."

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Mr. Toot was nodding before Bob had finished his sentence. "Heat pushes the water into the air, cold pulls it out." Mr. Toot said. "The water takes the heat when it steams away and gives it back when it condenses." Which observation, while new to the boys, would have been no news to any distiller in Scotland.

The midshipman and the ship's boy did some experimenting with various materials and a pot of soup the cook had boiling. They found that a copper plate worked pretty well to condense steam at first, then it got hot and didn't work so well anymore. But if you cooled one side of it with a damp rag, the other side stayed cool.

The new contraptions didn't have glass. Instead, they had a copper plate tent covered by a bit of sail cloth dampened with sea water to condense the evaporated water. And after they had argued and discussed for a day and a half they went to the bos'n and a new set of stills was made.

They worked quite a bit better than the first model, but they were running into a new problem. There just wasn't enough space onboard ship to distill that much water. If it had been a standard cargo ship they would have been better off, but this was an armed merchantman, with a large crew. A large crew that needed a lot of water. Much more than could be produced by the solar stills they could set up on the deck of this ship.

* * *

Then came the day there was little water produced by the stills. They'd sailed into the line between a warm and a cold front. The moisture in the air formed clouds and the wooden boxes with their black copper fronts didn't warm noticeably.

"Barely a drop, sir. It's the clouds"

* * *

Then it started to rain. They collected rain water, more in one day's rain than in all the time the still had operated.

They had recovered much of the water that they had lost in the storm and Lieutenant Burnside wanted the still taken down, insisting that it hadn't made any difference. "The men wasted more sweat making the blasted thing than we ever got water from it." And there may have been some truth to his accusation.

But the men didn't want it taken down. The stills had made water when they needed it. Perhaps not enough, but maybe enough to make the difference. No one had died. Perhaps no one would have died anyway. Who was to say? They had been close to out of water when the still stopped working. Midshipman Jeremy Toot figured that over the weeks of operation the stills had added perhaps two days of water for the crew.

* * *

"Well, Mr. Toot, what do you think should be done with your contraptions?" Captain Waddle asked. "The wind is freshening and we're getting close to the westerlies. With the deck covered in stills, it's going to be hard to set the sails."

"I think they should be taken down and stored away, sir," Jeremy said. "I think we can sell them. There have to be lots of places where fresh water is hard to come by but salt water, or just bad water, is easy enough to find." Jeremy hesitated. "I don't know. I'm just guessing, sir."

Oddly enough, it was Mr. Burnsides that ran off a list of places where fresh water was hard to come by. Places where being able to turn out water for ten or twelve people with just a bit of work would save people the trouble of shipping water to them.

"What about Perkins, Mr. Toot?" the captain asked. "You've mentioned several times what a help he's been in making the contraptions work. What should his reward be?"

"Make him a midshipman, sir. Consider his work on the design of the stills his apprenticeship fee. It will encourage the ship's boys and the midshipmen alike to work harder and think better." Jeremy felt himself grinning and didn't even try to hold it in. "And how is he going to resent the midshipmen if he is one?"

"He'll find a way, Mr. Toot." Mr. Burnsides laughed. "I have faith in Perkins."

* * *

 

Character illustrations by Jaime Patneaude

The Man in the Pocket

Written by Mark H. Huston

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Chapter 1
The Bull and Blood
London, Early Winter 1634

A priest, a giant, and a midget walked into a pub on an early winter afternoon.

The patrons of the Bull and Blood stopped what they were doing and stared.

Geoffrey Hudson, the midget—or, more properly, dapperling—was exactly twenty-one inches tall, and perfectly formed. He had a smooth face, delicate features, intelligent blue eyes, and mop of blonde hair. Wearing his tall rough boots, pantaloons and doublet, topped with a very fashionable hat, he measured twenty-three inches tall, not including the tiny and proportionally correct plumed feather in his cap. He carried a scale sized sword—a modified falchion, which hung at his side and could be seen as he tossed back his beautifully embroidered cape.

Geoffrey looked up at his friend the giant. "Anywhere to sit, William?" His voice was high, like a child's, but clear and strong.

William was the giant. He could not stand upright in the pub. Normally he stood seven feet, seven inches in his bare feet. Add another two inches for his massive boots. The ceiling of the pub was at six feet three inches, not counting the low beams. He had to bend over nearly double to get through the door. Hunched over, and wearing a rain cape as large as a tent, he surveyed the room. As he turned, ducking further to see below the beams, he favored his right leg and a bad hip. The patrons of the Bull and Blood continued to stare.

His heavy Welsh accent rumbled quietly and he nodded. "Corner, in the back."

"Let's go then."

The priest was doing a better job of blending in than the giant or the dapperling, as he was not dressed as a Catholic priest, which was fortunate. Geoffrey knew that if he were, the patrons would be doing more than just staring. They might just start a riot. Catholic priests were not welcome in this puritan piece of London. Geoffrey had dressed the man in servant's clothing.

William began to move through the bar. A way was made for him, Geoffrey followed, and the priest brought up the rear. Geoffrey marched straight to the table, ignoring the stares as he went. Glancing back at the priest, Geoffrey saw the man nervously smiling back at the incredulous stares of the patrons of the Bull and Blood.

The man had a lot to learn, obviously.

They arrived at the table, and after several awkward tries William simply sat cross-legged on the floor. The priest, Father Guillemot, used a normal chair, and Geoffrey stood on a chair near William.

Father Guillemot shifted restlessly in his chair, and looked for the barmaid. William surveyed the room. Seated on the floor, he was taller than most men standing upright.

"Do you see him?" asked Geoffrey quietly.

William shrugged. "Dunno." Shrug. "Dunno w'a he looks like." He glanced about slowly. "Where be the barkeep, I feel puckfyst."

Father Guillemot wriggled again, and said rather loudly, "What is zis puck face?"

Geoffrey choked back a laugh. "Puckfyst. It's a dried toadstool, like le champignon? He's thirsty, mon Pere."

Guillemot shrugged and looked around the room and then back to his companions. "I rather suppose zat if our sea captain were 'ere, he would 'ave noticed, n'est ce pas?"

"Please keep your voice down, Father. As I told you before we left Denmark House, we don't want people to take notice of you being French. You have been in this country for five years; you should learn the language in a more proficient fashion."

"I almost never leave ze grounds of ze Denmark 'ouse. Why should I bother, no? Le Francais is what is spoken zere, even by you."

"We are not at Denmark House. So hush!"

Geoffrey's hand motion hushed the priest again as the barmaid made her way across the room. The rumble of conversation was starting up again in the pub. Geoffrey watched the barmaid pause, and get "that look" on her face that most women did when they saw him. It was a look he knew well. It was the same look his beloved Henrietta Maria used to give him. This was a smile of glee, a smile of want—not lecherous, but of possession. A desire to touch him and to lift him and hug him. Geoffrey had been told he was very fair of face, which was unusual for a dapperling. He was also proportional, and saddled with none of the physical ailments and joint problems that plagued most other dapperlings. He knew the smile well. But this barmaid was more grandmotherly—haggardly, if the truth be told. He sighed, put on his best courtier smile, plucked the purple-plumed hat off of his head, and bowed low as she approached. "Good lady, we thank you for attending to us." He popped up from his bow and replaced the hat upon his blond hair.

The barmaid smiled at him with what was left of her teeth, which were very few. "Wot a little gentleman, he is!" She leaned forward and put her face to the level of the table so she could see him up close. She smiled her semi-toothless smile and then turned to the giant. Geoffrey watched as the barmaid measured up William as he sat awkwardly on the floor. They were eye level to each other, and William's large head, unruly black hair, and oversized teeth gave him the countenance of a lion.

"Lordy, ain't ye a pair of characters! Big and Little along with this fellow 'ere." She gestured to the priest. Wa'be ye story, along with these lads, eh?"

Before the priest could open his French mouth, Geoffrey spoke up. "He is our servant, good barkeep. You are the barkeep, are you not, milady?"

She blinked at him a couple of times. "Aye."

"Then 'tis your job to bring us ale. Which is why we are here. Please do so. Three ales." He waved imperiously at the woman.

She blinked again, and then seemed to gather her senses around her. "Three ales, aye, milord." She curtseyed slightly as she backed away from the table on her errand.

Geoffrey turned to his companions. "You would think the woman never had seen a courtier before today. I am used to the stares, but the rude behavior is tedious. I have been a member of the queen's household for over ten years, William even longer. We should be treated as is fitting of our station."

Father Guillemot interrupted the low volume tirade. "And that is the problem, Geoffrey. We 'ave no station 'ere. Our queen is dead, the king may be lying on his deathbed for all we know—you heard he received a broken hip, a bone protruding from his leg!"

William canted his bulk toward the priest. "Rumors. Many rumors. No one knows what's happening. I don't believe rumors until I see the results with me own eyes. The king is injured. That is all we know."

The priest continued, "And ze lord chamberlain is locked up in ze Tower for taking part in ze incident where the queen was killed, and ze Americans are zomehow involved, and there are zese lords, most of whom 'ere not much in ze favor zat have taken over, and some of ze privy council is scattered, and zere are rumors of troops moving and rumors of plague and rumors of a Catholic conspiracy that was trying to kill the king so that zis idiotic island could again be a follower of ze true church, instead of being run by these idiotic Presbyterian protestants that 'ave no idea how deeply into damnation they sink—"

His speech was cut short by a hand that clamped onto his face. William's hand was nearly big enough to circle Guillemot's entire head.

Geoffrey again leaned across the table to the priest, who could only just see over William's hand. "Father. I know that you are excited. I have urged you to be quiet, and you gave us your word you would do your best to blend in. You are not doing so now. If this continues I will encourage William to increase his grip on your face. Are you aware that William once strangled a bull?"

The priest shook his head no, and his eyes widened a bit more.

"He did. Comprendez-vous, mon Pere?"

The head nodded in the affirmative.

"Bon. Release him, William." Geoffrey turned and looked at the barmaid approaching with three mugs. "Excellent, some ale." She sat the three mugs on the rough table, and he paid the woman out of his coin pouch. He placed an extra coin in her palm, and the old woman looked at it curiously.

"W'a be this for?"

"Madam," Geoffrey began, in a low whisper, "I am told that a captain by the name of Vanderbeek can be met here. Can you tell me if he is here?"

The barmaid's posture changed and a flash of recognition came over her face, her eyes flicked briefly to the bar, and then the look was immediately suppressed.

Geoffrey smiled to himself. He was only nineteen years old, but he had lived in the queen's household for more than ten years. He was the queen's dwarf, yes. But he was also an experienced courtier, and had been in Her Majesty's high favor until the end. The barmaid was as easy to read as a book. Geoffrey let his eyes stray to the bar, and his attention landed on a tall man who was noticeable because he was not looking at their table, nor was he immediately averting his eyes like the other patrons as Geoffrey glanced about. "The tall man under the lantern at the end of the bar, milady? Perchance he is the good captain?"

She turned and looked at the man at the bar. She then turned back and squinted a questioning, suspicious look. She answered slowly. "Aye, that be Vanderbeek."

"Could you ask him to join us, milady?"

Her reply was lost in the noise of the bar as she turned and tried to casually walk over to the tall blond man. Geoffrey could see the conversation, but could not hear it. He could see the man nod, thank the barmaid, and slowly turn around, facing the table. Geoffrey assessed the man as he assessed them. Tall, he looked more Danish than someone from the Low Countries. There was a relaxed air about him, easy, confident. His clothing was drab, his hat smaller than most, no feathers or plumes, and his slash-sleeved doublet hung about him as if it were made for a larger man. He had a sword by his side, much like Geoffrey's, only full size. Geoffrey noticed he didn't fiddle with it was he walked, as he had seen so many courtiers do. To this man the sword was simply there, not a decoration to be fussed with. Other patrons in the Blood and Bull gave him a subtle physical sense of respect as he walked by. It was not outwardly obvious, not to the untrained eye, but Geoffrey was good at this sort of thing. He always could pick up on the subtle signs of people, it came naturally to him. So far, Geoffrey approved of their choice of a sea captain.

Geoffrey stood on his chair as the man approached. "Captain Vanderbeek?"

The captain looked at the three men at the table, taking a moment on each one. Geoffrey watched him look at William first, Father Guillemot next, then the gaze came to him. There was none of the look that Geoffrey usually got in a situation like this. The barmaid's reactions were more typical. Captain Vanderbeek looked first at his height, but his gaze didn't stop there. It wasn't dismissive. Vanderbeek looked at more, it was if he was burning everything about Geoffrey into his memory. Geoffrey returned the man's gaze with one of his own, plucked his hat off his head once again, and bowed. "I am happy to meet you."

The captain returned the bow stiffly. "Thank you. Am I to take it you are the men that Kenelm Digby wrote to me about?"

"That is correct."

"Your letter said I would recognize you when you came into the Bull and Blood. I was expecting a handful of foppish courtiers from the queen's court, not a priest, a dapperling, and a giant."

Father Guillemot looked panicked. "How do you know I am ze priest?" he whispered sharply.

"I wasn't sure, until just now." He looked at Geoffrey with a smile. "You are in charge of this gathering?"

Geoffrey plopped his hat back on his head. "Yes, Captain. Please sit down." Geoffrey scampered to the next chair at the table, and William awkwardly moved aside to let the captain sit.

Glancing around him to check for eavesdroppers, Geoffrey began. "What do you know of the queen's household, Captain?"

"I know the court is at Denmark House, on the Strand. It is an estate rebuilt by James for Anne of Denmark. I know you give—or rather, gave—endless masques and parties, have a menagerie of strange beasts including monkeys, and I also know it is the center of Catholicism in this country. Inigo Jones is completing the Papist church within the compound." He looked directly at the priest, his expression blank. The look clearly made Father Guillemot uncomfortable. "There are rumors that say the pope will secretly consecrate it so the true evil ceremonies of Satan can begin." The captain cracked a little smile.

Father Guillemot sighed quietly, and with relief. "Zis is such a backward county. Ze 'oly father would never travel such a distance, even for our beloved Henrietta Maria. But we are hoping for some 'oly relics to 'elp us to consecrate ze new chapel."

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Geoffrey gave the priest his best glare. A lot to learn. He turned his focus to the captain. "You have a fair grasp of what it was. But what it has become is a living nightmare for those of us who loved Henrietta Maria. And remember that clearly, Captain. We did love our queen. She was a very lonely girl for a great number of years, before the king and she finally fell in love. She was devoted to her king, and we were devoted to her, unconditionally. Do not forget that. Ever." Geoffrey felt his emotions slipping from control, and fought them back. The last thing he wanted this man to see was him crying like a child.

The captain looked around the table, and Geoffrey watched as he absorbed the quiet fierceness of his outburst. "Why do you need me?"

"We are in dangeur, Captain. C'est terrible. Zere are the mobs that have been outside the gates almost every evining, and—"

Geoffrey put up his hand to hush Father Guillemot. "We need your ship to plan an evacuation. We need to go to France, as soon as possible."

"Why not just go to Strafford? He will protect you."

"Have you not heard? He is in the Tower! We don't know who's in charge. There's a group of lords running the country while the king clings to life. Every day we hear they may take away the mercenaries that are guarding our home. We fear if those troops are withdrawn, and the anti-catholic sentiment is still high, there is nothing to prevent the mob from destroying Denmark House. And likely killing all men and beasts who live within."

"And the French ambassador? What of him?"

"He has left the country, leaving some spies, but they are of no use. We are on our own, Captain Vanderbeek."

Vanderbeek pushed his hat back onto his head, and sipped his ale. His look was non-committal.

"We have funds," Geoffrey continued, "but not unlimited. Will you do it?"

"Now that I see who and what you are . . . no"

"What do you mean, no?" Geoffrey was astounded. He expected some negotiation at least, but an outright refusal . . .

"No. Simple enough."

"Why?"

"I do not sail with menageries, or actors, or clowns or priests. Or children posing as men."

Geoffrey's hand went to his sword. "I am not a child, sir." He could feel his temper rising. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see William shifting position very slowly, in case he needed to fight.

Vanderbeek took a step back. The tension melted away from the table. Vanderbeek nodded. "Very well. As you say." He gave a small bow of his head.

Geoffrey heard the words, but it was clear to him they were less than sincere. He decided, reluctantly, to let it pass and took his hand from his sword.

William's voice rumbled and Geoffrey turned, surprised. "We will be no trouble. We take women and children, too." He looked the captain closely with his lion countenance. "And freaks."

Geoffrey knew they were running out of time, both here with the captain and at Denmark House. "Captain Vanderbeek. Please listen to me. We are not simply a group of freaks and performers. We are a family. A household. What William said is true. Children and mothers. When Henrietta Maria came to this country, she was little more than a girl. Alone in a foreign and hostile country. She is—was—a Catholic in a Protestant country. She was isolated. Sad beyond measure. So she began to collect things, pets, people. She made her own family. I was one of the things she collected, for which I am grateful beyond measure. And now, this family is threatened. We are in dire need. Can you help us?"

Before Geoffrey could say anything else, the priest interrupted angrily and loudly. "Captain, why iz it you do not weesh to sail us?"

At that point several things happened at once. William, at Geoffrey's command, clamped his massive hand over Guillemot's face to muffle him. He only partially succeeded, and the priest began a muffled cursing in French. The rest of the bar stopped and stared. As Guillemot was wriggling, trying to break free of William's grip, his rather overlarge crucifix bounced into plain view from beneath his shirt. The patrons of the bar begin to focus on his group, and Geoffrey tried to quiet the idiot. He regretted bringing him along, but the priests and churchmen of Denmark House insisted on being included in this meeting. When he turned back, Vanderbeek had disappeared.

"Now where did he go?"

Geoffrey noticed two sailors break loose from the group of patrons and approach. They did not look friendly. In this town to be French meant—well, Geoffrey thought, it meant a lot of things, but today it was mostly Catholic. The overlarge crucifix bouncing about didn't help the matter. Geoffrey leaned over to William and spoke quietly. "Keep an eye on the priest and make sure he returns to Denmark House. Preferably alive." The large Welshman's head nodded slightly, and he shifted his position.

Geoffrey hopped onto the table with a flourish, pulled off his hat and made a sweeping bow to the men approaching. "Good sirs, good day to you!" Geoffrey was using his stage voice, which was very loud, and very clear. "Have you heard of England's smallest man, and his tale? Born in the smallest county in England, no less?" Geoffrey leapt off his chair, turned a somersault in the air, and rolled to his feet upon landing. He did a quick cartwheel across the room, and scrambled up a stool and stood on the bar. He grinned widely at everyone, and began to dance upon the bar, singing the chorus of a drinking tune. His eyes went to William, who stood awkwardly and began to sing with him. The tune was snappy and quick.

Cinnamon, and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,
That gave me my jolly red nose!
Nose, nose, nose, nose,
And that gave me my jolly red nose!

Geoffrey's voice was good, clear, and it carried. William's was off key and as deep as a well. The effect was to stop the surly men in their tracks, and the rest of the bar began to laugh.

But the two of them were not dissuaded so easily. "Hey! I said hey!" One of the sailors, from the looks of him, was protesting the change in mood, swaying slightly. He pointed to the priest. "That man is a Catholic, lads. Look at that idolatry 'round his neck. He's French too. I hear tell a group of French priests wa' seen after the queen was killed. They say there is a con—umm, con-spire-a-see about, lads." He swayed a little more, but he had regained the crowds' attention.

Lion drunk, thought Geoffrey. Ready to fight. He sighed inwardly, but on the outside, smiled widely.

William sighed and moved the priest behind him.

Geoffrey began to sing a verse, directly to the leader of the troublemakers, still smiling all the while.

Of all the birds I ever did see,
The owl is fairest in her degree.
For all the day long she sits in a tree,
And when the night comes, away flies she.

Geoffrey danced a little jig through the verse, and now had the man's attention.

To wit to woo, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee
This song is well sung and I make you a vow
That he is a knave that drinketh now!

Geoffrey pointed to the man on the word "he," and it was clear he was calling the man a drinking knave, one who can woo the ladies, and is a serious drinker. The bar began to laugh at the show. He continued to dance and sing another chorus, and other voices picked it up.

Nose, nose, jolly red nose,
And what gave me my jolly red nose,
Cinnamon, Ginger, nutmeg and cloves,
And that gave me my jolly red nose.

Geoffrey continued to sing the next verse to the sailor, who was not comfortable with all of the attention. Geoffrey made sure the performance was focused directly on the drunken sailor.

I care of no fool whose purse is not full,
But he hath money I never find dull
And if he still has it when hence I doth goes
I'll drop my tankard and never drink more
A rack, a rue, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee
This song is well sung and I make you a vow,
That he is a knave that drinketh now!

Through the next chorus, Geoffrey saw William and the priest make for the door, as the focus was on him dancing on the bar. For the last verse, Geoffrey wanted everyone to look at him, and he slowed the pace slightly, playing up the words.

I'll not have a woman who's never been tried,
But give me a wanton to lie by my side
And this I do use as a rule of my life,
That wanton is best with another man's wife!
Cookoo, Cookoo, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee
This song is well sung and I make you a vow,
That he is a knave that drinketh now!

As he started the last chorus, he reached into his purse, pulled out a handful of coins, and tossed them into the crowd. William and the priest had made it out the door. He continued to sing as he trotted down the bar, skipping over tankards and bottles toward the door. The drunken sailor pushed his way through the small knot of men, keeping pace with him. It was going to be close. He leapt off the bar, hit the ground with a roll like an acrobat, sprung to his feet and was nearly to the door when he was snagged by his cape from behind, jerking him off the ground. The cape was sturdy, and whoever had a hold of him was tossing him backwards, toward the bar and away from the door. He twisted around quickly and drew his sword, swiping it in the air behind to free the grip on the cape.

The sword hit something, and he heard the sailor yowl and felt his grip release. Geoffrey stumbled back against the bar and fell to the ground. He sprang up, furious, tossed his cape back, and took a fighting stance. His tiny dagger came out of his boot, and he looked up at the sailor, who was holding his hand, dripping blood. The sailor was nearly three times his height, but he showed no fear to the man. His pleasant singing voice was now replaced with a cool, clear, icy fury. "I am not some barmaid, knave. You do not touch me. If you do, you will feel my blade."

There was still some scrabbling on the hard packed dirt floor for the coins he tossed, but the group of men quickly quieted down, and turned to watch the tiny dapperling and the fully-grown sailor, giving them room. The sailor was between Geoffrey and the door, and Geoffrey's back was to the bar.

"You cut me 'and, ye little bastard."

Some of the men at the bar laughed. The sailor was angry. Angry he couldn't start his fight earlier, and angry at the one who spoiled his fun had now hurt him. He glanced around for a weapon, and grabbed an oaken walking stick leaning against the wall by the door. The sailor hefted the stick once, trying it out, and then turned to Geoffrey. Geoffrey shifted his position, still focused on the sailor. The sailor raised the walking stick like a hammer above his head, stepped forward with one leg, and brought it down like an ax, as hard as he could, aiming for Geoffrey's head.

Geoffrey was expecting the move and easily sidestepped the heavy stick. Then he stepped under the sailor's outstretched leg, and sliced the inside of the man's thigh with his sword. He let the momentum of his thrust carry him behind the man to the door in one smooth and practiced motion. Geoffrey's blades were sharp. Very sharp. He doubted the man fully felt what he had done.

The sailor reached for the inside of his leg. "Wha' did ye do t' me, ye little bastard? Did ye cut me again?' He raised his stick again, his hand now very bloody.

One of the man's shipmates stepped up to him, and silently pointed down at his boot. It was already full of blood, spilling out over the top and onto the ground. They both looked incredulously at the blood flowing onto the ground. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then the attacking sailor went down like a sack of bricks, completely limp. He would be dead in a moment or two.

There was a pause in the bar. An intake of breath. Men looked at each other in wonder. Someone so small, so deadly. Geoffrey kept his face as neutral as possible, and edged his way out of the door. William and the priest were gone, long gone by now, and he was on his own.

He closed the door behind him and walked as slowly and confidently as he could manage, until he rounded a corner, then began to run. He ducked into an alley, out of view, where he threw up. He leaned against the cold and damp wood of some closed shop, and was sick until his stomach was empty, and then was sick some more. His hands shook, and his knees knocked. He sobbed. After a while, he began to get his emotions under control. He could still remember the feeling of resistance of flesh to blade as he cut the man. He had been working with the master of arms for more than three years. He did it without thinking, by reflex. The feeling of his blade cutting flesh came back to him, and he retched again.

He stood there for more than a little while, and slowly began to get under control. Suddenly the darkness loomed darker for a moment and he became aware of someone behind him. He pulled his blades again, and whirled to face whoever it was.

"Your first?" It was Vanderbeek's voice.

"Go away," he croaked, putting his blades back into their sheaths. He peered into the darkness. "Damn lot of help you were."

"Oh I was there, Geoffrey. Watching. And I would have stepped in, if I was needed. For our friend Digby, if nothing else." There was a pause in the darkness. "You will have your rescue. I will call at Denmark House on the morrow with further instructions. We can settle our price then."

Chapter 2
The Preacher

Alexander Leighton smiled in the torchlight. In front of him stood the very seat of Catholic influence in England, what the people called Denmark House, the home of the dead queen. The small group of followers he gathered in the first week after her death had now grown to a significant number, which if allowed to be incited, would quickly become a mob. Mercenaries surrounded Denmark House still, protecting it, but soon, very soon, the whole thing would come down. In flames. Glorious, all-consuming flames.

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Leighton wore his hair long, over where his ears should have been. His ears had been cut off for preaching heresy. His nose was slit as another punishment. His back held the marks of a whip, as yet another sentence for sedition. When his book was published, Speculum Belli Sacri, or Mirror of the Holy War, a tirade against bishops and the evils of creeping prelacy, his face was branded with a deep "SS," for Sower of Sedition. All the pain he endured was nothing, in the great struggle against Satan. No pain is worse than the pain of Hell, an eternity of torture.

He thanked God above when he heard the news. The Catholic queen was dead, and now her terrible influence over the king would finally cease. He was certain the king was captivated by a popish spell, supported by witches, which influenced the king toward the Devil and Catholicism. Why else would he push the need for bishops, those "wens and knobs and bunchy 'o popish flesh" who held no other purpose but to lead the church straight to hell?

In front of him stood his crowd of followers, well behaved for now. He needed just a few dozen more, and they could overpower the guards and take the palatial home to the ground, brick by brick. Especially the Popish church that was within. A Catholic chapel built right in the heart of London. It must not be allowed. He would kill everyone and everything within; they had all been polluted by the taint of Catholicism. It would be another step on his way to cleanse the Island of filth. He nodded. He smiled in the torchlight. Yes, just a few more. Only a few.

He signaled his boy to beat his drum, and the crowd became quiet. He began to preach. He started slowly, earnestly, then built his arguments. He alternated between piety and outrage, helplessness and fury, calmness and brutality. There was a measured pace, a hypnotic rhythm to the speech. He could feel the crowd become as one mind beneath the spell of his gift. And surely it was a gift from God, to be able to do this. To move a crowd to action, or rapture, or outrage. They became as one being, a single mind of many parts, all under his control.

He didn't want to peak too soon. Not yet. He withdrew his energy, calmed them, brought them back, let their minds separate slightly. Not yet. No. Not yet. But soon. Very soon. Just a few more men.

Chapter 3
Denmark House

"This isn't a house. It's a dammed palace." Vanderbeek shook his head. "I had no idea it was this large."

Henry Jermyn held the large iron gates of the watergate entrance from the Thames open for Vanderbeek and smiled. Statues of Thame and Isis framed the massive gate. The Denmark House gardens stretched before them, six hundred feet to the palace. Like all homes of the wealthy and powerful, it was situated directly on the Thames, and the "rear" of the palace faced the Strand, while the front faced the river. There was a high stone wall that blocked out the views of the gardens from the river, and lesser walls to the east and west. The three-story palace faced the Strand, forming the fourth side. The Savoy Hospital was to the west, separated by the lowest of the walls, beyond where the stables and servants quarters were located.

Jermyn laughed a rather grating laugh. Off pitch and nervous. A laugh that didn't fit his chubby body. "It's the largest palace in London, after Whitehall, Captain. What did you expect to find for the queen's court?"

The captain stopped and took in the gardens, now trimmed, tended and hunkered down for winter. Naked decorative trees and bushes gave the palace a rather forlorn look. Forlorn, but very well groomed.

As they approached the main building of the palace he could see archways and alcoves, and in each alcove was a life-size marble sculpture, all representative of various characters from mythology. He counted nine of those. Everywhere he looked there was statuary and large winter-dormant fountains scattered around the grounds. Near the house, he looked to his left and saw a recently constructed building. "Is that the Catholic chapel I've heard so much about?"

Jermyn smiled again. "It was one of Her Majesty's greatest achievements. Would you like to see it? There is a magnificent Rubens over the altar, twenty feet tall. We are still working on some of the interior decorations and carvings."

"No." Vanderbeek stopped, tugged Jermyn's ample sleeves, and pointed to the building. "Do you understand the presence of that Catholic chapel is one of the things which enrages the mob outside the gates?"

"We have only really learned it since the queen's death. The fact they hate it, I mean. We—or rather I—well, most of us, do not understand why. It makes no sense. We have increased attendance almost every week since we opened for select public masses. We stopped those after the death of the queen, when the mob began to form. We have heard there has been an increase in the persecution of Catholics across London, too."

They began to walk toward the large main entrance doors. "Is everyone a Catholic behind these walls?"

"Nearly so, at least now. The ladies and lords of the queen's court were mostly Protestant. It has been so since 1626. That's when Charles threw out the French court Henrietta Maria brought with her from France. He replaced all of her ladies in waiting with English ladies. During that time is when I came to be of service to the queen." Jermyn smiled again. Vanderbeek didn't like the smile the first time he saw it as he disembarked from his launch. He reconfirmed his opinion as Jermyn continued. "We have all assembled in the main hall. There used to be over three hundred of us living here, and there were about one hundred who traveled with the queen as her court. Anyone who had somewhere to go, other than Denmark house, has left it." The big man shrugged. "All that is left are those of us who have nowhere else. The Catholics, the priests, monks, the French, the freaks. Geoffrey was welcomed once by the French court, and was granted gifts of gems worth over two thousand pounds by Marie d'Medici and her court. He was well liked. Nearly all in the household have connections there, so we will go there."

Vanderbeek's eyebrows went up, and he re-thought the amount of money he was going to charge for the trip. "Does he still have that kind of money?"

Jermyn gave Vanderbeek a Gallic shrug, obviously mastered by living among them. "He lost the jewels and the gifts when he was seized, along with the queen's midwife and a few ladies in waiting by the Dunkirker pirates. Of course, they were ransomed. I think the Dunkirkers were frightened by the importance of the cargo they waylaid."

Vanderbeek nodded in agreement. "I recall hearing. They could do the same again today with an English ship, ever since the damned Spanish have taken the Low Countries. They were always after the Dutch, now that'd be like stealing from yourself, since they were usually under Spanish letters of marque."

They entered the building through a set of magnificent doors, where a servant took their cloaks and then led them into a wide hallway that extended for several yards, until they came around a corner, and then to a large cross hallway. They went to the right. Windows lined the south side of the hall, letting in the cold winter light. When Jermyn finally opened the double doors to the main hall, Vanderbeek was confronted with one of the strangest sights he had ever seen. The room was sumptuous, dark oak paneled, high ceiling, stained glass windows behind, and a massive table in the center. Seated around the table and standing around the room was the largest collection of freaks and oddities he had ever seen. There were tall, slender African men and women dressed as formal servants. He counted three more dwarfs. There were several ladies in waiting, a man with no legs who walked on his hands, a handful of Capuchin monks in their coarse robes and rope belts, exotic birds, dogs large and small, a few monkeys on leashes, several priests, and another thirty or so "normal" looking people, servants he assumed. He recognized the giant from the Bull and Blood, and saw another, shorter, giant who was grossly fat. At the head of the table, Geoffrey stood on a chair, his back to Vanderbeek. After a moment, the dwarf turned to him and bowed slightly. In the daylight, his features looked even more delicate and childlike.

Vanderbeek smiled at the dwarf, and then turned to Jermyn, still keeping his eyes on the group displayed before him. "Who's in charge of this . . . this group of passengers? I have a few questions."

The youthful priest near the front of the room came forward. Vanderbeek was expecting a French accent; instead he got a Scottish brogue. "I am the leader of this group, sir. I can make all of the decisions for everyone here."

Evans the Giant spoke up, as did others. "He does not speak for me!"

"Nor I," came from the mouth of the man with no legs.

Most of the freaks were protesting the self-appointment. The Africans in the back of the room were silent, and the group of women—he assumed them to be ladies in waiting or high-level servants—were murmuring and looking nervous. One in particular caught Vanderbeek's eye. He fixed his gaze on her for a moment, and she returned it with a smile, and then looked down. Trouble, he thought, and continued to survey the noisy room. He recognized the priest from the night before directly behind the one who spoke up. They were loudly protesting the potential selection of anyone else. The disagreements and calls for a leader began to grow, dogs barked, monkeys howled and a bird cawed madly.

Vanderbeek finally put up his hands. "Enough! I will speak to the dwarf, the priest, and Jermyn." He pointed to each of them in turn as he called their names. The protests continued, but he walked from the room, the three of them scurrying after.

* * *

Later, after a long discussion on the details of the rescue, Vanderbeek had a better handle on the three men. Jermyn, he decided was just about worthless. A basically stupid but loyal Englishman who simply had nowhere else to go. The priest was the queen's confessor, who thought his rank gave him the intelligence to make decisions for all. But Geoffrey, Vanderbeek judged, was a dependable man.

At the end of the meeting, Vanderbeek pulled him aside. "I want you to be my main contact to the group, Geoffrey. Can you do that?"

"I was afraid you were going to ask me that, Captain. As much as I would like to say yes, I cannot."

Vanderbeek was genuinely surprised. "I don't understand. You can fight, obviously. You have the ability, and the brains—"

"So I may, Captain, thank you." His small face changed expression from smiling to a restrained anger and deep hurt. "You have seen me—somewhat, as the man I really am. The man I want to be. Although the other night in the bar, I wish I could have sang our way out of trouble, instead of killing that man. As powerful as I felt afterwards, I never want to feel my blade cut flesh again if I can help it. It still sickens me to think about it."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. One of the reasons I am here is because your bravery impressed me. And the strong persuasion of Kenelm Digby."

Geoffrey pointed fiercely down the hall to where the rest of the odd household waited. "To them, I am a joke. A cruel joke, upon which all sorts of pranks and foolishness are played, for which I must bear the brunt. It's a constant humiliation I was able to endure because of my love for the queen. It made her happy. What made her happy, ultimately made me happy. William Evans, the giant, knows me. The queen's master of arms knows me. He trained me. The hunt master knows me, and the queen's stable master knows me. I can hunt, shoot, and ride better than most of the courtiers for the queen or the king. But even those who know me do not believe in me, seriously." His small shoulders shrugged. "I have been here since I was six years old, and during that time I have been the punch line of so many jokes that I am nearly immune to them. No one at court takes me seriously, Captain. No one."

He paused and looked at his hands. "As I began to grow up, from sixteen inches when I was six, to my nearly twenty-one inches today, I found I was less able to bear their jibes. There is a quite famous poem about me riding a foxing-terrier and jousting with a wild turkey." He sighed, and then his hands clenched into fists not much bigger than Vanderbeek's thumb. "I am the queen's dwarf. And always will be. It's a double-edged sword." Geoffrey unclenched his fists and smiled up at Vanderbeek. "So that is why you must find another to lead this group, Captain. They will not follow a joke."

"Then why did they send you to the Bull and Blood to meet with me?"

Geoffrey smiled and crossed his arms a little smugly in front of him. "I insisted. Most here are French. They cannot meander through the back alleys of Cheapside without tipping their hand. I pulled rank on them. Other than Jermyn, I am the ranking Englishman. He wouldn't go alone without Evans, the giant, and the giant wouldn't go without me. Therefore I went."

He paused and looked down the hallway, checking for eavesdroppers. "There is something else you must know. Some of them may not leave; they are foolish enough to think they are still protected by the queen's wedding treaty."

Vanderbeek shook his head. "I have seen the mob. A treaty means nothing to them. The moment those mercenaries are removed . . ." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Have you told anyone about the man in the Bull and Blood?"

"Who would believe me, Captain? Would you, if you had not seen it? Talk to James Shirley. He is the valet of chamber and well respected. Most will listen to him. The Capuchins will listen to Robert Phillip, the Scotsman, as will the priests. Thick as thieves, them."

"What about the freaks, Geoffrey? Will they follow you?"

"They will follow me, as long as Evans is with me. He really did strangle a bull once, although it was a long time ago."

"And the women?"

"Based on what I saw in the large hall earlier, I think you already know. Her name is Marie Garnier. There are many Garniers here. Her mother is the queen's nurse, and her brother is the queen's groom of the privy council, which is the highest ranking member of the household, other than the master of ceremonies, who is also a Garnier, and an uncle. They are good and loyal servants. The Garnier family, along with the Vantelet family have been in the service of the queen of France for many years, and they were placed here by her. But be careful of that one. She likes her games with men, and she is rather good at it."

Vanderbeek smiled widely. "I will keep that in mind."

Chapter 4
Marie Garnier

"Mademoiselle Garnier? I am Captain Joos Vanderbeek. The man who would rescue you." As the door to her chamber closed behind him, Vanderbeek smiled at the woman. He straightened from his bow, and observed her carefully. She was striking. Dark hair, but fair skinned. Unusual grey eyes gave her an exotic look. Long and elegant neck, unscarred face, and no hint of a Gallic nose. As she rose to greet him, her movements were dancer like, elegant, and very calculated. She extended her hand.

"I was not aware I needed rescuing." Her smile was the absolute picture of coy. Vanderbeek tilted his head as she proffered her hand for him to kiss. He refused her hand, and looked down into her eyes, smiling all the while. "How long has it been?"

She dropped the hand to her side, and gave him a sour look. "Two years. Where have you been, Joos? Still sailing the seas? A bit of privateering now and again?"

He motioned her to a chair, and they both sat. "I've been here and there, a little of this and a little of that. You know, the usual."

"Still smuggling for the French and the Spanish?"

"Sometimes for the English, too."

They both laughed quietly.

"I was warned about you by Geoffrey."

She frowned a little, then became pouty. "He must like you. He usually doesn't give a warning."

"What do you think of him?"

"The dwarf? Not much at all, really. He is witty, intelligent, fine singing voice, dances in masques well, and takes the stabbing jibes. But that's his job. The queen adored him. Why do you ask?"

"I saw him kill a man at a pub in Cheapside last night. Rather handily. Self defense."

She looked at him and nodded slowly, thinking it through. "Hm."

Is that all you have to say? Just 'hm'? Does that surprise you?"

"He does seem changed as of late. In the last year he tried to grow a beard and mustache. It was not successful, and he was ridiculed for it. I have not seen it since."

"Interesting fellow."

She crossed her legs and settled back in her chair. "Certainly you didn't come here to discuss the dwarf? What do you want from me?"

"Are you going to France with the rest of them?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Vanderbeek laughed. "Any number of reasons, Marie. I need someone to depend on. There are many . . . let's call them 'factions' . . . here and one doesn't seem to listen to the other. So I need someone in the inside, as it were. You were suggested as the one who can help guide the ladies."

"What do you need me to do?"

"They need to be ready to leave with only an hour's notice. One bag or valise per person, only. We will leave by the watergate and row past the bridge, down to my ship, which will be anchored just below the Tower. From there we will head to Calais."

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"Do we not portage around the bridge? I wouldn't want to drown trying to shoot the rapids at the bridge at low tide."

He smiled at her, and casually leaned back in his chair. "You are many things, Marie Garnier. You have always been smart."

She smiled coyly once again. "Why, Joos. You are just unhappy that I know what time we will be leaving. I don't know which day, but at least I know what time." She shifted in her chair and looked smugly at him. "You see, I know that at low tide and at high tide the bridge restricts the river. There is so much restriction there is an eight-foot drop in the water from the high side to the low side. The only time it is safe to cross the water beneath the bridge is when the tides are still. To do so at any other time will most certainly result in an unpleasant death by drowning."

Vanderbeek felt a little sheepish. "I have always been plagued by smart women. And people wonder why I have not married. I was pleased when I saw you here, at Denmark House. I smuggled you into the country; it will be an honor to smuggle you out."

After a moment, he asked, "Are you still working for Richelieu? Or have you moved on to De Blainville, or Cork, or the Jesuit, Richard Blount, or Marie de Medici, Or Chevalier de Jars, or the Spanish, or perhaps the new king in the Netherlands? Have I forgotten anyone?"

"The Americans?"

"Ah, yes. Them . . . the cause of all of this nonsense. I have much to do, and I want to catch the tide to take me back to my ship. Just be ready to leave, and make sure those who don't want to leave won't be in our way."

She rose and extended her hand again. He smiled at her, and slowly kissed it. He straightened and gazed into her eyes for a moment, then abruptly turned, left the room and closed the door behind him.

* * *

He met Geoffrey in the hallway, leaning with his back to the wall, one foot propped behind him in casual disregard of the expensive wall coverings, his sword at his side, and cleaning his fingernails with a tiny dagger. "You are certainly smiling like a fool, Captain. I told you to be careful with that one. I have seen the bravest field marshal like putty in her hands."

"My guess is that within ten minutes, she will summon her maidservant and give her a letter to deliver. Follow the letter; tell me to whom or where it is taken. Be prepared, there may be more than one."

"You are a fast learner, Captain Vanderbeek. Consider it done." The little man pushed his dagger into his boot, and trotted off down the hall, leaving Vanderbeek to gaze after him.

Chapter 5
The Earl of Cork

Richard Boyle, the earl of Cork, was a very busy man. The Privy Council was beginning to come together, and formal leadership was starting to take shape. He needed allies, lots of them, and quickly. At least he had Strafford and Laud locked up. The note he'd just finished reading made him smile. He called to one of his secretaries.

"Michael, take a note. Two things to be done. Release William Prynne from the Tower. Immediately. Next, have the commander of the mercenaries in the Strand remove all the guards from Denmark House at first light. No sooner. I want people to see they are being withdrawn.

The secretary looked at him nervously. "S-Sir?"

"What is it?"

"Prynne, sir? He's been sentenced to be branded, his ears slit, and then death. He wrote that horrible book against the queen about actors being creatures of the devil and actresses being whores. He's an incorrigible rabble rouser, sir. Are you sure?"

The earl placed his hands flat on his desk and looked his assistant in the eyes. His face twisted into a sarcastic falsely-patient smile. "I know your 'friend'—who is really your lover—is an actor for the Globe. My knowledge of that 'relationship' is one of the reasons I can trust you, Michael. To expose you would mean certain death in today's 'tolerant' climate." The smile was replaced with cold eyes. "I need my allies, Michael. The Puritans hold the hearts of the people. Charles was always too stupid and stubborn to understand that. The Puritans hate the queen. I am giving them an opportunity to destroy the symbol of what they hate the most. Carry out my order."

"Yes, sir." Michael retreated quickly from the room, scribbling as he went.

Chapter 6
Leighton

Alexander Leighton smiled. Today brought a pair of miracles. William Prynne was released from the Tower, and the mercenaries were leaving Denmark House. He knew God's mechanism for performing these miracles was the earl of Cork. Not the earl himself, of course, but God working through the man. Satan was to receive a blow today. A blow from the hand of a righteous God. The right God. His God.

He looked at the early morning sky. Cloudy. Gloomy. Grey. He smiled again. He nodded to the boy whom he kept, and the boy began to beat the drum. Leighton began to preach. This time, he would not hold back. This time, he would let the crowd grow, simmer, boil, and then organize. Then he would preach some more. Show them his back full of scars. Pull his hair back from where his ears used to be. The crowd would rise in strength, grow rigid in their resolve, and then he would not hold them back as he had done so many times before. He would release them, to do his bidding—God's bidding—against the Papist devils that resided within.

The boy continued to beat the drum, Leighton began to speak. The crowd began to gather.

* * *

"Master Geoffrey! Master Geoffrey! You must awaken!"

Geoffrey rolled over sleepily and looked at his servant, Jerome Gregoire, whose wife was also servant to the two female dwarfs in the court, Anne Sheppard and Sara Holt. Both of the female dwarfs were older than Geoffrey, and were always happy to pull a cruel trick on him whenever the opportunity presented itself. It made them feel better about themselves, he always figured. He shook his head. "Enough, Jerome! I am awake. What time is it?"

"You must get dressed quickly and look at this sir. Now, sir. Please."

"Very well, grab my trousers and give me the green doublet . . ."

Moments later they were trotting down the hallway toward the part of Denmark House that faced the Strand. Geoffrey was still tucking in and fastening as he ran. It took them only a few moments, as Geoffrey's rooms were very near the queen's, which looked over the large gardens and the Thames, opposite the Strand. Servants and attendants were gathered about the windows, a few still in their nightclothes, pointing and whispering.

Jerome waved them aside. "Make way, make way for Geoffrey."

People reluctantly moved out of the way. Someone pushed a velvet upholstered footstool to the window, and Geoffrey climbed up to look at the street below.

It looked like a normal early Thursday winter's day. The sky was barely grey. The small fish market across the street was open as usual, the preacher was where he always was, much earlier than usual, but in the same place. It looked completely normal.

It took a moment to realize what was missing. Geoffrey felt the color drain from his face. His mouth went dry. He knew they weren't ready. He took another moment at the window to gather himself, before turning around. "Where are the troops?"

A serving boy offered up what he knew. "They just left. As soon as it was light, they picked up and marched away, didn't say a hardly word to anyone. I was helping the breakfast cooks. Soldiers just said they had orders."

Geoffrey's brain was reeling. "Have we sent a messenger to Whitehall?"

The servants all looked at each other in the hallway, confused. "Have we awakened Jean Garnier?" Blank looks. "Either one of them. Father or son?" Heads shook in the negative. Geoffrey swallowed and realized he hadn't pissed yet. "Father Phillip?"

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One of the female servants answered. "He is always up at this hour. He is in the chapel."

Geoffrey took a deep breath. "Listen to me."

The body language of the knot of people changed to one of crossed arms and averted eyes.

Geoffrey could feel his frustration rising. This time he let it erupt. "Listen! As soon as that man, the preacher, across the street gets enough of his rabble assembled, they will force their way in. They will kill everyone and destroy this entire place. Kill everyone! You, me, even the damned dogs. The only thing keeping them out were the mercenaries. That is why Captain Vanderbeek was here yesterday. He was supposed to get us out of here before this could happen. We may be too late."

He turned to Jerome, who looked pale. The rest of the servants looked incredulous. Geoffrey smiled a bit inwardly. None of them had ever heard him shout. "Jerome, get to the stables as quickly as you can. Get a horse and ride to below the tower where Vanderbeek's ship is anchored. Have him get his men and boats up here as soon as possible. If he can send us help overland first, that would be even better."

Jerome stood there for a moment as if in shock, then turned and ran toward the stables. "The rest of you, wake the house and meet in the large courtyard, as quickly as possible." Some of them started to move, and then stopped, uncertain of whether to believe him or not. Geoffrey put his hands on his hips and pursed his lips. "I don't care if you believe me. Don't worry, I will take responsibility. If I am wrong, you can sling jibes and stones at me all next week in the courtyard. But for now, please do as I ask."

They looked at each other. One person nodded slightly, then another. Within moments they organized and dispersed to all parts of the house, waking people as they went.

* * *

The drum continued to beat, and Alexander Leighton continued to preach. People gathered. Faces he recognized from his weeks on the street. Some were armed. But . . . not enough. It was too early. They were coming. Oh, yes. Oh, yes . . . coming. Soon.

* * *

Geoffrey came dashing out of his rooms with his sword and dagger, and a pair of custom-made pistols tucked into his waistband. He stopped for a moment and looked back at the small suite of rooms. They had been his home since he was six years old. No matter how this day would end, it was unlikely he would ever see them again. He turned and trotted away, down the hallway.

Denmark House was a series of three segments as it faced the Strand. In the center stood the main building with a massive enclosed courtyard in the center. Residences encircled the courtyard taking advantage of the light. Facing the Strand was a large gate, closed off by heavy wooden doors, much like an entrance to a castle. Unfortunately, it didn't have the accessories that a typical castle entrance included, such as murder holes and ports to drop boiling oil.

To the west lay the stables, which were enclosed by a wooden fence, ten feet high and facing the street, again with a sturdy gate. That fence extended all the way to the Savoy Hospital. The area behind the stockade fence included the servants' quarters which extended down near the river, as well as the new chapel. The Catholic chapel, which had started off life as a tennis court.

Behind both of the main buildings were the formal gardens, extending to the wall shielding Denmark House from the river. Now, in the early winter, the gardens were bare and wide open. A small wall separated the formal gardens from the servants' quarters and the stables. The layout was defensible, but not with the small number of people they had. Nearly all of the servants were gone and the quarters were emptied, as soon as the court had dissolved after the death of the queen.

When Geoffrey arrived at the main courtyard, it looked like the majority of the people who still called Denmark House their home were present. Some looked confused, others worried, and others were laughing at the whole thing. He clambered up on a window ledge, and from there to the roof of a shed used for storing horse tack. It was now fully light, and he scanned the crowd. Present were the former queen's cupbearer, carver of fowl, carver of beef and game, a dozen musicians, the ten Capuchins, the handful of priests along with Father Phillip who was the queen's confessor and head priest. The Vantelet clan was present, as was the majority of the Garniers. Between the forty members of those two families, they had most of the high-level servant positions covered, from personal cook to the queen down to her panter and tailor. Maurice Aubert, the queen's physician, Madame De Blainville, an old lady who once served the queen of France, and Bocan, the dance master, were all there, along with a handful of others. Dependents were there, too. The African servants were present, and of course all of the freaks, including Sara Holton, one of the other dwarfs. The freaks were standing somewhat away from the others in a corner.

He finally picked out the people he was looking for, the highest ranking servants. Henry Jermyn, James Shirley, the master of the queen's bedchamber, and finally Jean Garnier, the master of ceremonies. The three were clumped together, and Jermyn saw Geoffrey first. Geoffrey waved at them, and the they were on their way to him in a moment.

"Geoffrey," began Jean Garnier, "do you really think this sort of an alarm is needed? All they have done is pull the troops away. We are in no immediate danger. Let's just send everyone back to their duties and be done with this, shall we?"

The rest of the group pressed closely so they could hear. Geoffrey sat on the roof of the tack shed so he could talk. Father Phillip had arrived. Geoffrey knew he would have to handle this just right. The famously fussy Jean Garnier pere, at nearly sixty-five years of age, was the sort who, once he had an idea in his skull, was loath to give it up. He was like one of the dogs they used for bull baiting, that would clamp onto the nose of the enraged bull and stay there until the animal buckled from lack of breath.

The crowd grew quiet.

Geoffrey began. "Monsieur Garnier, certainly you recall yesterday when Captain Joos Vanderbeek came to discuss our rescue. He was quite persuasive as to the need."

"Of course he is, my little fellow. He is selling you a bill of goods so you will hire his vessel, which probably does not exist at all, so come down there and let the rest of us get on with the day, shall we?" He smiled his condescending smile up at Geoffrey, who still refused to cede the high ground at the top of the shed.

Geoffrey could see Evans make his way through the crowd toward him. Evans was smiling at him, and nodded encouragement.

Geoffrey took a deep breath, stood up on the roof so all could see, and began. "Monsieur Garnier. Everyone. We are in grave danger here today. Denmark House will be in flames before the end of the day. I say this with all certainty."

The crowd mumbled, and looked quite incredulous. The body language changed like it always did. "If you do not believe me, then please listen to Father Phillip, or to James Shirley. They were there yesterday and spoke to the captain. Those of you who have been out on the street know what it's like. There is anger, and no one will protect us. The only thing protecting us were the troops in front of the gates. And now they are gone!"

Geoffrey looked below him to Father Phillip and James Shirley. He urged them to speak with a hand motion.

Father Phillip went first. "The French ambassador has fled the county, and he is of no help. None of the Catholics in England can help us; they are either in hiding or dead these last weeks. There is no one."

Jermyn picked up the argument, although much less confidently. "Listen to me. The troops going away, the preacher out early in the morning . . . he is never out this early. These are signs of something coming."

Geoffrey picked it up again. "Those of you who have somewhere to go in the town, I urge you to do so. Take whatever belongings you have and go. Now. Go this moment before the crowd gathers in the street. The rest of us will have to await rescue by the captain. We will have to defend Denmark House until then."

"Wait! Wait a damn moment!" Jean Garnier was furious. His normally pale skin was red and blotchy with anger, quite a contrast with his white hair. "This is preposterous. Simple troop movements are not the end of the world. This is an overreaction. All we need to do is petition Lord Cork that we need continued protection. We can pay for it, if needed; we have the funds. This little man is overreacting."

He gave a withering look to Geoffrey, and turned back to the crowd. "As a matter of fact, it must be a joke! That's it! This is the same sort of joke as when you almost blew away in a strong wind that time, or perhaps when you almost drowned in the teacup. That's it! This is all Geoffrey the dwarf's little game. Pah! Get us all out of bed. Go back to your duties everyone. This foolishness has gone on long enough!" He glared at Geoffrey, still standing on the roof of the tack shed and whispered, "Get down here, you foul little boy. For you deserve a good spanking for this. Damn you. Scaring these people like that—"

Geoffrey reached for his sword, and for a moment the old man looked frightened. Geoffrey simply left his hand on the blade, and didn't pull it from the scabbard. They locked eyes. The old man looked confused.

"Uncle. He is right. You must listen to him." It was Marie Garnier. She turned to the crowd. "You all must listen to him. Everything he says is true. Geoffrey is right." She addressed her uncle so that only Geoffrey, Jermyn and Father Phillip could hear. "I am sorry, Uncle, but he is right. I agree. I know, because I sent the message to the earl of Cork myself that we were planning to leave—a rescue operation. You know I have been corresponding to him regularly."

Geoffrey saw the expression change on the old man's face, and his head swiveled between Geoffrey and his niece. Jermyn and Father Phillip chimed in at the same time with their arguments again, only quietly, and directly to Jean Garnier. There was much hand gesturing and serious head shaking for a time, much of it by Marie.

Finally the old man held up his hands. "Very well! It seems I have been corrected. We will get ready to leave. Those of you who can get to safety, do so."

Jermyn and Father Phillip strode through the crowd issuing orders and answering questions. Geoffrey saw Marie pull her uncle aside one more time, whisper something in his ear, and then look at him.

The elder Garnier recoiled, and looked up at Geoffrey. "Is it true?"

Geoffrey sat down on the edge of the low shed roof, legs dangling in space at about head height for both of the Garniers. He was confused. "I think the mob will attack, yes. Before the day is out."

"No, young man. That's not what I mean. Did you kill a man in a fight while bringing this captain to us to arrange the rescue?"

"How-how did you know about that? Did she tell you? How did you find out, Marie?"

"Joos told me about it. Said you are a man to be reckoned with."

Geoffrey crossed his arms and tilted his head in thought. "Joos. You know him, don't you? From somewhere before. Am I right? Some of those trips you have taken. So mysterious. That's how the captain knew you were a spy."

"Please. A correspondent. That is all."

Geoffrey began to get angry. "You're the one who told Cork. We might have had a day or two to plan if you hadn't told him what we were up to."

"And how do you know that, Geoffrey?"

"I had your servant followed after your meeting with Captain Vanderbeek."

"My, we are industrious aren't we?"

Jean Garnier broke in. "Enough. She had my permission to correspond with the earl. I encouraged it. Her relationship with him is one I thought would help us. Looks as if I was wrong on that."

"Looks that way," said Geoffrey grimly.

Chapter 7
Prynne

The crowd began to gather, much faster than he anticipated. Alexander Leighton was thrilled. Then he saw a familiar face. Prynne. He was out of the Tower, exactly as Cork had promised. He arrived with his own group of followers, swelling the ranks. Alexander motioned for Prynne to come near the small wagon-mounted platform from which he spoke. Leighton climbed down and greeted him; they slipped behind the wagon for what privacy they could manage.

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"You look well, Prynne. How did you manage to escape the knife and the whip?"

"I know not, Alexander. But I am grateful to God for the things we have been given. I shall not waste my freedom. We have much to do and an opportunity has been given to us. I was told you would be here."

"We are here to destroy the cradle of Satan within Denmark House."

"The Catholic chapel?" Prynne was a tall man, a lawyer by trade. He pushed his broad brimmed black hat back on his head, and peered down at Leighton. "How are you going to do that? Isn't Denmark House still occupied? Bunch of leftover French?"

"It is."

"What are you going to do about them? The queen is dead, of course, but the rest of the people in there are not going to just let you go in and knock the place down."

Leighton looked up at the taller man's eyes. Prynne's eyes were not eyes of resolve. They were not the eyes of a man who truly wants to defeat Satan on Earth. There was an innocence in them at first, then a realization. Prynne's eyes widened and he looked horrified.

"You can't mean you are going to force your way in. There will be a fight. A large fight. There might be terrible bloodshed!" Prynne kept his voice to a whisper. An angry whisper.

Leighton grabbed Prynne by the collar, shaking the tall man violently. "You do not understand! We cannot be weak! This is our time!" He held Prynne against the wagon, still holding his collar, choking him firmly. "You must show resolve. There was a time when you were a leader, I was a follower. It's not that way anymore, Prynne."

Prynne looked terrified.

Good, thought Leighton. Very good.

"What has happened to you, Alexander? You . . .you are mad, you know," said Prynne shakily.

"Perhaps. But I am mad for right, Prynne. And you cannot stop me." He pulled the taller man close, and whispered into his ear. "Truthfully, you do not want to stop me. God will forgive us. Of that I am certain." Leighton tossed the taller man aside like a doll, down to the cold cobblestones, and turned to go to back to his podium. As he was threading his way around the wagon, he looked back at Prynne. His complexion was deathly white and he huddled against the wall of the alley, in shock.

No resolve.

Chapter 8
Captain Hudson

By midday, Geoffrey had heard from Jerome, the servant he sent to mobilize Captain Vanderbeek. The boats were on their way, but could not row past the bridge until the tide had turned. From the bridge, it was just a short pull up to Denmark House's watergate. He spent his time organizing what defenses they could muster, helping those who wanted to escape to do so, and doing his best to keep up morale. They found a few weapons, including some pikes and a collection of swords and armor. Five matchlocks were found with powder and shot. In all they had about twenty-five men who were in good enough shape to fight. The rest of the group, women, children, and old men could not fight, could only stay out of the way.

Their messengers had come back from Whitehall reporting that they would not be seen. Nobody was talking to them. The pleas to the magistrates of Westminster were unheard. They were entirely on their own. Someone, probably Cork, was handing them to the mob. After looking at the size of the crowd, Geoffrey felt it was time to barricade the front gate as a precaution, and headed to the main courtyard. He stopped on one of the interior staircases that had windows open to the courtyard. A loud discussion was in full swing. Father Phillip was arguing with a couple of the Capuchin monks. It sounded like he was trying to talk them out of something. They sounded just as convinced.

"I can calm them, make them see reason. The preacher is a man of God," said one of the monks. Geoffrey wasn't sure of his name, but he was French, the others, Italian.

"We have ministered to the poor in this area, we know many of them. Let us go to them" argued another.

Father Phillip was shouting at the Capuchins. "I cannot let you go out there! They may become violent. Vanderbeek said yesterday they might do this. You might even provoke them into attacking."

"We are men of peace, Father. Let us try to calm them."

For once Geoffrey agreed with Father Phillip, and he trotted down the stairs to support him. By the time he made it across the courtyard, three of the Capuchins were opening the door to the Strand and heading out into the street. Geoffrey made sure the door was closed solidly behind them as they left.

* * *

Alexander Leighton was building to the climax. He had already shown the crowd his lack of ears. He pointed out his face. "SS branded in with a hot iron. Sower of Sedition. No, that is not what it stands for. Slayer of Satan, that is what it means. Slayer of Satan." He pointed out the connections—the clear and absolute connections between Satan and Idolatry and the Catholic Church. The crowd—his crowd, understood a blow against the Catholics was a blow against Satan. And the Prince of Darkness was just behind that gate.

"Slayer of Satan. Slayer of Satan," he shouted.

The crowd picked it up, and it rumbled and hissed. "Slayer of Satan!"

Then, as if God himself were showing him the way, three of the spawn of Satan came out of the gate and into the street. Daring to wear their rough brown robes tied with rope around the waist, emulating the true Christ. They walked toward him in a single file, arms outstretched, and hands with palms open and up, a sign of peace. The crowd parted to let them through, and they looked to him for guidance. The thought occurred to Leighton that more men would be better, but God was providing these demons to him. Surely it was time to release the crowd.

It took so little, really. A change of inflection, a beating of the drum a little faster, and giving the crowd, his crowd, the permission. Permission was all they needed; they knew the right thing to do. Bless them. They stomped the men to death in moments.

Alexander Leighton smiled, and looked at the gate to Denmark House.

* * *

Geoffrey made it up to one of the windows that fronted on the Strand. He watched the monks enter the crowd with their hands raised in blessing. Then they were no more, their brown robes swallowed by a sea of black hats and scarves. The sheer viciousness of the act stunned him. It was so sudden. The crowd acted as one being, and attacked. He averted his eyes, and heard women up and down the hallway scream.

His servant was standing beside him. Geoffrey turned to him, tense. "Have them close the shutters on all the floors. I will be in the courtyard shoring up the gate."

Geoffrey ran to the courtyard, and saw Marie Garnier directing the gathering of materials for the barricade. Geoffrey went to her. "Will he come in time, do you think?"

"He always has before."

Geoffrey looked up at the sky, judging the time by the sun, and then back to Marie. He sighed. "There are so many conspiracies, and plots. Religions. Factions. Countries and countries within countries. 'Tis a time when you cannot trust anyone, Marie."

"You can trust him."

He heard glass breaking at the front of the main building, as stones were bounced off the façade. It was starting.

William Evans found him, and he looked up at the giant man. In his belt, he carried two rusty pistols that were formerly a wall decoration, a claymore that he wielded like a toy, and a massive cudgel.

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. "You look frightening as hell, William."

The massive leonine head smiled down at him. "'Tis the idea, lad."

The thick doors of the courtyard boomed, as the rioters smashed something heavy against it. The noise rattled around the hard walls of the courtyard and seemed to grow in intensity from the echo. There were about twenty men with William and Geoffrey.

They all flinched at the noise. The remaining Capuchin monks had taken up cudgels after the death of their comrades. The priests were armed with swords. Several of the Vantelet men took the pikes. They all stood still as the echo faded in the courtyard. Geoffrey found himself standing in the middle, in front of the doors with William. He nudged the giant in the leg. "Pick me up."

"What?"

"Just do it. Pick me up. Time for a speech or these guys are going to run. Up."

William shrugged one of his great shrugs, and hauled Geoffrey skyward. He stood on the massive shoulder, one hand wrapped in William's hair for balance.

William whispered, "So who put ye in charge o' this party, eh?"

Geoffrey spoke quietly from the side of his mouth. "Two reasons. Someone has to. And we were standing in the middle like a couple of idiots."

William made a face and nodded gently so as not to cause Geoffrey to lose his balance. "Good enuf fer me, lad."

Geoffrey used his stage and singing voice, and it carried well. "Everyone. Listen to me. We must hold them as long as possible. The others are at the back of the main house. We must give Vanderbeek time to get here and take them off. I have word he is coming. He is coming, so we must hold. We need to hold long enough for them to get in the boats, and then we can retreat."

The doorway boomed again as it was rammed. This time it shifted visibly.

Geoffrey said, "Matchlocks will fire first. Do not fire until I do. At this range you cannot miss, so don't rush. Fire and reload, and let the pikes take them from there. Fire and reload. All we have to do is slow them down."

The door boomed again, and this time they could hear splintering wood. The courtyard echoed again, and now they could hear the brutal cheer of the crowd, as the door began to fail. He saw the pikes waver. "Steady, lads. Steady. We just need to buy some time. Just a little bit of time, that's all."

The door boomed a final time, and a heavy log on a single axle and a pair of wagon wheels speared through the door, then continued all the way through the barricade, splitting it open as well. Five men came through the door.

Geoffrey shot the sixth in the forehead. He heard the matchlocks boom beside him, and watched three of the men fall at once. The pikes moved in and quickly finished the other two. At that point Geoffrey was shrouded in gunpowder smoke from the matchlocks. The courtyard quickly filled with the smoke, and visibility was now only a few feet.

"Hold them, pikes! Push them back!" Geoffrey shouted.

There was some screaming and moaning coming from the gate area, and rattling of the pikes as they stabbed through the barricade, but it looked like they had surprised the rioters, and they had retreated. It was quiet outside the gates, except for the preacher and the drum, urging them onward. Most of the group in the courtyard was choking from the smoke, including Geoffrey and William.

William tilted his head. "Bit—"Cough. "—smoky, lad."

Cough. "—Aye."

"Geoffrey?"

"Yes, William?"

"Kindly put your fist in my ear if ye plan to fire that little gun of yours again, eh?"

"I—"Cough. "—will endeavor to do so. Could you put me down, please? I want to inspect the barricade."

William set Geoffrey gently down on the ground. Before he got to the barricade, he found Jermyn there, holding his matchlock. His face was blackened on one side and what hair he had on his head was singed. He rubbed his hand over his scorched scalp. "I see why musketeers always wear those big floppy hats."

"Is that reloaded yet, Jermyn?"

"No, lad. It appears we have driven them off. We should be able to put these up now."

"Get that loaded now! They might be back!"

"I doubt that, little fellow. We bloodied them, and mobs like this do not have the fight in them when they are bloodied. They will run away and hide to lick their wounds. Mark my words."

Geoffrey heard a noise. A crowd noise. There was the hypnotic drone of the preacher, and the drum, beating slowly.

Thump, thump, thump.

At each thump of the drum, the crowd was saying something. It started quiet, almost a whisper. One word at each thump.

He strained his ears to hear it. He could see Jermyn doing the same and looking puzzled.

Thump. . . . Thump. . . .

Finally there was enough volume in the chant, and enough ringing had gone from his ears from shooting, that he finally discerned what they were saying.

Kill . . . Satan . . . Kill . . . Satan . . . Kill . . . Satan.

The volume began to increase, and the drum began to beat just a little faster.

"I don't think we have bloodied them enough, Jermyn. I'm reloading. You do the same."

Jermyn waddled away to the back of the courtyard quicker than he had seen him waddle in a long time. "And stop calling me little fellow!"

Geoffrey started to reload, while simultaneously inspecting the barricade. It was a wreck. "William, monks, and priests, get up here to the barricade. Anybody who doesn't have a pike or matchlock. We need to pull this log in and turn it on its side to act as a barrier. Hurry, I don't think we have much time!"

The chant continued to rise in volume, but not as fast as Geoffrey would have imagined it. Geoffrey was a musician, a singer, and he knew when you were singing with a crowd, they always went faster and faster. You had to control it with your players, or it could get out of control.

These people were controlled. The drum and the preacher held them back, allowing the chant to build. Geoffrey found himself listening to it, and began to follow the seductive rhythm of it.

Suddenly William was looming over him. "You need something moved, lad?"

"The log on the wheels. Let's turn it on its side and use it to block their path."

By then, the group had assembled and they started by making their way through the barricade where the log had pushed it aside. The monks administered last rites to the bodies and dragged them away. Unfortunately one of the monks performed the rite in front of the door where he could be seen, and several rocks and vehement curses came his way. He wasn't hurt.

They closed the splintered doors. Working furiously, they maneuvered the heavy contraption nearly into place, but one end snagged on the barricade. There was not enough room to get it into position, unless they lifted one end of it.

The chant picked up volume.

They had pushed the doors shut as best they could. They both tilted from the vertical, secured by one hinge and some splinters. Geoffrey could pick up movement on the other side of the doors through the gaps.

The chant was louder now, faster. The preacher was winding the spring again, and getting ready to let loose the mechanism.

"We really need to get that log in place. Now! We don't have much time!"

William pushed the others aside and put his shoulder under the log, other men filled in around him. With one mighty heave, they lifted one end of the huge tree trunk and it thumped heavily to the ground, shaking the paving stones beneath their feet. Their men cheered as it hit the ground. The way was blocked. No one was going to get in unless they brought a strong team of horses to drag the log away.

William was leaning against the wall. He looked to be in pain. Geoffrey ran to his side, waving at Jermyn and one of the Garniers to help. He arrived breathless. "What happened?"

The chanting and the drum beats increased in pace. Kill. Satan. Kill. Satan.

William's face was lined in pain, and Geoffrey could see tears in his eyes. He was favoring his bad leg. "'Tis me hip, lad. Something went pop in there, then it made a crunching sound." He gasped as he tried to move. "Hurts me a bit."

"You can't stay here. We've got to get you to the back of the courtyard. You've got to move, my friend."

"Aye. Get me some strong lads to lean on."

He screamed in pain only once. Geoffrey was pacing back and forth as they moved him, wincing every time William winced, and focusing all of his attention on his friend.

William, white as a ghost from the pain, motioned them to stop, and for Geoffrey to come over. "I will be fine, lad. Don't worry. I will be back there with the women. Do what you need to do. Go. Anyway, the women are a damn sight better lookin' than ye."

Geoffrey smiled at his friend. The chants were louder now. He turned and trotted back to the line of pikes, where the Vandelets were leaning on them, doing their best not to listen to the chanting crowd, feigning nonchalance. "Good job, lads. Keep it up. I doubt they will get through."

"Sure thing, Captain Hudson." There was a laugh from the men. Geoffrey knew differences in laughter. There were many nuances. There was laughter that was mean and cruel, and laughter that was of begrudging respect. This laughter was of the latter kind.

Geoffrey stopped and turned around, smiling. "Thank ye, lads. That has a nice ring to it, don't ye think? Captain Geoffrey Hudson?" They laughed some more. Good laughter. Geoffrey turned away and went back to his position where he could see the splintered gate, smiling.

The noise that suddenly came from the front of the building was immense, as if a hundred cannonballs hit it at the same time. Stones thrown over the roof from the street landed hard among them. One of the priests went down as a cobblestone hit his shoulder. Glass was breaking along the entire façade of the building, upper and lower floors.

Geoffrey realized his error. The shuttered windows. The windows were three times as easy to get into as the main gate. A determined man with a crowbar could get in. And it sounded like they were attacking them all at once. The screaming of the mob was almost deafening. He turned to look up at the building that encircled him. The courtyard was surrounded by windows. Three stories of windows, all around. There were two interior staircases on each side of the courtyard. Plus all of the access doors. They were sitting ducks in the courtyard, once the mob had access to the rest of Denmark House. Fish in a stone and glass barrel.

He looked back at the rest of them. Some figured it out, and it looked like they were going to run. Forcing himself to be calm, he walked as coolly as possible to the line of pikes. He said quietly, "I think we need to fall back to the very rear of the house, and defend the hallway. Let's go and walk that way, gentlemen. Don't panic. Don't run. Walk briskly please."

Geoffrey walked quickly back to Father Phillip, who had taken charge of the priests and remaining monks.

Phillip spoke first. "We cannot stay on the courtyard, Geoffrey, you understand that, right?"

"We can't defend the house. We need to get everyone who is not fighting to the watergate. There is only one way out of the back of the house to the gardens, and that is down the main hall to the back doors. If we block those, they will have to go through the windows again. I think they are going to head for the courtyard once they break in, and then head for us in the back hallway to the garden. We will do the same with the matchlocks and the pikes again, hopefully we can slow them down until Vanderbeek gets here. Give me a man we can send back with the women and children and take charge."

Father Phillip pointed to the remaining Capuchins. "You. All of you. Go do it. Move them back, let them know the mob has broken into Denmark House. Protect them from those who get past us. Go!"

Glass shattered into the courtyard.

"Oh, Christ," Geoffrey heard Father Phillip mumble.

All of the noncombatants retreated down the hallway toward the gardens and the river beyond. The Capuchins herded them toward the river in a long trail. Geoffrey saw it was orderly. Marie Garnier was shepherding the lot of them.

The position Geoffrey chose to defend was immediately inside the main doors from Denmark House to the gardens. The hallway was at least fifteen feet wide, and funneled down to a ten foot wide doorway. He had about a half dozen Vantelet pikesmen, the handful of priests led by Father Phillip, the five matchlocks, and another ten men, a mixture of Garniers, Vandelets and a couple of the freaks. The fat giant, Melrose, was there, and was, at present, a blithering idiot. The man with no legs was there. He had a pair of large kitchen knives, and looked ready to fight. The African servants had found a couple more pikes, and they were fitting in alongside the Vandelets. Geoffrey heard more glass shatter into the courtyard.

In the corner of the hallway, where it met the outside wall and the doors, sat William, his claymore against the wall. He was pale, Kneeling next to him was Aubert, the queen's physician. "You should be on your way to the boats. I will have Melrose help you. He doesn't appear to be worth much to us in the fight."

William waved the bottle he was drinking from around in front of him like a toy. "We tried. I can't. My hip is broken, Geoffrey. If I wa' a horse, they'd have cut me throat already. I shouldn't have tried to carry the litermon's load that time."

"Get up, we don't have any time. Get to the watergate. Melrose! Get over here! Right now!"

Geoffrey leaned close to whisper, "I don't know how long we can hold them here. Ten minutes maybe, once they are here in force. We aren't exactly seasoned troops. Hell, we aren't even troops. So get your arse up and get moving."

"Lad. I broke me hip liftin' tha' mighty log. The doctors always said I had weak bones. Too much pressure on them. You know that. Aubert has examined me, ask him."

Aubert was a kindly old gentleman, and not too bad, as physicians go. He squatted down so he was eye level with Geoffrey. "C'est vrais, Monsieur Hudson. This iz zee wound that is most of ze times is fatal, no? I have examined heem. Je suis très désolé." The doctor put his arm on Geoffrey's shoulder.

Geoffrey slapped it away. "No! It's not—not possible. No!" He looked at his fists, suddenly blurry, and balled up in rage. He stood shaking with emotion. "Melrose, you fat bastard! Get a damn luggage cart and a couple of Capuchins down at the river, load his arse up, and drag it down there." He looked at Aubert. "Help them down to the river."

"Oui. I weel geeve heem somtheen for ze pain, n'est ce-pas?"

Geoffrey looked at William. "You will not die on me. Not because of this."

William grinned, wincing slightly. "Is that an order, Captain Hudson?"

"Yes, dammit."

* * *

More glass shattered in the courtyard. Geoffrey dashed toward the skirmish line setting up in the hallway, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he went. It wouldn't do to have the others see his tears. He smelled smoke. The fires had started. He reached the skirmish line and took up a position on the left side. He put the matchlocks in front, and the pikes directly behind. There was more shattering glass, and then one or two rioters came charging down the hallway. They pulled up short when faced with a hall crowded with matchlocks and pikes at the ready.

A handful more ran into the backs of the first ones, pushing them forward. The hallway started to fill.

Geoffrey pulled his pistol, aimed and shouted. "Do not fire until—

BOOM BOOM BOOM.

The hallway filled with the smoke from the matchlocks, and Geoffrey had no target. He put the pistol back in his belt and scampered behind the pikes. The matchlocks fell back to reload, and the rest of the men kept watch on the rear. With the hallway open to the gardens and the courtyard, a breeze cleared the smoke out quickly. There were no bodies. "Nice shooting!" somebody piped up and nervous laughter rumbled in the hallway.

It was quiet for a few minutes. Geoffrey began to get nervous. The fires grew in the buildings, and wisps of smoke could be seen. A couple of the matchlocks were loaded, and Geoffrey motioned their bearers to the front.

Another group of rioters came, these armed with knives and cudgels. This time Geoffrey fired at the first one he saw, and let the other matchlocks fire at will. When the smoke cleared there were two bodies in the hallway.

It grew quiet again, at least as quiet as the ringing in his ears would let it.

Moments passed. They turned into minutes. Something was wrong. They should be coming down the hallway in droves from the courtyard.

Geoffrey dashed outside and checked the windows. Nothing. Had the rioters given up? He shook his head. It didn't make sense. He turned to go back to the skirmish line at a trot, and sought out Father Phillip.

"Father. Do you think they gave up? Retreated? I don't understand, why aren't they coming after us?"

"Dunno." The Scotsman shrugged.

"This is a mob. They should come straight at us. Something's wrong." Geoffrey paced back and forth for a moment, then made a decision. "I'm going to see what's happening in the courtyard." He turned to his musketeers. "If I come running around the corner, aim high, lads!" Before he could talk himself out of it, he crept quickly down the corridor. At the corner where the mob had last appeared, he dropped to the ground, crawled, then peered briefly around the corner. He could see nothing with his quick glance. He did it again, this time taking longer. There were some trails of blood where the wounded and dead had been dragged off. The hall was empty all the way to the courtyard. The courtyard appeared so from his angle, and the front gate was standing open. Smoke was pouring into the courtyard as the palace began to burn in earnest.

Geoffrey pulled his head back and stood. He looked back at his men, shrugged, then motioned them to stay in place. Geoffrey took one more look around the corner. Still nothing. He stepped around the corner, and began tip-toeing toward the courtyard, staying close to the wall.

There was one cross corridor between him and the courtyard. Keeping low, and with one pistol in each hand, he approached it. Standing with his back to the wall, he edged forward so he could see down one side, pistol at the ready. He could see nothing. It was empty, slowly filling with smoke. He listened carefully before taking a quick glance the other way. Empty.

Maybe they have given up! he thought hopefully. He checked the near side of the corridor again, this time with a longer look. Still empty. His arms dropped to his sides and he shook the tension out of his shoulders, calming his breathing. The smoke was getting heavier. He darted across the open hallway.

His next objective was to scout the courtyard, so he crept forward again, listening for any noises in front of him. He could still hear breaking glass and looting from other parts of the palace, but nothing from the direction of the courtyard. As he got close, a looter walked down one of the staircases and toward the shattered front doors. He carried a large linen tablecloth over his shoulder, packed with objects from the palace. Geoffrey dropped to the ground and wedged himself against the wall.

The courtyard was brighter than the hallway, so he was fairly certain he was invisible in the relatively deep shadows. The looter made a direct run toward the broken gates, hoisted himself over the log, and crept through the doors. As soon as the looter cleared the doors, he was set upon by a half dozen men. He dropped his heavily laden tablecloth with a crash, and tried to run back into the courtyard. He got one leg up on the battering ram when the knives and clubs brought him down.

Geoffrey frowned. "This is the most organized damn mob I have ever seen. What the hell is going on?" He stopped and thought for a moment, and pictured the plan of Denmark House in his head.

His blood ran cold. He sprang up and sprinted back at top speed toward the other men. Tearing around the corner, shouted, "Don't shoot! It's me! Don't shoot!"

Father Phillip asked, "What is it? are they coming? Get ready!"

"No," shouted Geoffrey. "Turn around! We can't be trapped here! You must turn around!"

"Explain yourself," Father Phillip demanded.

"They are waiting for us to come out the front. That means they are going to attack from the back, and drive us that way. Our only choices will be to try to escape through the burning house, or try to fight our way out the front door. If we are caught in here, we will be fucked. We have to turn around and head to the watergate, and hope we can hold them. They must be coming in through the stables. That's only a wooden fence, not fortified at all. When we stopped them in the front door, they must have changed plans."

"Oh, Christ," added Father Phillip.

"This would be a good time to have him on our side," said one of the musketeers.

"We need to fall back, there is a trap set for us if we try to go out the front door."

A couple of the men began to move quickly toward the back, and more started to bleed away.

"Hold!" Geoffrey's clear voice stopped the men from moving. "We need to do this as a group. If they catch us in the open, one at a time, we will be screwed. Matchlocks first, then pikes, then everyone else. Let's go. If they attack when we get outside, try to form a block, a small tercio. Does everyone know what that is?"

Heads nodded. "Good. Now stay together, walk. Let's go!"

The group readjusted itself and put the matchlocks in front, and the pikes behind. Outside the back doors of the palace, they arrived onto an elevated marble portico. Geoffrey could see a mass of people crowded around the watergate, and they appeared to be calm. His people, but still no Vanderbeek. He scanned the low wall near the chapel, looking for signs of movement as they stepped off of the marble porch.

Chapter 9
The Chapel

Alexander Leighton walked into the Catholic chapel. The destruction had begun. Pews were overturned, and windows were broken. Behind the altar was a painting. It stretched from nearly floor to ceiling. It was a Rubens; that much he knew. It was magnificent . . . pornography. Christ on the cross, bleeding, suffering. The painting was so dramatic, so colorful, and so powerful, that Leighton could almost smell the sand, sweat, and blood. Muscles bulged and he could see the veins in the arms of the men represented before him. The power of the work drew him into it, as if he were a witness to the crucifixion.

Leighton was not a man to feel fear of things earthly, but looking at the overwhelming power of this example of idolatry, he imagined this was as close as he would ever come on earth to looking Satan directly in the face. He glanced around him. There was incompleteness here, unfinished. He walked toward the painting, and the crowd made way for him. Quiet fell. The painting seemed to have kept back the lesser men by the sheer power and color which radiated from it.

Leighton took a broken pike from someone's hands. With it he could just reach the top. He walked up and faced the massive painting. The eyes of a nearly life-size Roman centurion, dark in paint, guarding the scene of the crucifixion from the rabble, seemed to follow him.

Finally, up close, his face directly in front of the painting, he could see the technique, smell the paint, see the brushstrokes and the colors blending together. This near, the power of the illusion vanished. It was just a painting.

Smiling, he looked up, reached and stretched with the pike, and dug it into the center of the massive canvas, near the top. The pike was very sharp. He allowed it to cut the cloth, and he stepped back as the blade made its way to the floor. He did it again and again, cutting it into strips, diminishing the power, making it something common. Common as trash.

The centurion's face was cut down the middle, and still the eyes followed him.

Leighton sneered. "Take it down and throw it into the Thames."

A man came up to him and whispered into his ear.

For the first time today, Leighton felt surprised. "Thank you."

* * *

Geoffrey scanned the wall carefully. He could hear crashing about in the chapel, he assumed they were destroying the church. The group behind him made their way out of the building and down the steps, the pikes bumping and tilting at all angles until they fit out the doorway and down the stairs. There were a couple of close calls as the sharp blades swung around.

When the group made it to level ground, he took a look back. The top floors of Denmark House were almost entirely engulfed in smoke.

They had made it about one hundred feet, with another five hundred to go to the watergate, when the low wall separating the servant's quarters from the gardens swarmed with rioters, headed straight for them. This time there were a few pikes in the mix, along with swords, knives and cudgels. A shout came from the house, as more rioters sprinted through the courtyard, down the hall and out the back doors where they had just come. They had no pikes.

"Form up!" Geoffrey shouted. "Pikes and matchlocks here. Matchlocks, aim at their pikes. Pikes, protect the matchlocks. Swords protect the rear. Try to keep moving! Keep together or we're lost!" He pulled his pistol and quickly went to Father Phillip. "Can your men hold them from the rear?"

Father Phillip nodded. "We have the reach of the blades to keep them back. What are you going to do about the pikes?"

Geoffrey sprinted to the pike side of the attack and pulled his second pistol. The pikes were almost ready to engage, and he shot the first pikeman who advanced. He went down, and the rest of the matchlocks opened fire. The boom was almost simultaneous, and two more pikes went down. He could count at least a half dozen more coming through the smoke. He shot another, and that one went down, tossing his pike toward the little tercio like a spear.

Geoffrey heard a scream to his left. One of the Vanelets had a gaping slice out of his leg, and blood spraying. A couple of the musketeers were trying to reload. One of them made a break for it on his own, running on an angle away from the mob. He was pursued by a half dozen rioters. One of the Capuchins was tending to the leg of the injured Vantelet. Keeper of the queen's cup, Geoffrey remembered.

He heard more screams from within his little group of men, and more went down, including three pikes. One of the Africans picked up a pike as his countryman went down, bleeding profusely from his stomach. Geoffrey slipped on blood atop the frozen ground. There were maybe fifteen men still fighting, holding together. They had lost five. The man with no legs was holding his own until a pikeman got close to him. He killed at least one rioter when they took him down. Another man fell. Then another. Anyone who fell out of the group was immediately set upon and kicked and stomped to death.

Geoffrey kept shouting, keeping them moving, keeping them in line. He slapped away a pike thrust with his sword, then another. Something hit his head, and he had to wipe the blood from his eyes. Another man fell. He heard the screams.

He found himself separated from the group. There were legs around him now, legs that were not of his men. He lashed out with both blades, swiping all around him, trying to keep the legs and the cudgels back. The legs became those of brutal courtiers, cruel to him in the past, the cudgels became the jibes and barbs, and he attacked.

He screamed at them. Slashed Achilles' tendons. Yelled for them to get back, to get away, damming and cursing. Whirl. Dart. Slash.

Something hit him in the back, and he spun around, contacting flesh that screamed. He darted to where the rest of the men should be, and could see nothing but the blood in his eyes and the legs and weapons of the rioters around him. He thrashed, stabbed almost blindly as he sensed the foes around him. Dart, thrust, stab, turn, thrust, slash, slash, dart again. And again. And again. He continued to fight, whirling in a dance of blades and blood.

He heard a roar. A deep Welsh roar from William, the giant. The legs of the rioters stepped back. Geoffrey managed to put his back to a fountain. The basin was taller than him, and the entire thing was at least fifteen feet in diameter. He scrambled over the side and into the dry basin, and then hoisted himself upon the first tier so he could see.

A group of his pikes and swordsmen were still standing, not far from him. He shouted encouragement to them, calling them to the fountain, to use as a fortress. From the watergate there was a surge against the mob driving a wedge into the crowd. There were some of the Capuchins, women from the kitchens, Melrose the fat giant, and William.

William was on a cart, wielding the massive claymore like it was a toothpick, cutting a wide swath through the mob. There were just a few of them from the watergate. Melrose was pushing the cart for William, sobbing the whole time.

The crowd pulled back from Geoffrey and his men, allowing them to regroup at the fountain. There were at least five hundred people who had poured over the walls or made the dash through the house, now all in the gardens. Mostly men. They had been bloodied, but always there was the voice of the preacher, urging them on, and the drumbeat from the boy.

Geoffrey finally found the preacher and the drummer, standing on the low wall between the main garden and the servants' quarters. William and the Capuchins had cloven into the mob, and the preacher was urging the mob to fight.

They would hear him in a moment, listen, and turn back. Like dogs, answering a whistled command. They would hesitate, look around and sort of sniff the air, and then trot off in the direction they were told. To do violence.

William was now surrounded. Geoffrey kept watching the preacher, who ordered some of the crowd to go to the watergate where most of the household stood helpless. Denmark House was burning fiercely, so much that Geoffrey felt the heat on his face.

There was only one thing to do.

He leapt off the fountain, and began to run toward the house. A few rioters tried to follow, but nobody took more than a couple of steps after him, figuring the flames would get him soon enough.

When Geoffrey neared the building, when the heat from the flames was almost too much to bear, he turned to his left and headed for the low wall near the stables. He scaled the wall and dropped to the other side, and began to head toward the preacher.

There were plantings along this side of the wall, evergreens of some sort. Behind the evergreens and next to the wall, there was a low animal path, likely one worn in by rats on the way to the river. Running hunched over, Geoffrey was completely out of sight.

Closer, he heard the preacher's voice, and the beat of the drum. Geoffrey stopped and peered out from the bushes. He was less than ten feet from them. When the preacher wanted the attention of the rioters, he would signal the drummer to beat a certain cadence. The drummer was doing that now, and the preacher was speaking.

"Go to the water, and push the godless ones into the river. Baptize them with the Thames. You are like the chosen children of Noah, spared the flood. You are the hand of God, punishing the Egyptians as they crossed the Red Sea. Push the evil into the water, spare none. Push them into the Thames, cleanse the shores of this Idolatry, this evil bastion, then return and we will send the church of the devil to the flames, like we did the home. Cleanse the shore! Cleanse the shore!"

Geoffrey crept back into the bushes, and loaded one of his pistols. His hands were shaking, but he wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or fear. He only knew he had to hurry. If the mob began to attack those at the watergate, the number of his people killed would be large. They would simply be pushed into the Thames' frigid waters.

Finally he rammed the ball down the barrel, pulled the rod out and discarded it. He pulled back the hammer and primed the pan. It was a new flintlock, built for him by one of the royal gunsmiths. He quietly pulled back the hammer, took a deep breath, and burst out from the bushes.

The guard was quick. Geoffrey aimed, then fired. The hammer dropped, the pan flashed, and the weapon misfired. He dropped the pistol and dove back into the bushes, scrambling away as the soldier slashed through the evergreens like some gardener from hell.

Geoffrey retreated down the animal path next to the wall, the soldier pursuing, stabbing into the bushes as he scrambled away. Geoffrey finally got his footing enough to sprint a few feet ahead, and pull his blades. He would have to fight this man one on one. He crashed through the bushes onto the path, both blades at the ready. He faced the soldier.

Chapter 10
The Watergate

Marie Garnier knew that she was taking a risk when she sent William and the others out to rescue the men. She also knew that if she didn't do something, the mob would have taken her father, brothers, and cousins. That plan succeeded. It split the mob. It saved her father and brothers, as well as the rest of the men who were still standing. But it left the women and children, old men and the freaks who could not fight with no defenses other than the watergate itself. The wall along the river was very tall, and the stairs which extended out into the river were substantial, more like the wide entrance to a palace than a simple dock. The stairs were all stone, as were the walls. The gate was a massive ornate iron affair and affixed to two large towers, about twenty feet tall, and fifteen feet apart. Into each of the columns was set life-size statues, the whole thing being designed by Inigo Jones as an impressive entrance from the Thames.

The problem was that there wasn't enough room on the stairs to hold the number of people who were there. They could not close the gates. All the mob had to do was attack them, and they would be pushed into the river and drown.

The fire was drawing a crowd, and water taxis were beginning to gather. In lieu of Vanderbeek, the water taxis were going to have to do. She went down to the last marble step above the frigid water, and whistled through her teeth, waving to the small boats. At least the tide had stopped going out. Maybe now Vanderbeek would be able to get past the bridge.

She heard screaming from the other side of the watergate. She yelled at the boats to take people off then turned and squeezed through the crowded steps toward the screaming. The mob was attacking the watergate.

"Get in the boats as they are coming! Quickly, fill them all." The crowd of her own people surged toward her, and she heard splashes coming from the river, as those on the edge were pushed in. She reached into her skirts, pulled out her dagger, and continued pushing toward the watergate.

Chapter 11
Duel

Normally a man would smile at him before sparring. Geoffrey learned that during his three times a week practices with the master of arms. When they smiled at him, Geoffrey knew he had the advantage. They were underestimating him. The man in front of him was not smiling. He looked downright grim.

This was nothing like any fight he had ever been in, Geoffrey knew. He tried to wipe his brow with the back of his hand, and the soldier attacked ferociously. Geoffrey parried the blow, but the force behind it nearly buckled his knees. His wrist and arms were vibrating from the pressure of the impact.

The man attacked again and again. Geoffrey was a small target. He knew how to defend from attacks, how to read a feint and counter the real stroke. He knew the man was at a slight disadvantage because he was fighting downward, on an angle he was not familiar with.

But Geoffrey had no reach. In order for him to be effective, he would have to get inside the man's defensive circle. He could not attack unless the man made a mistake. A sizable mistake. And this man was very careful not to make any.

Geoffrey realized he was backing away from his objective. He was being pushed from the preacher, and the rest of the battle. Time was running out. He had to get to the preacher and stop him, but he had to get past this soldier.

His opponent was relentless and Geoffrey was tired. He began to wonder if this was going to be the end. He took a couple of steps back, broke off the fight for a moment and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

The soldier paused, too, and looked down at him. "'Tis hopeless, boy. A dapperling cannot beat me. Run away to your masques and dances."

Geoffrey said the only thing he could. "I am not a boy. I cannot run away."

"I am giving you a chance to live, boy. Take it and go."

Geoffrey wiped the blood and sweat from his face once again, and attacked ferociously. He could not get close to the man, no matter what he tried. He succeeded in backing him up a few feet, that was all. There was a pause in the fight again, and this time the man attacked more fiercely than before, pushing Geoffrey back further and further. His arms felt as if there were no muscles left, his legs were shaking from the pressure and the blows. The attacks continued, and backed him up farther and farther . . .

Geoffrey could almost not believe it. The soldier slipped on horseshit. The man planted his right foot, and it went out from under him, dropping him to the ground on one knee with his right foot extended. He thrust with his sword wildly, which Geoffrey easily parried. With his dagger, he neatly sliced behind the man's ankle severing his Achilles tendon. The man howled in pain, and thrashed his sword at Geoffrey even more wildly.

Geoffrey stepped back out of range. "I offer you your life, as you did for me. Drop your sword and I will spare it. Do it now."

The man hesitated for a moment, the pain clearly unbearable. He dropped his sword and clenched his leg, rolling on the ground. Geoffrey sprinted toward the preacher.

"You! Stop what you're doing! Now!"

The preacher looked mildly irritated. Then he looked down and sneered.

Geoffrey knew what the man thought he saw. A small and very dirty boy with a toy sword. The preacher was underestimating him. Then he pulled out a dagger and jumped off the wall.

Geoffrey smiled.

Moments later Alexander Leighton breathed his last, a startled expression on his face, as he bled out onto the cold ground.

Chapter 12
At Sea

Geoffrey heard gunfire. Matchlocks, in a volley. He wondered how his guys could do that. Then a cannon shot. A small field piece, maybe leather from the soft sound.

The drummer boy fell off the wall, clutching at what remained of his arm. He hit the ground and bounced, breaking the drum and spattering it with blood.

Geoffrey sheathed both of his blades and pulled himself up to peer carefully over the wall. Several hundred people were running directly toward him in a panic. The mob was in full retreat. He heard another volley from the direction of the watergate.

Vanderbeek! Geoffrey ducked down behind the wall and watched as the stampede of people flowed over it, made their way to the front and escaped out to the street, past the stables, while Denmark House continued to burn.

"He fought well, you know, Geoffrey. Very well." Joos Vanderbeek was on the bridge of his two-masted ship, making its way to Calais. For winter, the channel was being kind. The wind was brisk and cold.

"Thank you for that."

"Without him holding the mob back at the watergate, they all would have been pushed into the Thames and drowned. Father Phillip and the survivors of your tercio were held against the fountain. William pulled back to the watergate and saved everyone there. We were even able to pull a couple out of the water when we got there. And if you had not stopped the drum and the preacher . . . we were not certain we could stop them either."

"How many did we save, Vanderbeek?"

"About one hundred and fifty."

"We lost about twenty-five, then. Jermyn. All the Africans. Several Vandelets and Garniers, the doctor, the Capuchins, the priests."

"Father Phillip and Father Guillemot made it. One of the Jean Garniers made it, too, the younger one." Vanderbeek looked at Geoffrey. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Geoffrey. How could you know it was as much a military operation as it was a riot? And that preacher. He was a frightening man. The way he commanded the crowd. It was unnatural. You were the key, you know. To take him down. There were not enough of us to hold them off, even with our one small cannon.

"Alexander Leighton was his name, you know, and he died easily. Too easily."

It was quiet for a moment. The only noise was the creaking of the sails and rigging around them, and the steady splash of the sea. Vanderbeek watched Geoffrey move to the rail at the stern of the ship and peer at the wake behind them.

He stared for a while, and then turned to Vanderbeek again. "I was six years old when I was introduced at court. It was during a masque, and William was part of the anti-masque. He was to pantomime coming on stage and having lunch. So he came out, sat down, pulled a massive loaf of bread out of his pocket, a large wheel of cheese out of another, and out of a third pocket, he pulled me. It was the hit of the show. We have been together ever since." He turned away and pounded on the railing. "If I hadn't had him move the God damned log, if I hadn't tried to be a leader, if I had told him to stay put. It's my fault, you know, Vanderbeek. My fault. Trying to be something I am not—"

Vanderbeek took two strides across the deck and stopped in front of Geoffrey. He knelt. "Listen to me. If you hadn't done what you did, you would all be dead. All of you. Every man, woman, child, freak and pet in Denmark House. You were all supposed to die there. All of you! It was a well-coordinated effort. I couldn't land and come to your assistance because I was prevented by troops. I had to wait for the tide to turn so I could make it past the bridge upriver." He grabbed Geoffrey by the shoulders. "It was planned that you be burned to death or killed by the mob. It wasn't random. It had Cork's handwriting all over it. So shut up and mourn your friend properly. You didn't kill him. Cork did, or the preacher Leighton. Or the shopkeeper with the pike. They killed him, not you."

Geoffrey's eyes looked tired. Old. Far older than they should. Vanderbeek straightened, put his hands behind his back, and returned to the center of the deck, looking forward.

After a few minutes, Geoffrey joined him.

Still looking forward, Vanderbeek asked a question. "What do you do next, Geoffrey? I don't see you as 'The Queen's Dwarf" any longer. Can you go back to a life of practical jokes and barbed jibes at Louis' court in Paris?"

"No."

Vanderbeek smiled. "I may have an idea, if you are open to it. I can always use a few good men . . ."

* * *

 

 

A Change of Hart

Written by Kerryn Offord

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April 1633, Salt Lick Run

"And then you store the fulminate of mercury in water until you need it, like this." Dexter "Ape" Hart demonstrated.

Hans Rörer dipped a finger into the bucket of water and looked up at Ape. "Why?"

Ape sighed. Fucking dumb kraut. I already explained why. Don't you understand proper American? He tried one last time, raising his voice to ensure he got the message across. "I've already told you. You keep fulminate of mercury wet because it's dangerous when it's dry. Do you understand?"

Hans nodded. "Dry is dangerous, wet is safe."

"Hell no," Ape roared, horrified at the thought of anybody ever considering fulminate of mercury to ever be safe. "This stuff is dangerous. People have died making it. Keeping it wet just makes it less dangerous to work with. The only time you let it dry is after it's in the percussion caps."

Ape walked to the door. He stopped and glared at the down-timers muttering amongst themselves. "Well, don't just stand there talking, get busy. There ain't going to be any money until you make something me and Monkey can sell. Come on, Monkey, let's leave them to it."

 

A month later

Joachim Schmidt watched the Harts walk away from the log cabin hidden in the woods until they were out of sight. "Only three hundred dollars for a week's work."

"Are you suggesting the Harts are stealing form us?" Christina Heine asked.

"Because I don't think they are," Christina's sister Justina said. "The price they claim they sold them for is right. We know that, because we asked Maria Anna over at Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza."

"I agree with the girls," Hans Rörer said. "The Harts are being honest with the money. It's just that we are producing so few percussion caps."

"And whose fault is that?" Joachim asked. "It's the Harts and their insistence that we only make small batches and then clean everything between batches. We're wasting half our time cleaning the equipment, and it takes too many batches to make a useful amount of fulminate of mercury."

"But they told us we can't make larger batches until we know how to make smaller batches safely," Justina protested.

"But we've already proven that we can. Haven't we made nearly a hundred batches without a problem?" Joachim demanded.

Hans and the two girls nodded. "

"Well, why don't we make bigger batches?"

"You mean twenty gram batches like Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza?" Christina asked.

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Joachim shook his head. "Why waste our time making batches that small? I say we go for the biggest batch size the equipment can handle and convert all of the mercury as quickly as we can. That way we can keep making primer composition without having to stop and start as the fulminate of mercury runs out."

"But to convert all of the mercury we have . . . Will it be safe to store that much?" Justina asked.

"Herr Hart said it himself. As long as we keep it wet, it's perfectly safe," Joachim said.

"I don't think that's what Herr Hart said," Justina protested.

"Who knows for sure what Herr Hart said? His English is almost impossible to follow. Besides, think of the money, girl. Think of the money. If we can earn three hundred dollars a week each making a few hundred caps a day, think of what we could earn if we were making thousands of caps a day?"

"It's a nice idea, Joachim, but there is still the cleaning of the stills between runs," Hans said.

"Well, if we increase the size of the batches then we won't need as many runs to finish the mercury. And anyway, why do we have to distill the water? If filtered water from the creek is good enough for us to drink, then it's good enough to use to clean the equipment. We can save a lot of unproductive time if we just filter the water instead of distilling it."

 

Early morning, May 1633, heading east on Route 250

BOOM!

"What the hell?" Press Richards pulled the police cruiser to a halt on the side of the road.

"An explosion. Do you think it might be the place on Grays Run?" Officer Erika Fleischer asked.

Press looked towards the southeast where the flash had come from. "Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza? Nah, too far south for them."

"Oh!"

Press took in Erika's obvious distress. "You got an idea what it might be?"

She nodded. "I have some friends who said they had found work making percussion caps at a place on the upper reaches of Salt Lick Run."

Press looked back toward the southeast. Percussion caps shouldn't cause that big an explosion. Not unless they were making a lot of fulminate of mercury, which meant . . . "Ah shit." Press reached for the two-way radio. "Patrol Two to Base."

"Go ahead, Patrol Two."

"Responding to a possible backwoods explosives factory accident on Salt lick Run. Could you warn the fire and ambulance? Over."

"Affirmative, Patrol Two. Hang on . . . right, Angela's just got Anna Leah Robinson on the phone. She says there was an explosion further up the valley from her place and she can see fire. Her boarders are already heading over to see if they can help. Over."

"Understood, Base. That sounds like it might be our explosion. Over and out." Press put the cruiser into gear and glanced over to Erika. "Do you know how many people were working on the site?"

Erika shook her head. "No, sorry, just that two of my friends had found work there."

 

* * *

Press winced at the screeching of branches on the metalwork as the police cruiser forced its way through the narrow track. More scratches to add to the collection. Finally the cruiser emerged into a clearing. "Oh shit!"

Press got out of the cruiser and looked at the devastation in the light of the headlamps. Debris and toppled trees radiated out from a still smoldering crater in the ground. There wasn't much fire. Just a few broken pieces of wood and a bit of the ground cover. Behind him he could hear Erika issuing shovels and sacks to Anna Leah's boarders and directing them to extinguish the fires.

He grabbed a spotlight pack and walked over to ground-zero playing the beam over the ground as he went. Occasionally he bent down to examine things on the ground, but he didn't have to find human remains to know people had died. The whole place stank of burned flesh.

"The men have the fires under control," Erika reported.

Press dropped the remains of a hand. "Right. Well, let's scout around just in case anybody survived. It's a pity we didn't bring Pluto. He'd have been a great help finding any survivors."

 

* * *

Erika set off in the opposite direction to Press, scanning the ground with her spotlight. Unlike Officer Richards she was glad she'd left her dog back in town. There were bits and pieces of bodies everywhere. Pluto would have made a meal of the evidence.

 

Next day

"The silly bastards allowed their fulminate of mercury to get contaminated with copper fulminate," Celeste Frost announced.

"What?" Press asked.

"I found traces of copper in the remains of the still your people found. If there's copper in the still, then there's bound to be copper contamination in the finished product. That copper contamination would have been turned into copper fulminate and copper fulminate is extremely sensitive."

Press was lost. Celeste had been called in to help the investigation because she was the "go to" person for fulminate of mercury at Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza. If she said copper fulminate was bad, then he believed her, but . . . "What does copper fulminate contamination have to do with what happened here?"

"I'm guessing that they've processed all of their mercury and stockpiled their fulminate of mercury under water until it was needed, but it must have started drying out. When the traces of copper fulminate in the mix dried out, it exploded. That'd be enough to set off the fulminate of mercury."

Press nodded. That made sense. "How much fulminate of mercury are we talking about?"

"Your people found empty containers for enough mercury to make over fifty pounds."

"That much?" Press wasn't really questioning Celeste's estimate. It was more of an expression of horror. He took another look at the devastation. It looked worse in the light of day. He could believe it was that much.

* * *

Erika had spent part of the morning trying to locate her friends. Nobody had seen them and she feared the worst. She had Pluto with her now—for all his size he usually made a useful ice-breaker. She knocked on the door to Anna Leah Robinson's house.

There was the sound of somebody with a walking stick approaching the door, and then it opened to reveal a small-framed white-haired woman. Pluto was the first to react. He advanced, butting her gently with his head until she started to scratch just behind his ear.

"Frau Robinson?" Erika asked.

"Yes, dear." Anna Leah gestured down at Pluto. "And who is this?"

Erika grinned. Her dog was going to earn his keep today. "Pluto, shake."

Pluto sat and lifted his right paw for Frau Robinson to shake.

"Oh, isn't that sweet. Pluto you say? That's a funny name for such a handsome dog. What is he, some kind of German Shepherd?"

Erika smiled kindly at Frau Robinson. Most people seeing Pluto tended to compare him to a wolf, but her betrothed, who had given her Pluto as a pup, claimed any wolf in his ancestry was at least two generations back. "Yes, some kind. Now, Frau Robinson, if it's convenient, I'd like to ask some questions about last night."

"Well, don't stand out in the cold. Come on inside."

"Stay," Erika told Pluto before bending to remove her boots.

"Oh, let the poor thing come inside where it's warm."

Erika didn't need to gesture to Pluto. He was already making up to Anna Leah. She followed the pair into the front room. Pluto made straight for the open fire and flopped down in front of it as if he belonged there. Anna Leah settled into an armchair beside a window with a commanding view of the road outside while Erika pulled out her notebook and sat down opposite her.

"About last night. Did you notice anybody coming or going from the property last night?" Erika asked.

"Not last night. They built a log cabin just by the creek and usually stayed there."

Erika grimaced. It was sounding more and more likely that her friends were dead. "We're trying to establish how many people might be missing, and who they are. Did you know any of the people working there?"

"I'm sorry, dear, but I don't get out much these days. I've only seen them as they walk past and my eyes aren't what they were. They were mostly down-timers. That much I'm sure of."

"Mostly? And how can you be sure?"

"It's the clothes. Not many down-timers wear black T-shirts and blue jeans."

"Can you describe the people in the up-timer clothes?"

Anna Leah shook her head. "I only saw them the once and I didn't get a really good look. There were two of them. Both of them with beards and enough beer-belly to do a woman nine months pregnant with twins proud."

Erika noticed Anna Leah's hesitant glance towards a pair of binoculars beside her armchair. "Is there anything more you can add? What about a logo or slogan on the T-shirt?"

Anna Leah touched the pair of binoculars. "I'm always nodding off in my chair these days. I think one of them had 'Support the' above what might have been a female on the front of his T-shirt. I couldn't read the rest."

"Can you give me an idea of the number of people who might have been living in the cabin, and were they males or females?"

"About six all told. Four males and two females, and all but two of the men were dressed like down-timers. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

Erika closed her notebook and put it away. "You've been of considerable assistance, Frau Robinson. If you remember anything that might help, anything at all, please get in touch." She passed Anna Leah one of her cards and got to her feet. "There's no need for you to get up. We can find our own way out. Pluto, come."

Anna Leah ignored Erika and pulled herself out of her armchair, reaching out a hand to rub Pluto's ears. "Such a sweet dog. It must be nice having him around the house."

Erika grinned. "The trouble is he eats us out of house and home."

Meanwhile

Ape Hart knocked and walked into his brother's house. "Monkey, you around?"

"He's in the workshop, Ape," Monkey's wife called back.

"Thanks, Cora Lee." Ape headed for the shed where Monkey had his workshop.

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"Monkey, you seen the . . ." Then he saw his brother sitting dejectedly with the paper laid out in front of him. "You've seen it."

"Yeah. No known survivors. And the police wanting to question anybody who might be able to identify the people involved. What the hell are we going to do?"

Ape grabbed a chair and sat down. "Nothing. We didn't do anything wrong. The silly bastards must have made up all the mercury in one batch. We sure as hell didn't tell them to do that."

"Yeah, but four people dead."

"They're only down-timers, plenty more where they came from. Meanwhile we're out nearly five grand that we can't afford."

"You're sick. They were human beings."

"Yeah. Well, they're dead human beings because they didn't do what we told them. And if I don't start repaying the money I borrowed from Wilda soon, I'll be joining them."

"We could always get a job," Monkey suggested.

 

Next day

The Grantville Police Chief, Dan Frost, looked up from the report he was reading. Dropping it to his desk he pushed his chair away from the desk so he could stretch out. "I think I know who Anna Leah saw."

"From just the description she gave?" Erika asked.

Dan grinned. Anna Leah's description was a little lacking in specificities. "I think she saw the Hart brothers. They fit the basic physical profile, and I've seen Monkey in a black sleeveless T-shirt that fits the description. We also know they've been selling percussion caps."

"So what do we do now? Haul them in for questioning?"

Dan shook his head. "No. We don't have any reason to."

"No reason? But they were responsible for the deaths of four people on Salt Lick Run."

Dan leaned over his desk and placed a hand over one of Erika's. "No, they weren't. Look, Erika, I know two of the dead were friends of yours, but even if the Harts were running the plant, the evidence is that stupidity caused their deaths. Whatever anybody wants to say about the Harts, nobody would call them stupid, at least not stupid enough to make up and store fifty pounds of fulminate of mercury."

"So we do nothing?"

"I didn't say that. I intend sending Neubert and Tipton to ask if they know anything about the accident. Not that there's anything we can do even if they admit being involved—it's not illegal to make percussion caps—but Neubert and Tipton will enjoy annoying Ape and Monkey."

 

The Employment office, Grantville

Ape watched Kathryn Riddle pull an index card out of her box and read it. She flicked her eyes between him and his brother and shook her head. "What's that job?" he asked.

Kathryn looked back down at the card in her hand. "Someone is looking for German speaking up-timers to help supervise the introduction of new technology in his factory. But you don't speak German, so that rules that out."

"We do too speak German," Ape protested.

"Not well enough though, Ape." Kathryn put the index card she was holding back where it belonged and continued searching. Pulling out a card every now and again and reading it, before shaking her head and putting it back. "The trouble is, you don't have any qualifications. You both dropped out of high school and have been scraping by doing, well . . ." She looked both Ape and Monkey in the eyes. ". . . who knows what."

"We was making hooch," Ape answered. "The best hooch in the district, it was."

"Unfortunately, while there is demand for people who know about distilling, most companies in that field require that their employees speak the language of the company, and more and more, that language is German," Kathryn said.

"So what do you have that we can do, Kathryn? We both need work," Monkey asked.

"Well, your lack of German and your poor education means you're best suited to laboring jobs, and quite frankly, there are plenty of young, fit down-timers competing for those jobs. That leaves . . ." Kathryn passed over the last index card she had pulled out of her file.

"Street sweeping?" Ape looked up from the card in his hands. "Pooper scooping for horses? I thought that was a punishment detail?"

"It was, and still is, but the courts don't always sentence enough people to cope with the problem, so there are paid positions available for 'street sweeping.'"

Ape passed the card over to his brother. "Is that all there is?"

"I'm afraid so." Kathryn shrugged. "If you'd made an effort to learn German I could probably find you something better, but for now, that's all I have to offer."

"When can we start?" Monkey asked.

Ape glared at his brother. "Start? Are you seriously thinking of taking the job?"

Monkey nodded. "If it's all that Kathryn has to offer, sure."

"It is, and I suggest you both find time to take German lessons if you want to improve your employment prospects," Kathryn said.

 

September 1633

Rodney Jessup waved a finger under Ape's nose as he spoke. "And this time, don't let your workers screw everything up, understand?"

"Sure, Rod, we won't leave all the mercury and stuff where the dumb krauts can get it this time. Instead we'll only give them enough for a few batches at a time."

"And I want you to do more than just go round once a week to collect the week's production and give them their share of the previous weeks sales," Rodney said.

"Hey, the krauts don't like me and Monkey sniffing around all the time." Ape thumped his chest. "They don't like being around real Americans."

Rodney snorted his disbelief. "Yeah, sure. Well just keep a better eye on your workers this time. I lost a lot of money when your last bunch blew themselves up."

"We will, Rod. We will," Ape promised.

 

December 27, 1633

There were eleven down-timers in the barn that represented the Hart brothers' latest primer and percussion cap factory. Last week they'd had twelve employees, but just before Christmas one of them, they'd nicknamed him Pickles because his real name was Heinz Green, blew himself up when he fell on a batch of fulminate of mercury he was stealing. That should still have left eleven eager krauts pumping out primers and percussion caps. Except they weren't working, they were packing in preparation to leaving.

"What the do you mean, you quit? You can't quit. We've got contracts to fill." Ape glanced over at his brother, Monkey, who looked just as stunned.

Georg Schrapel shook his head. "You have contracts to fill, Herr Hart. We were only employees, and we have decided to take our highly marketable skills elsewhere."

"What highly marketable skills?" Ape demanded. "All you have is the ability to follow simple instructions."

Georg nodded. "And all without blowing ourselves up. Rohrbacher Pharmaceuticals are most impressed."

"Who the hell are Rohrbacher Pharmaceuticals?" Monkey demanded. "I haven't heard of any company by that name making percussion caps and primers?"

"That would be because they are a family of apothecaries who have a facility to extract drugs from plants in Saalfeld and are not into anything so dangerous as fulminate of mercury. We were informed that they were looking for suitable staff," Georg answered.

"You expect us to believe some pokey little family firm of apothecaries needs eleven new workers?"

"Of course not, Herr Hart. They only have places for half our number. No, the rest of us have decided to go out on our own and produce primers and percussion caps," Georg said.

Ape clenched his fists. "You little bastard. I ought to push your fucking face in."

"That would of course be assault, and I would be forced to make a complaint to the police." Georg smiled.

Ape ground his teeth. The bastard was asking for it, but he couldn't afford any more trouble with the police just then, not with Pickles dying suspiciously . . . just a minute. Who the fuck would want to screw around with their workers? Then he had it. That kraut police officer investigating Pickle's death. . . "Fucking Officer Neubert put you up to this, didn't he?"

Ape didn't bother waiting for a response. For some reason the kraut cop had it in for him and Monkey. Talking their work force into quitting would be just like the kraut bastard. Certainly he couldn't think of anybody else who might have it in for them. "If you quit now we aren't going to pay you anything for the last lot of primers and percussion caps."

"That was expected, Herr Hart. Consider it payment in lieu of notice."

* * *

Monkey looked around the now empty barn. "What the hell are we going to do now?'

"At least everything is clean and ready for the next batch, except there isn't a next batch. We're going to have to get ourselves another bunch of krauts, and we're going to have to get them quick. We still have to fill those orders from Santee and Johnson."

"Yeah, but the new krauts are going to take time to get up to speed."

Ape spat on the floor. "Bastards. They could at least have waited 'til after we finished the orders for Santee and Johnson. There's only one way we can fill those orders on time."

"You mean make them ourselves? We'll never do it," Monkey said.

"Of course, we'd never do it. No, the only way to fill Santee and Johnson's orders is to buy from one of the other producers."

"We'll lose money if we do that."

"Sure. And what do you think Santee or Johnson will do if we don't fill our contracts with them? Either of them'd be happy to sue the shirts off our backs."

 

January 1634

Boom.

Monkey fell backwards at the explosion. Fortunately it was just a small explosion as he'd been working with less than a gram of fulminate of mercury. "Shit, that's it. I've had enough. This stuff is too damned dangerous. I say we quit this shit."

Ape looked over from where he was loading primers. "It would have been okay if we could have got some krauts to do the work—who cares if they blow themselves up? You got any idea why we haven't been able to get new staff?"

"I bet it's fucking Officer Neubert again. The krauts always stick together. He's probably put out the word that nobody should work with us."

"Well, what are we going to do? I don't know about you, but buying those primers and percussion caps to fill Santee and Johnson's orders wiped me out."

"Me too. I guess it's back to the old standby."

"Ah, shit. Not clearing the streets after the horses again? It's freezing outside."

"You got a better idea?" Monkey asked.

"How about asking Jessup if he knows of anything?'

"We were lucky Jessup was willing to help set up this operation after the fiasco on Salt Lick Run. He sure ain't gonna help us out if we screw up again."

"Salt Lick Run wasn't our fault. How were we to know the fools would stockpile the stuff? We told them it was dangerous often enough."

"Maybe, but I sure bet he'll think having all our trained workers walk out was our fault," Monkey said

"It's not our fault Officer Neubert has it in for us," Ape protested.

 

Two weeks later

Monkey swept the pile of horse droppings onto the shovel his brother was holding. "Jessup sent a letter."

Ape looked up hopefully. "He's got us a new job?"

"Tom Frost at Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza has worked out how to make an explosive called RDX and they're set up a factory to make it. Jessup says Garland Alcom and Dennis Stull are involved. If we're interested he thinks there might be a place for us in the new factory."

"Are we interested? You bet we are."

Monkey nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I've already sent a telegram."

 

March 1634, the explosives factory, Schwarza Industrial Zone

The four men had been playing for two hours when they heard the door open.

"And this is where . . . whoops, sorry guys, but Miss Siebenhorn wanted to be shown around."

Ape carefully placed his cards face down on the table and turned round. He noticed the smug look on Carl fucking Duvall's face and started to worry. There'd been rumors that somebody was going to replace the absent Garland as manager of the explosives factory. "Who the hell is Miss Siebenhorn?"

"I am."

Ape studied the young woman pushing her way past Carl. He didn't recognize her, which meant she was a down-timer, and with a name like Siebenhorn, definitely a kraut. Ape didn't like krauts. Krauts were the cause of all of him and his brother's financial troubles. He just hoped she wasn't going to cause them any more trouble.

"As neither Garland Alcom nor Dennis Stull are available to handle the day to day management of this factory Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza have appointed me as the new manager," Maria Anna announced.

Ape barely managed to hold back a groan. The krauts had installed one of their own to manage the company. Why hadn't they installed an American as manager? What the hell made them think this kid knew how to run the company? He and Monkey were going to have to keep an eye on the girl. They couldn't afford for this company to fail, it was the only decent job they were likely to get.

* * *

"You'll want to be careful around the Harts. They're a couple of redneck dinosaurs and regulars at 250 Club," Carl Duvall informed Maria Anna as they walked away from the stockroom.

"And they don't like down-timers," Maria Anna said.

Carl snorted. "They like down-timers fine, just as long as they aren't . . . Germans."

"No need to be polite, Carl. You mean they don't like 'krauts.'"

"Yeah, well. No, they don't like 'krauts.' But they are good workers," Carl continued. "Don't take any notice of the fact they were playing cards. They do that whenever they have a break."

"Of course, I won't hold that against them," Maria Anna said. She glanced over at Carl. Yes, there was a look in his eyes that suggested he'd known about the card game and deliberately timed her visit to put the worst possible light on the Harts. She wondered why Carl had it in for them. She didn't need to add to the reasons she didn't like the brothers. There were enough of those already, and the biggest reason was that her friend Erika, a police officer with the Grantville Police Department, believed they were the principals behind the backwoods percussion cap plant on Salt Lick Run where her friends Christina and Justina Heine died. They'd certainly been behind another plant making percussion caps, but she and Erika had managed to talk the workforce into deserting them. She'd quite enjoyed the sight of the two overweight up-timers cleaning up after the horses on Main Street.

A few days later

The Hart brothers were blocking the corridor Marie Anna Siebenhorn wanted to pass through. Not that they were doing it deliberately, it was just that two large pot-bellied men who have stopped to talk tended to take up a lot of room. "Excuse me, could I get through?" she called to their backs.

"Sure," Ape Hart said as he and his brother moved to let Maria Anna pass between them.

She had to turn sideways to slip through the gap they made. She felt Monkey Hart's pot-belly touch her back and arched it to avoid further contact. Unfortunately, this pumped up her chest, much to the obvious appreciation of Ape.

Once past she strode away as quickly as she could. She really wanted to run, but that would only let them know their behavior upset her. Well, she wasn't going to let them win. Right now she just wanted to get into her office where she could examine the company's accounts. Especially those aspects of the company the Harts were involved with. The unions might not allow her to dismiss the Harts just because she didn't like them, but if they were convicted of an offense, the union wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

 

A few days later

Maria Anna was ready to scream in frustration. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. The books were clean. Sure there was a discrepancy, a massive thirty-eight dollars and fifteen cents, but she was pretty sure that there was a petty cash jar somewhere with exactly thirty-eight dollars and fifteen cents sitting in it.

She chewed on a tendril of hair. Maybe the books were too good? Maybe the Harts were smarter than she was. Hold it, Maria Anna, this is the Harts we're talking about here. That left just one possible conclusion—that the Harts hadn't been fiddling the books.

Maria Anna sat staring at the stockroom accounts for several minutes before finally slamming them shut and pushing them to a corner of her desk. The Harts had to be up to something. Doing actual work wasn't in their makeup. It was just a matter of digging until she found it.

 

A week later

The Harts were standing talking to each other in the corridor as Maria Anna approached. Pulling her body up straight, she walked right past them.

Ape put his hand on Maria Anna's shoulder and halted her, then pulled her around to face him. "Hey, Girlie, don't try to walk past as if we ain't there. What's this we hear about you auditing our accounts? That's not a nice thing to do. Anybody would think you didn't trust us."

Maria Anna looked at the hand on her shoulder. She imagined digging her nails into it and the sound of Ape squealing in pain. "Please remove your hand, and my name is not 'Girlie.' It is Maria Anna."

Ape lifted his hand. "Hey, no need to be so touchy."

"Yeah, Ape didn't mean nothin' by it," Monkey said. "But you're barking up the wrong tree if you think we'd steal from Garland. We ain't gettin' any younger, and with no social security, we need this job."

"How much money do you have in the petty cash?" Maria Anna asked.

Monkey shrugged his shoulders. "Damned if I know. Maybe twenty or thirty bucks I guess. Why?"

"Just checking."

 

April 1634

Monkey stumbled into the stockroom in his brother's wake, rubbing the spot on his ribs where he'd been kicked by G.C. Cooper in the fight the previous day. "Damned woman. Count everything in the inventory she says, and I bet she means everything . . . right down to the number of individual percussion cap blanks and the sheets of wrapping paper. Doesn't she think we have anything better to do?" Monkey complained.

Ape sucked the knuckles he'd skinned hitting G.C. Cooper in the same fight and rubbed the bruise Officer Neubert had raised on his ribs when the cops arrived to break it up. "I bet Neubert put her up to it. The bastard's always had it in for us."

Monkey nodded. "Yeah, fucking krauts. Always stick together. So, what do we do?"

Ape snorted. "As if we have any choice. The little bitch has been looking for 'just cause' to fire us since she took over. Not following a direct order would play right into her hands.

"So where do we start?"

Monkey looked around the stockroom. With his ribs feeling the way they did at the moment, he didn't want to do any heavy lifting. His eyes settled on a barrel. "How about we start with the percussion cap blanks?"

"Yeah, might as well. Gimme a hand to move it closer to the table then."

 

An hour later

Ape slapped a pile of percussion cap blanks onto the bench and stood up. "The hell with this shit."

Monkey put aside another pile of one hundred percussion caps and looked over at his brother. "You'd rather be shoveling horse shit?"

"Of course not, but that broad's got it in for us. I ask you, what have we ever done to her to deserve this?" He gestured to the barrels of percussion cap blanks they still had to count. "There must be an easier way. Hell, it's not as if anybody's going to check our numbers, is it?"

Monkey sat back and examined his piles of carefully counted percussion cap blanks. "You still got that old set of reloading scales?"

"The balance set? Yeah, why?"

"Just a thought. If we weigh each of those piles we'll have a good idea how much a hundred caps weighs. That'll give us an average weight per cap. Then we just weigh the rest of the caps and divide the total by the average weight of a cap."

"You think the bitch will let us get away with that?" Ape asked.

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her. Besides, it sure beats the hell out of counting every single one of the damn things."

"True enough, bro. True enough."

 

A few days later

Monkey emptied the box of wrapped explosives into the pan, checked that he had ten rows of ten blocks, and watched the needle as the balance scale to come to rest. "Ape, how much should a hundred blocks of the military explosive weigh?"

"A hundred pounds, of course," Ape answered.

"That's what I thought. In that case, I think we've got a problem."

"What? What kind of problem?"

Monkey gestured to the needle of the balance scale. "Look for yourself. There's a hundred blocks in the pan and one hundred pounds of weights in the other pan."

"Maybe the wrapping paper . . ."

"Nah, that'd make them heavier."

"Ah, shit!" Ape glared at the stacks of explosive. "Maybe somebody slipped in an empty wrapper."

"Then we better see if we can find it," Monkey said.

 

Half an hour later

Monkey surveyed the refuse of their unwrapping. There were one hundred pieces of wrapping paper and one hundred blocks of explosive. "Well, nobody slipped in an empty wrapper. Why else would the scales show underweight?"

"The only way that comes to mind is if some of the blocks are under weight," Ape said. Let's run them through the reloading scales and see what they weigh."

* * *

"One hundred and thirty-eight grains," Monkey called as he added the last weight to balance the scale.

"Shit, that's ten out of ten underweight so far," Ape said holding up a clipboard.

Monkey pulled over a chair and sat down, glaring at the offending scales and pile of weighed blocks of explosive. He held out a hand towards his brother. "Gimme the clipboard."

Monkey read down the weights. All of the blocks had been close to one hundred and forty grains underweight. He looked at the other ninety blocks still sitting in the large balance scale's pan, and then he looked at the several cases of explosive still to be examined. He had a horrible feeling. "Ape, open another couple of cases and take out a couple of blocks from each and bring them here."

"Who died and made you the boss, little brother?"

"Just do it will you? Unless you want to weigh each and every block."

"What?" Ape turned to stare at his brother. "You think all our stock is underweight?"

"I hope not, but there's only one sure way to find out. So, if you'd be so good as to get me a couple of blocks from a couple of cases?"

"Okay, which cases do you want me to take them from?"

"Pick a couple at random."

When Ape handed him the blocks of explosive Monkey unwrapped them and placed the first one on the scale. "One forty," then the next, "One forty-two," and the next, "one forty-four," and finally the last one, "One thirty-nine." He glanced over at his brother. "Near as dammit, one hundred and forty grains short, just like the rest."

"Maybe the cutting gauge has just slipped a bit over time?" Ape suggested.

Monkey looked at the stacks of explosive. Nothing on the shelves was more than a few days old, so there was no way to check how long the cutting gauge had been measuring short weight. "At least we're only responsible for counting what comes through the stockroom. It ain't our fault if the stuff we get is underweight."

"It might not be our fault, but it is our problem," Ape said. "You got any idea what could happen if it got out that the company has been selling short weight?"

Monkey froze. "Shit, the company could go under, and our jobs with it. Well, we found the problem, doing anything about it is way above our pay grade."

"So are you going to call in the boss or do I?"

"Little Emma?" They'd been fielding a bit of flack from the other guys at the factory over calling the boss "Girlie," but "Maria Anna" was one hell of a mouthful, so they'd shortened it to her initials, and then they'd settled on "Emma". That had satisfied the other guys, many of who were starting to use the name themselves. "Sure. You hold the fort while I go get her."

* * *

Marie Anna was deep in the spreadsheet on her computer when Monkey poked his head through the doorway. "Hey, Emma, could you come down to the stockroom for a few minutes? There's something me and Ape think you need to see."

Maria Anna glanced up at Monkey. This was the first time either of the Harts had come to her office without being asked, and she wasn't sure she liked the look in his eyes. It wasn't threatening, or condescending, or anything like that. It was worse. Monkey looked worried. She closed the file she was looking at and stood. "Do I need anything?"

Monkey smiled. "Just yourself, but you might want to bring your pocket calculator."

Maria Anna ignored Monkey's smile as she collected her pocket abacus. "Lead the way, Arthur." She grinned at his wince. Using his real name was her little retaliation for him and Ape calling her Emma. Their new name for her was an improvement over "Girlie" but it still wasn't her name, and other people at the company were starting to call her Emma as well. Maybe if she called them Arthur and Dexter often enough they'd get the message.

* * *

Monkey held the stockroom door open for Maria Anna before leading her over to Ape, who was standing beside a work bench.

"Come and have a look here, Emma." Ape pointed to a set of scales and some unwrapped blocks of the new RDX based "military dynamite" the company was producing. "Put one of those on the scales and tell me how much you think it weighs."

Maria Anna looked at the balance scales and the range of weights. She had a nasty feeling she wasn't going to like what she found. The block should weigh pretty close to one pound, or seven thousand grains. She put the one pound weight in one pan and the explosive into the other. It was underweight. She added small weights to the explosives side until the scales balanced. "A hundred and forty grains underweight." She looked over to the attentive Ape and Monkey. "How many are underweight?"

"Every one we've checked so far," Ape answered.

"Shit!" Maria Anna looked guiltily at the Harts. They were still just standing there waiting for her to make a decision. Her use of an obscenity seemed to have completely passed them by. "How long has this been going on? How far back have you checked?"

"Just to the beginning of the week," Ape answered. "We don't have anything in stock older than that."

Maria Anna was worried. Selling short weight was a crime nobody wanted to be associated with. She looked at the Hart brothers. The survival of the company rested on their ability to keep quiet about this little problem. Could she trust them? Probably not. But what was it they'd said to her back in March? Something about their needing this job. Suddenly hopeful, Maria Anna looked them over. "Ape, Monkey, I hope you realize how important to the survivability of the company it is that this little problem is handled with the utmost care and discretion?"

"Yeah, we know all about why bakers created the 'bakers dozen.' They come down real hard on people selling short measure here and now," Monkey said.

"That's right, so I want you to let me handle this problem. That means you don't say anything about what you've discovered until I'm ready, okay?"

"How long are you thinking it'll be until you're ready? Monkey asked.

"A day, two at the most . . . right now I want the pair of you to count the number of blocks of explosives we have in inventory and when you've done that, check the cutter and if necessary, reset it," Maria Anna said.

"Sure, we can do that. What'll you be doing?" Monkey asked.

Maria Anna paused at the doorway. "Checking the computer to make sure the number of blocks in stock is equal to the amount of explosives that should be in the stockroom."

"What are you suggesting?" Ape asked.

"Hopefully nothing, but either we have two percent more blocks of explosive than we should, or we're missing two percent of our production."

Monkey and Ape stared wide-eyed back at Maria Anna. "Missing?" Monkey muttered.

"There are other words for it, but that'll do for now." Maria Anna shut the door on the Harts and walked slowly back towards her office. She was worried. A better word would have been "stolen," but who would want to steal military explosive in dribs and drabs? It would have to be somebody in the company, and she didn't think it was the Harts, she'd been keeping too close an eye on them. So who could it be?

* * *

Ape didn't like working with an audience, especially when it was made up of krauts. He accepted the last of ten samples from the newly adjusted cutter and put it on his scales. It wasn't quite a pound. Adding a few weights to the scale, he called out the final weight. "Six-nine-nine-seven grains."

"Right. That's it then. All ten samples are within the permitted range." Monkey turned to the down-timers who had been watching him and his brother do their quality control check. "It's all yours, guys, but now we know the cutter gauge can slip we'll be making random checks from now on so that it doesn't get so far out of range again."

Ape picked up the scales and followed his brother out of the room. "The cutter gauge can slip? Some bastard fixed that cutter deliberately," he growled.

"Shush!" Monkey put a hand over his brother's mouth and looked around to see if anybody could have overheard. "Not so loud."

"Yeah, well, we better go see Emma and tell her someone rigged the cutter gauge."

* * *

Monkey opened the door to Maria Anna's office and poked his head in. "You got a moment, Emma?"

"Sure, come in and take a seat. I'm just about finished calculating how much explosive should have been made in each batch this month."

Ape passed a soiled sheet of paper over as he sat down. "That's the counts for each batch in the stockroom."

"Thanks." Maria Anna took the sheet and compared it to what she had on the computer in front of her.

Monkey read the emotions on Maria Anna's face. "Somebody's been stealing explosives, haven't they?"

"I think so, but you seem awfully sure. . ."

"Yeah, well, we would. We've just finished resetting the cutting gauge. There ain't no way that gauge slipped. Somebody deliberately set it to short."

Maria Anna nodded. "I'm not surprised. Near enough precisely two percent is a bit unlikely to happen naturally, but who? It has to be somebody working for the company."

Monkey stared back at Maria Anna. "Don't you think it might be me 'n Ape?"

Maria Anna shook her head. "No, of course not. You wouldn't have put the whole company at risk like this."

Monkey was a little dumbstruck. He knew he and Ape wouldn't, but here was Emma not even considering the idea that he and Ape might. "Well, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. For a while there me and Ape kinda thought that maybe you didn't like us."

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"What's not to like?" Maria Anna asked, desperately trying to keep a straight face as the brothers puffed up their chests.

"Yeah, we're just regular likable guys, but if you don't think we did it, who do you think did?" Monkey asked.

Maria Anna shook her head. "I've got no idea. We don't even know how long ago the cutter gauge was set. It might have happened when the machinery was first set up, or it might have happened last week."

"Whoever did it was looking to the future," Ape said.

"How do you mean?" Maria Anna asked.

"Well, it's obvious. They weren't greedy. A couple of percent of our current production is hardly anything, but as production grows, so does the value of their theft," Ape answered.

"If Schmidt and company had been half as smart as our thief, we wouldn't be here," Monkey said.

"Schmidt?" Maria Anna asked.

"Joachim Schmidt. We started up an outfit to make percussion caps and primers up Salt Lick Run last year . . ." Monkey started.

"And we were doing okay until Schmidt and the rest of the crew decided they wanted to run before they could walk," Ape added.

"Run before they could walk?" Maria Anna asked.

"Yeah, coming from Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza you probably know making fulminate of mercury-based caps is dangerous. We wanted the crew to stick to one gram batches until we were confident they knew what they were doing."

"But effing Schmidt wanted to make batches as big as Brennerei und Chemiefabrik Schwarza were making." Ape shook his head. "Hell, they were making three hundred bucks a week, each. I would have been happy to make that much. Heck, me and Monkey were only making seventy-five a week and we were happy."

"Yeah, because just like our thief, we weren't greedy. If we'd got production up to twenty grams a batch we'd have been sitting pretty right now," Monkey said.

Monkey sat silently for a few minutes while he considered what might have been, and the deaths of the four down-timers who'd been working for them. Joachim Schmidt was no great loss, but he felt bad about the two girls. He sighed and looked over to Maria Anna. "What happens now?"

"Now? I guess I talk to the police," Maria Anna said.

Monkey sat up straight. "Not the freaking police. Those bastards have got it in for me and Ape."

"Yeah," Ape agreed. "Especially Neubert. He's gonna do everything he can to prove we done it."

"But you're the people who reported the problem to me," Maria Anna protested.

Ape shook his head. "You just don't understand cops, Emma. They're lazy. Why try and find out who done it when they can pin it on me and Monkey."

"I've got a friend on the force. Maybe if I talk to her, off the record of course . . ." Maria Anna looked hopefully at Ape.

"A down-time cop?" Maria Anna nodded. "She'll side with Neubert," Ape said.

"No, she won't. Not if I explain."

Monkey stared at Maria Anna. She seemed sure of her friend, and they had to let someone official know that someone had been stealing explosives. "If you're sure she won't think two Harts in the hand is better than looking for somebody else in the bush . . ."

"I'm sure," Maria Anna confirmed.

"Then I guess that's the best we can hope for. When are you going to talk to your friend?

"This evening, right after work."

Monkey sighed. It looked like he and Ape might get visits from the cops later this evening. Cora Lee was not going to be happy. He rose to his feet. "Come on, Ape, we better get back to work."

"See you later, Emma," Ape called as they left.

 

Later that afternoon

The sound of the door rebounding off the wall and slamming shut was the first indication that they had a visitor. Monkey and Ape lowered the box they had been lifting and looked towards the door. A very agitated Maria Anna was storming towards them.

"The unmitigated gall of the bastard," Maria Anna uttered loudly.

Monkey was surprised at Maria Anna's language. Something had their normally unflappable manager in a tizzy. "Something the matter, Emma?"

Maria Anna stopped and glared at Monkey. "Something the matter? Something the matter? I'll say there's something the matter. I just had a visit from some government creep who seemed to think I'd be happy to produce evidence proving the pair of you have been supplying the black market with high explosive."

"Did you tell him it wasn't us?" Ape asked.

"Tell him? You bet I told him. He didn't like it when I told him that it had to be someone else because it wasn't you two."

"Yeah, well . . . we told you so," Ape said.

"I can't see a man for the government just taking your word, Emma," Monkey said.

"He didn't." Maria Anna sniffed delicately before continuing. "I was able to provide him with documentary evidence that all explosive produced in this facility has been accounted for, and I informed him that if military dynamite was appearing on the black market it had to be coming from somewhere else, like maybe military stores." She smiled. "He didn't like that."

"Emma, you lied. You actually lied to a man from the government." Monkey chuckled and hugged her. "We'll make a redneck out of you yet."

"Not wanting to interrupt or anything, but doesn't that mean we can't report the theft of explosives?" Ape asked.

Monkey stepped back from Maria Anna. "Yeah. You kinda ruined any chance we might have had of reporting the thefts."

"And somebody gets away with stealing from the company," Ape stated.

"I'm afraid so," Maria Anna answered, "But at least we caught up with them before we went into full production. We'll just have to take what satisfaction we can in the fact that they'll be sitting back somewhere watching the shipments of explosives going out the door while they calculate how much their two percent would have been worth."

Ape sniggered. "That's not very nice, Emma."

"Yeah, that's the kinda thinking me and Ape might do," Monkey said.

"What can I say?" Maria Anna asked. "The pair of you are a bad influence."

* * *

Walking back to her office Maria Anna mopped up the sweat that had beaded on her brow while she talked to the Harts. Fortunately neither of them had asked why the man from the government might have expected her to willingly produce evidence against them. She'd realized that the Harts weren't really to blame when they proclaimed the fact that they weren't greedy. She'd had to accept that Christine and Justina's own greed had killed them and Arthur and Dexter hadn't deserved to have their last percussion cap operation fail through no fault of their own. The man from the government had told her about the debts the brothers had as a result of that failure and her conscience was niggling her, making her feel guilty. She'd have to make it up to them somehow. Pay their debts or something. Preferably without letting them know how she'd contributed to the business' failure. She thought about it for a moment. Then she smiled. She could give them the money, calling it a reward for discovering that someone was stealing explosives. If they questioned the amount, she could hint at it being hush money, buying their silence to protect the company. That would probably appeal to them. They'd never suspect it was guilt money.

She walked a few more steps, paused, and turned to look back towards the storeroom. It was all their own fault. If they didn't constantly try to live down to their reputation she'd never have thought them responsible. Who could blame her for believing the image of the Hart brothers everyone in Grantville painted? Nobody. She smiled, and turned and continued to walk back towards her office satisfied in her own mind that she hadn't really done anything wrong.

* * *


Character illustrations by Jaime Patneaude

Gajam Raanni

Written by Iver P. Cooper

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North of Kollam, India
Kumbham (February-March),
809 Malayalam Era (1634 CE)

"Princess, where are you hiding?" yelled Abhaya, his hands cupped to form a speaking trumpet.

There was no answer.

"Chinna! It's time to go! You have a wedding to attend."

Abhaya, a wiry twelve-year-old boy, turned slowly, looking and listening in every direction. There was a broad trail, but Chinna was not the sort of gal to always take the easiest path.

After a moment's hesitation, he saw where she had stepped off the trail into the forest. "Chinna." He sighed. The canopy closed above him, and he felt cooler almost immediately.

After a few dozen gaz, he emerged into a glade. Chinna was there all right, drinking from a pond.

"Princess, it's about time. You still need to be painted, you know."

Chinna wrapped her trunk around Abhaya.

"Yes, yes, I know you like me. I like you too. But let's get going."

* * *

They were scheduled to make a ceremonial appearance at a wedding in a village two days' journey north of Kollam. While there may have been elephants closer to the village, most elephants outside the temples and palaces were meergha—low caste. Whereas Chinna had the great girth, plump backside, massive head and chest, short neck, broad and well-proportioned trunk and full cheeks of a bhadra, a high caste pachyderm.

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At the wedding, Chinna symbolized Ganesh, the elephant-headed Lord of Beginnings. She brought luck to the couple, and coin to Abhaya's pocket. The hire price would have to be shared with Chinna's owner, but Abhaya had had Chinna do some tricks for the guests, and had collected many tips.

Abhaya was a bit worried about the future, however. It was Kumbham, and the marriage season was almost over. Soon Chinna would have to either do farm labor or begging. The first carried the risk of injury, and the second that of hunger.

* * *

Abhaya and Chinna slowly made their way down the coastal road, toward Abhaya's home town, Kollam. From time to time, Abhaya hummed; his father had taught him how to imitate the sound that a mother elephant made to let its calf know where she was.

"Are you thirsty, pretty one? In an hour we will be in Neendakala, and you can drink the whole of Lake Ashtamudi like some hero of the epics, if you so please."

Suddenly, Abhaya rose slightly from his usual sitting position, and pointed ahead and to the right. "Look, Chinna, there are two Portuguese. "What are they doing on this beach?"

The elephant chirped.

"You're right, Chinna, it doesn't make sense. The Portuguese mainly keep to Tangasseri." That was their trading post, and it was a short distance away from Kollam, which the Portuguese called Quilon. "And their interest is in spices, which are hardly to be found on a beach.

"Let's find out, shall we, dearest?" Abhaya gently pressed with his left heel against the flank of Chinna's head signaling her to turn right.

People who have only seen elephants assume that because of their size they must make plenty of noise when they walk. But that is not in fact the case. Abhaya and Chinna got within a few gaz of the foreigners before they heard her.

To say they were startled would be an understatement. One reached for a pistol, but his companion stopped him, whispering, "That will only enrage an elephant, you idiot, even if he let you get off a shot."

"Namaskaru, strangers. Did you lose something in the sand?" This was a polite way of asking, "Why are you digging here?"

"Not at all," said one of the Portuguese. "We are humble scholars, and there is something to be learned from even a grain of sand."

"Uh-huh," said Abhaya, "but it seems to me that you have quite a few grains of sand to learn from already. And it seems that you have a preference for the black ones." Abhaya wouldn't have questioned them so aggressively, if he weren't on the back of an elephant. But given that he enjoyed that security, he was keen to find out if there was anything about this encounter which he could turn to profit. A word to a rival merchant, perhaps, who would pay for the information . . . or an honorarium from these two, to buy Abhaya's silence.

Pistol Man laughed. "So much for you. You can't even fool a kid with that story."

Humble Scholar shrugged. "It was worth a try. What's your name, boy?"

"Abhaya."

"Well, I'm Agostinho Pereira, and my friend here is Benedito Surrão. Perhaps you can help us, we're looking for a particular kind of black sand."

"And how will you know if you've found it?"

"If you want to see, I'm afraid you'll need to get down from that beast of yours."

"Well . . . all right. . . . But you better not try to harm me . . . or Chinna will deal with you." Abhaya stood up, turned around and grabbed Chinna's ears, put one foot on the center of her trunk, and gave a command. A moment later, Chinna lowered him to the ground, and Abhaya sprang off.

"Very gracefully done, young Abhaya. Now look." Agostinho took out a thin panel of wood, and spread some sand over it. He then pulled out a strange black stone, and passed it over the sand. Some of the grains twitched, and moved along with the stone.

"May I?" said Abhaya, extending his hand. Agostinho handed him the lodestone, and Abhaya amused himself for a few minutes with it. When he saw that Benedito was fidgeting, Abhaya returned it with a bow.

"What is this sand good for?"

"We have books that say that it can be made into a very fine white paint," Agostinho explained.

Abhaya laughed. "Books, eh? How can you make black sand into white paint?"

"I don't know myself, but the books of Grantville say that it can be done."

"Grantville! The storytellers have spoken of Grantville. They say that it is a city perched on the side of a great volcano, that rose in a single day, and that the reason the people know so much is that each of them has two heads."

Agostinho stifled a chuckle. "Well, you have told us that we shouldn't believe all we read, and perhaps you shouldn't believe all you hear."

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Abhaya gestured at the beach. "Do you know why there are patches of black sand on this golden beach? My father told me, as his father told him. The devi Kanyakumari had the power to overcome the asura, the demons, only so long as she remained a virgin. Yet she wished to marry and have a husband. She prayed to Shiva to find her a husband, and lo, the Auspicious One volunteered to marry her himself. But there was one problem. Her kin, the devas, insisted that the marriage ceremony occur at midnight on a particular day. Shiva's wedding procession set out earlier that evening, at the most auspicious time, to meet Kanyamurari here. But his fellow gods also feared the asura, and conspired against him. One turned himself into a rooster and, when Shiva passed by, crowed as if to greet the day. Shiva thought that he had failed to arrive on time, and returned to his home in the Himalayas to sulk. Kanyakumari waited and waited, but Shiva did not appear. When the sun rose, she threw in every direction the pots of food that had been assembled for the wedding feast, and cursed them, changing them into the black spots you see today."

"So," said Agostinho, "do you know where we can find more of that black sand? A very big wedding pot, shall we say?"

"I know where there is plenty of black sand, but as to whether it is sand with this, this 'frog power'—I don't know. In any event, if you want to dig for it in large quantity, you will certainly need the permission of the raanni of Kollam, as well as the raja of Venad. It is in a well-traveled area."

Agostinho stood silent for a few moments. "Are you and this Chinna available for hire, perhaps? I think we are going to join the raanni's next procession to Trivandrum."

Abhaya smiled, his teeth gleaming against his dark face.

* * *

The procession wound ponderously down the coastal road to Trivandrum, where the raja, Unni Kerala Varma, was presently residing.

The elephants, horses, and carts of the entourage of his sister, the raanni of Kollam, were in the lead, followed by those of the Portuguese traders and other supplicants.

First came two carefully matched male elephants, each wearing a jewel-studded headband. Then came standard bearers, whose flags hung limply alongside their staffs. They in turn were followed by several ranks of spearmen, a few noblemen on horseback, and the raanni herself.

The raanni, of course, was carried in a palanquin, with a half-dozen red-coated bearers fore and aft, on her left a chhathram-umbrella man to fend off the Sun, and on her right a chaamaram-whisk man to brush away the flies. Both chhathram and chaamaram were symbols of her royal authority. The fly-whisk was necessary, of course, since to kill insects would make one impure, but the flies did seem to come right back. The umbrella man had the easier duty.

Behind the raanni, there were more spearmen, then rows of Brahmin priests. When the raanni made her formal appearance at the palace, they would precede her, chanting her lineage and titles. The royal contingent ended with a cart carrying her maidservants.

In like manner, Chinna, ridden proudly by Abhaya, was the ceremonial vanguard of the Portuguese contingent. The Portuguese merchants were on horseback, and their presents for the raja were in the carts behind them. They even included a few items from fabled Grantville.

Before leaving Kollam, Abhaya had bathed Chinna—which was no problem as elephants love the water—and scrubbed her down with a pumice stone until she was a glossy black. He then took her to the best elephant painter in Kollam, a temple mahout who was too old to ride. She was now, in Abhaya's admittedly biased view, the most beautiful cow elephant in all of south India. The cost of this transformation was borne, somewhat grudgingly, by the Portuguese—"The raja's first impression of your party will be when he sees Chinna coming down the road," Abhaya told them, "so don't you want her to look her best?"—and of course the painter had given Abhaya a referral fee.

From Kollam to Trivandum was some forty-five miles, a three day journey. The crisis came on the morning of the third day. One of the priests had been falling gradually behind the others. Suddenly, he collapsed. This frightened the horses pulling the cart immediately behind him. They panicked and tried to veer to the left, off the road. While that saved the poor fellow from being trampled by the horses, it meant that he was liable to be run over in an instant by the right rear wheel.

Abhaya, whose eyes were perhaps twelve feet off the ground, saw his predicament. "Chinna!" he cried.

Chinna, of course, could see the fallen man, too. She reached out with her trunk, snaking it between the spokes of that wheel, and lifted. The raanni's maidservants clutched the sides of the cart, and screamed, but Chinna had been clever enough to lift the wheel just enough to clear the priest, but not so much as to topple the women into the roadside ditch. Chinna's pull on the wheel also arrested the horses' attempt to escape, giving the driver the chance to get them back under control.

Because of the commotion the procession came to an uncertain halt, and the noblemen rode back to find out what was wrong. Orders were given; the Brahmin's companions put him on an improvised stretcher and put him in the cart with the maidservants. Fresh horses were brought up from the rear of the column and the agitated ones sent back.

First the noblemen, then several of the priests, told Abhaya that he was a great mahout, a prodigy for his age, and that the raanni and the raja would surely reward him after they arrived at the palace. Each time, Abhaya bowed and thanked them for their praise.

"What a gift from God," Benedito whispered to Agostinho. "Abhaya's good deed will surely reflect well on us as his employers."

"Indeed. But I have been watching Abhaya, and he seems increasingly uncomfortable with all the attention."

"Perhaps he is just shy, speaking to those of higher caste."

"Perhaps."

* * *

Abhaya had thought that he would be summoned as soon as they arrived at the palace, but of course protocol required that the raja first receive his sister, then greet her guests and examine their presents. It was therefore several hours before he was ready to speak to Abhaya.

Abhaya wasn't accustomed to addressing even a single royal person, let alone two, and by the time the summons came, he was in a state of some agitation.

The first words, at least, were reassuring. "Thank you for saving my Brahmin," the raanni said.

"Indeed, you must be rewarded," added the raja. "My vizier has a fat pouch of gold for you."

Abhaya prostrated himself, then rose. "A thousands thanks, great lord, but I must tell you . . . it was all Chinna's doing."

"Chinna?"

"Yes, my elephant. I gave no specific orders; it was she who realized what was to be done. The coin, of course, will help me feed her, but the praise should be hers alone."

Abhaya prostrated himself again.

The raanni, the raja, and their advisors went into a huddle. There was much murmuring in the audience hall.

The raja made a small gesture, and his herald called for silence.

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"It is clear from your explanation that you are even more praiseworthy than I thought at first. You are clearly honest, since you didn't seek to steal praise that you thought was the rightful due of your elephant. But more than that, you have clearly trained your Chinna so well that she knew what to do without your giving a specific command. That is, I think, the highest level to which an elephant rider can aspire.

"Where is my commander of elephants?"

"Here, my lord."

"Have you inspected the elephant?"

"Yes. She is bhadra, as you would expect from her actions on the road. A very excellent female."

"Female, hmm. . . . Not really suitable for the army, then. Do you own the elephant, boy?"

"No, I lease her."

"Very well. My commander of elephants will pay your owner a fair price for her, and then she will be donated in my name to the Temple of Padmanabha here in Trivantrum." Padmanabha was the 48th, 196th, and 346th name of Vishnu in the Vishnu Sahasranãma.

The raanni cleared her throat. "And I hereby declare that she is to receive a stipend for her upkeep from the throne of Kollam, and be awarded the title of Gajam Raanni." It meant, "Elephant Queen."

"I thank you on her behalf, great ones," said Abhaya. He wiped away a tear. "When would I need to say goodbye to her?"

"Goodbye? There is no need to say goodbye. Don't you want to still be her mahout?"

"Of course, but would a temple accept me . . ."

"Don't worry about it," said the raanni. "With the Brahmin you saved speaking on your behalf and our royal favor, even one of lower caste than you would be acceptable."

"And I have something else to give you," said the raja, "to remind your new colleagues of why you have been honored, and by whom. Indeed, it is in one of the gifts from Grantville the foreigners brought me." He whispered something to a servant, who left the audience room and then came back with a round object in his hand.

"Here it is, a very appropriate token of my esteem. My advisors tell me that it is a good luck charm, and the writing beneath it is a chant to activate it."

Agostinho, in the audience, was taken aback. "But that's not—"

"Shut up," said Benedito. "Don't even think of correcting the raja on so trivial a matter. There's a time and place for pedantry, and this isn't it."

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Abhaya inspected the token. It bore a picture of an elephant, whose blue back, adorned with stars, clearly represented the vault of the heaven, and whose legs and trunk were painted red, the most auspicious of colors, and one associated with Shakti, the primordial cosmic energy. Elephants, of course, were considered to be lucky animals, which is why Abhaya had so much wedding business.

"What do the words say?" Abhaya looked at the Portuguese expectantly.

"That's your cue," Benedito said to Agostinho. "Just give them the pronunciation, no translation." Agostinho complied.

Abhaya listened carefully, and then repeated the magic words:

"I LIKE IKE."

* * *

Author's Note

The Indian words in this story are mostly from Malayalam, the language of Kerala, and not the more familiar Hindi. However, since the Hindi words raja and Brahmin have become English words, I have used them instead of their Malayalam equivalents (e.g., raajaavu). My thanks to G. B. Keshava and K. Gupta for their linguistic assistance.

 

If I Had a Hammer

Written by Kevin H. and Karen C. Evans

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April 1635
East of Arpke village

Dieter Schwarzkopf crouched on one knee and looked up at his partner, Finn Kelley O'Donnell.

"Ah, there you are." The huge Irishman raised his hammer with both hands. "Hold still, my lovely." He swung the hammer down and smashed his target in the head.

Dieter jumped back out of the way. "You didn't have to hit it so hard, you know. Half-way with one blow. You're making the rest of the crew look like slackers. Besides, you'll wear yourself out in an hour doing that. "

Finn raised his hammer to his shoulder and took a couple of steps down the line, with Dieter following. "No, Dieter, it's like smashing clods in the field. My brothers and I did that all day every day; and picked up rocks, and planted, and hoed. Much easier working as a mercenary, if you ask me. As for this small job, I'm just here to pass the time away."

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Finn and Dieter were no longer mercenaries. They were now working for the Grantville Central Railroad. When Dieter Schwarzkopf was released from his mercenary company, he heard from a cousin that there were jobs building roads. This road they were building was unlike any other road they had ever seen, though. Instead of packed dirt or cobblestones, this one was made of steel.

So he and his good friend, Finn Kelley O'Donnell, originally of Ireland, now worked as a spike team. Finn was the driver, and Dieter was the setter. To be sure, hauling steel rails and swinging a hammer was hard work. But it put silver in their pockets, and no one was shooting at them.

Another swing, and another spike was snug up against the rail. Before Dieter could set another spike, the blast of a horn shattered the air. Finn wiped his face with his kerchief, and glanced at the sun. "Looks to be lunchtime. I wonder if she'll talk to me today?"

Dieter frowned. Finn talked of nothing else lately. "She didn't talk to you yesterday, or the day before. What's so special about today? Do you think she will notice you among the four hundred men on this site?"

Finn's face spread into a huge grin. "Dieter, my lad, Wednesday has always been lucky for me."

As they stacked their tools, Dieter worried. That look on Finn's face always meant trouble. But he said nothing as they hurried into line at the cook tent.

They stepped up to the serving tables and Dieter started complaining. He was always more comfortable when he was complaining. "You be careful, Finn. Your Wednesday luck has only gotten me into trouble so far."

He was served a pile of boiled turnips and cabbage from the first pot. "I heard that the Dutchman has an eye for her. He's told anyone who will listen that she is his. And he's the captain of this job site. If you want to keep your job, you'll stay out of his way. They say he killed a man last month for speaking to her."

Finn was just ahead. "I'm not worried about the Dutchman." He grinned. "You didn't see the way she looked at me yesterday. I think she loves me already."

* * *

The woman filling the steins was the subject of Finn's obsession. Her red hair and green eyes were not the only things that held everyone's attention, there was also her smile. Roselynde was truly a beauty.

She was aware of her affect on the men, but tried to ignore their attention. Roz wanted neither their puppy-like adoration, nor their lascivious attentions.

Today, as Dieter and Finn approached, she hardly even looked up. She smiled at the man ahead of them. "You must have really worked up a thirst out there this morning. Careful, now, or you'll slop it all out of the stein."

The man ducked his head, blushing, then gingerly picked up his tray and his beer, and hurried off out of her sight.

Roselynde filled two more steins. "Well, come along, then. Who's next? You're holding up the line." She smiled most of the time. But it was a kind of impersonal smile that didn't quite touch her eyes. She was determined to avoid attachments at this point in her life, so she was a little surprised when one of the men addressed her directly.

"Mistress, you're as lovely as this warm spring day." He stepped up and treated her to a winning smile.

It kind of reminded Roz of a hungry wolf. It was huge, and had lots of white shiny teeth. "My, aren't you the largest creature I've seen today."

He swelled a little larger at her compliment. "And you the bright ray of sunshine that lights our way."

Roselynde smiled as she always did. But she turned around quickly toward the tun. She could feel the heat on her face and didn't want anyone to see her blush. What am I doing blushing? I can't let any of these rough men think they can have their way with me! "Don't you be thinking that I'm fooled by your silliness, now."

He reached for one of the steins. "Silly it's not, mistress. I'm blinded by your loveliness."

Roselynde watched as he and his friend started to walk away from the serving line. She couldn't take her eyes off of the big one. He truly was a sight. He stood at least a head and a half over most of the men around him. Few were as broad of shoulder, either. And his dark hair and blue eyes drew her attention more than she wanted to admit. Why hadn't she noticed this man before?

The sounds of a disturbance across the track from the mess tent drew her back into reality. Crashes and oaths rattled out of the shanty housing the company office. The Dutchman, captain of the work crew, stepped out into the sunshine, still shouting. The office was a small shed on skids so it could be dragged to the next site every time the road crew moved.

Roz hurried to pick up some dirty steins, but the Dutchman plowed through the crowd toward the food line. "You there, that big Irish oaf. You've no right to speak to Roselynde. She is a lady, and above the likes of you."

All the sounds of laughter and conversation around the mess tent dropped into silence as deep as a snowy morning. Roz turned and saw the big man carefully set down his tray and stein. He smiled, but this time the wolf look was a little more prominent.

The Dutchman was not as large, but his anger seemed to make him almost as tall. His speed increased as he stepped forward, and his beard bristled as he glared into the icy blue eyes of the Irishman.

"Roz, is this man bothering you?" He tried to put his hand protectively on her arm.

Roselynde avoided his touch. "Now that's quite enough. This young man wasn't bothering me, but you are. Go back into the office and pick up the mess you made of your lunch. If you want any more, you'll have to come and get it yourself. I'm busy."

His mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of something else to say.

Roselynde turned her back. "Get out of my sight, all of you." She carefully didn't look at him or anyone else.

* * *

Dieter watched the whole confrontation from the hillside where he ate his lunch. Finn finally joined him and threw himself down, but didn't eat. Dieter let him fume for a moment, then said, "I told you to be careful. Did you see how much the Dutchman wanted to kill you?"

Finn wasn't listening. As usual.

"Ah, Dieter, it was wonderful. I was right, she already loves me. I knew it the first moment ever I laid eyes on her. And now . . ."

Dieter interrupted. "And now what? She stopped the Dutchman from killing you because it would shut down the road crew for the rest of the day. She doesn't care a pfennig for you."

Dieter watched Finn pick at his food, and worried again. "Finn, you're really going to get us in trouble this time, I can just feel it."

 

West of Arpke village
After midnight

Gijsbert Keese watched a man in a black cloak appear from the trees and slip across the meadow in the moonlight. Then the man blended back into shadow.

He was nervous, and when he didn't see the cloaked man for a moment, he whispered, "Are you alone?"

The cloaked man edged into the moonlight, and pushed off his hood. "Of course, you fool. I know that we can't be found out. After all, we are conducting illegal activities."

Gijsbert said, "It's always good to check. I have the shipment for you. But I couldn't get it all . . ."

The man in the cloak exploded. "What? I told you I needed it all. The war continues on the coast, and we have men to feed. And they're paying a pretty penny." He started pacing.

Gijsbert kept silent. He was afraid of the man in the cloak. And he knew from experience that it was better to wait out the temper than to try to explain.

Finally the pacing stopped. The cloaked man's eyes were piercing in the pale moonlight. "I guess I'll have to take what I can get. How much do you have?"

"I was saying that I couldn't get it all because the woman who runs the kitchen was counting everything. And I've been unsuccessful convincing her to cooperate. But I brought everything I got before she started inventory. There are several barrels of flour, salt pork, and wine. I didn't get the beer."

"Yes, yes. That will have to do. Let's get it loaded on the carts and out of here. I don't like meeting you so close to the village. It's too likely that we'll be seen."

With a good deal of grunting and struggle, they rolled the barrels over to a waiting cart. Without another word, the man in the cloak climbed up to the seat, and gathered the reins. "I expect to see you next week with the full order. Don't disappoint me again."

* * *

Dieter's week went from bad to worse. Finn worked as hard as ever, but all he could talk about was Roselynde. "She has the sweetest voice. Wouldn't she sing like a whole choir of angels?" Even worse, "Never have I seen such eyes. Dieter, have you ever seen anything as beautiful as Mistress Roselynde's eyes?"

Dieter worried more and more. Should he push Finn into action, or was it better to endure the constant talk?

One evening when Finn began washing up for dinner, he was telling Dieter in great detail everything he had noticed about Roselynde from her small feet to the wispy hair that slipped out of the pins.

The more Finn talked, the more a frown threatened to pull Dieter's brows together into one great dark brow. Finally, he could stand it no more. "Finn, I've listened to you talk about that woman for days now. Are you just going to talk me to death, or are you going to do something about it?"

Finn stood up straight, and wiped the water streaming in his eyes. "Well, I've been talking very politely to her each day. Isn't that enough?"

"You clod, of course not. All the men in the lunch line speak politely with Roselynde. In fact, I greeted her myself this morning. But you've been too busy acting like a mooncalf to know that. Finn, do you hear me?"

There was a pause. "Yes, Dieter, I do. You're saying that I need a plan. I need to do more than enjoy speaking to her at lunch."

Finn was silent for the rest of the evening. And that night Dieter was surprised when Finn went right to sleep.

Friday afternoon, Dieter was still worried. Finn still wasn't talking. Not a word as they placed spikes in the long rail.

Finally, the horn blew for quitting time. Dieter watched Finn washing up, and decided he needed to know what was going on in his head. So he threw a wet towel at him.

Finn pulled the wet towel off his face, and whirled. There was mayhem in his icy blue eyes. "Dieter, what's the matter with you?"

"Are you all right? Not a word about Roselynde, or anything else for that matter. Have you decided that you don't love her after all?"

Finn smiled sadly. "Of course not. I love her still. But you were right to tell me to make a plan. And I think I have one."

If Dieter had been worried before, he was downright fearful now. "What sort of plan, Finn? You aren't going to do anything that I'll have to save you from, are you? Remember that time in Rothenberg when you found . . ."

Finn laughed. "This is nothing like that time. And those two girls were really exaggerating when they . . ."

"Whether they were exaggerating or not is not the issue. What I need to know is how much trouble I'm going to get into trying to save your worthless neck this time."

Finn said nothing.

"Okay, Finn, what is this amazing plan? Does it involve killing anyone, because the company frowns on that."

"Of course not. It's really very simple. I'm going to get some flowers, go over to the women's tent, and tell Mistress Roselynde that I want to marry her."

He was inordinately pleased with himself. Dieter could tell that Finn thought this was the perfect and flawless plan. "That's your plan? Give her flowers and propose marriage? You know nothing about her. What if she's married already? What are you going to do then?"

It was obvious that Finn had never thought such a thing. "Why would a married woman be working in a place like this, I ask you?"

"Because, you lummox. Maybe her husband is working here too. Or maybe she really is the Dutchman's intended."

"Bite your tongue, Dieter Schwarzkopf. She would never consent to marrying a man like that. She's a much better sort."

Dieter plowed on, ignoring all objections. "You like Roselynde because she is a very good woman. Isn't it possible that someone of this high caliber will already be spoken for?"

Finn sounded a little deflated. "Yes, I suppose you're right. She is a quality woman. And why wouldn't a good woman like that be already married? She probably even has babies at home."

Keeping an eye on Finn was a day and night job. No wonder Dieter felt so dour all the time. "Sorry, Finn. I guess you'll have to come up with a new plan tonight. Don't worry, we'll be working on this stretch of road for a least another week or two. You have time for a really good plan."

* * *

Dieter watched his partner carefully through the weekend. Finn spent a lot more time listening than he did talking, something very unusual for him. He and Dieter sat in the tavern, listening to all the gossip. Dieter found him under a tree outside the latrine, listening. One night when Finn didn't come home, Dieter went to search for him, and found him asleep outside the woman's tent.

Sunday afternoon, Dieter was trying to nap when Finn suddenly appeared and sat on his cot. Finn sighed, but didn't say anything. He definitely didn't look like someone who was happy. "So, Finn. Have you devised another plan?"

Finn shook his head. "I have no plan. I haven't found out if she is married, or even if any of the working women are married. Sometimes I've heard them talking about men and husbands. But I never could tell if they were talking about real husbands, or imaginary ones. I really don't understand women at all."

"I've been thinking. Maybe your first plan was the best. Maybe it would be a good idea to take her flowers and strike up a conversation. But I would suggest that you ask her if she wants to go to the tavern for some beer or go for a walk. Don't just come out and ask her to marry you. That'll scare her away right off."

Finn brightened. "Do you really think that will work?"

"I don't see why not."

* * *

Sunday afternoon was a good time for some rest. Most of the girls in the women's tent were sleeping or reading letters. Roz was finishing a letter to her father. She wrote one every Sunday, and put it in the post on Monday morning.

Just as she had sealed the letter and set it aside, she heard a deep voice say, "Hello?"

Elsa went to the door and Roz could still hear the man's voice. "Good afternoon, Elsa. Is Mistress Roselynde in?"

"Roz, someone's here to see you."

"Well, if it's the Dutchman, tell him my last answer still stands. I am not available. I'm washing my hair."

Elsa's smile became a full-blown grin. "It's not the Dutchman. Come see for yourself. I think it's precious."

Elsa held the flap a little wider.

"Elsa, I swear, if you're playing some kind of joke on me, I'll . . ."

Then she saw Finn. He reminded her of a huge forest troll, standing in the doorway with a bunch of flowers. Not that he was ugly like a troll, but he was so huge.

"Good afternoon, Mistress Roselynde. How are you this fine day?" Finn smiled, and Roselynde remembered the day at the beer tun, when she saw all of those teeth for the first time.

Elsa grinned again. "If you throw him back, let me know. I think he's cute."

Roz didn't really know what else to do, so she stepped past Elsa and shooed her away, then reached back and closed the tent flap. Finn looked up from the ground, and held out a bouquet of flowers. It was a little mussed and starting to wilt. "Mistress, these are for you. But they pale next to your beauty."

"How nice. Thank you very much. I need to get these in water. Can you wait here?" When Finn nodded, she stepped back and handed the flowers to Elsa. "Take care of these for me, please? I'm going to be busy the rest of the afternoon. You're in charge of dinner."

Before Elsa could object, or even comment, Roz was back outside the tent, talking to Finn. "Why don't we walk for a little while? What was your name again?"

Finn fell into step beside her. "I'm Finn Kelley O'Donnell, named after my grandfather's younger brother. My mother's one of the Kelleys, so I carry her name myself. My father's from the O'Donnells of Limerick, if you've ever heard of them. Not too well known in these parts, but everyone at home knows what sort of workers the O'Donnells are."

Something in his voice reminded Roz of her own hometown. They fell into conversation as if they had known each other all their lives.

* * *

Late that night, when Finn returned to the crew tent, Dieter was waiting. He wanted to be ready in case someone showed up with a drunken Irishman in hand. But when the tent opened and Finn entered, Dieter could tell that he had not been drinking.

"How did it go? Did you get to talk to her? She didn't slap you, or anything, did she?"

Finn moved across the tent as if he were floating on air. He drifted over, and lay down on his bunk. "Dieter, it was wonderful. She is a fine and beautiful woman."

"Yes, I know that. But what happened. Did you go to the tavern? Did she like the flowers? What did she say?"

Finn sighed, still occupied in his gossamer dreams. "Say? Oh, she said a lot of things. I found out that she was born in Scotland, so she and I are almost kin, the Scots and the Irish being cousins after all. We talked for a long time. We didn't go to the tavern; we sat on the hill behind the cook tent until after dark. And then we walked out by the lake to see the moonlight. She liked the flowers."

There was a moment of silence. Finn relived his encounter, and Dieter imagined what it would have been like. "And Dieter, you're wrong. She's not married. She's working here to support her old, sick father. He was crippled in an accident at the mill, and as she has no brother, she is doing her best for her family. Her father's living in a village near Magdeburg now. She has no fortune, but is an honest working woman."

Dieter was drawn into his partner's recount of his romance. "What about the Dutchman? Is it true that they are engaged to marry?"

Finn sat up at that, looking angry. "It is not. The Dutchman started showing up at her door and pestering her since the day he got here. She doesn't even understand his interest in her. There are a lot of girls who would follow his money anywhere. He waves it around, and tries to convince her that she should be seen with him. And he spreads wicked rumors about her."

As Finn spoke, he became more and more agitated. Dieter could see that he might have created a monster. It was time to get a handle on the situation before Finn threw himself out into the night to beat down the Dutchman's door and call him out in some sort of duel.

"You're right, Finn. He's a dirt clod compared to Roselynde. But if you want to keep this job and continue to see her, you need to calm yourself. Morning is coming soon, and the horn will be blowing. You need to get some sleep."

Finn deflated a little, and then yawned. "You're right. Can't get fired now, when I almost have her convinced that marrying me would be the best thing in the world."

Dieter was a little disappointed that Finn was asleep so quickly. He would have liked to listen to more gossip, but he didn't want to get fired either.

* * *

Before lunchtime on Monday, Roz looked up to see a group of five men entering the kitchen tent. "We're not ready for lunch yet. You'll have to go out with everyone else and wait your turn."

The group of men stopped and whispered among themselves for a moment. Then one of them stepped forward and bowed. "My name is Carl, ma'am. We're a delegation of the crew, and we've come to file a complaint. We've noticed that for the past several days, the quality of the food we've been served has not been up to company standards, if you understand my meaning."

He stopped a moment. Roselynde had nothing to say that would help.

"What I mean, ma'am, is that we aren't getting very much to eat compared to what we had before. There's still stew and bread, but the bread runs out before everyone gets some, and the soup's too thin. If we wanted to eat this kind of rations, we'd just go back to our mercenary companies."

Roselynde listened until he seemed to have run down. She forced herself to be calm. "I understand your concerns, but the supply train should have been here day before yesterday. I bought all the supplies I can from the village, but it's spring, and they have as little as we do right now. If you all want something to eat for the rest of the week, we have to stretch everything."

Carl glared at her. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to argue, but his politeness won out. He turned on his heel and stomped back to the men's tent, with his "delegation" fluttering behind him.

* * *

Dieter was still worried. Not about Finn this time. What he worried about most was the morale of the camp. There was more grumbling, more boasting and threats. And the worst of it was that if violence broke out, it could very well be Dieter and Finn defending Roselynde against the rest of the camp. The odds were not in their favor.

* * *

Saturday night, Finn and Roselynde were walking along the finished railroad. She was brooding so deeply that she didn't notice that Finn wasn't really talking.

He finally broke the silence. "What is worrying you so?"

Roz looked up into Finn's eyes, and saw the concern there. "Oh, it's nothing I want you to get involved in. It 's just that things have gotten very complicated."

Finn nodded, but said nothing.

"You know about the supply problem. I've been cutting back on things so that I have enough until the next supply train shows up. I'm not in dire straits yet. I have the chickens out back, and they are laying lots of eggs this spring. They're finding a lot of bugs and worms and the fresh grass is helping. So even though I'm out of any fresh meat and we don't have any more sausages, I can still serve something."

Roz picked up her apron, and pressed it against her face. "I don't want to alarm anyone else, but we're not waiting for one shipment, we're waiting for two. When the supply trains come out here to the end of the line, they've been carrying steel and ties for the road, but not one barrel of food for the men."

She was sniffling hard now, and there was a catch in her voice. "And now I have almost nothing. Only one flour barrel, and we only have enough salt pork left for three more days. Arpke village has no more flour to spare without starving their children. It takes almost a ton of food to feed all four hundred of you every week. I don't know what to do." She began to sob in earnest, then turned and buried her face in his chest.

"Have you heard at all from the company? Have they said why everything is late?" Finn asked.

Roselynde's voice was muffled in his shirt. "I've only spoken to the Dutchman about it. He says that bandits are stealing things before they can get loaded on the train. I pointed out that the men cannot work without food, but he says it's not my place to worry."

Finn could feel her shudder. "That's not all he said to you, is it?"

Roselynde gulped, and got herself under control. She stepped away from Finn, and started walking again. "No, it's not. He grabbed my hand, and told me that if I really wanted to support my family, all I had to do was consent to marry him. He yelled that if I didn't, I would get what I deserved. And when I tried to pull my hand away, he became angry, and looked as if he would strike me."

She stopped walking, and turned back toward Finn. "I didn't want to tell you, as it always seems to upset you so."

Before he could say anything, she planted her hand squarely on his chest. "Now you listen to me, Finn Kelley O'Donnell. Don't even think about confronting the Dutchman. He's a wicked man and doesn't believe in a fair fight. He'll do his best to kill you."

"Don't worry about that. The Dutchman never fought in the wars, as I have. He's nothing but a back alley scrabbler. I wouldn't even need my pike to deal with him."

Roselynde whirled around suddenly, and started walking again. She was speaking as she moved. "I don't know why we're even talking about all this. Odds are that food supplies will arrive on the morning train. I'm just worrying for nothing. I worry like this all the time, with no reason at all. Don't pay any attention to me."

Her voice sped on and on, and her feet kept rhythm. "And, you know, it's not like we are really out of things. Why, for lunch tomorrow, I've found some fresh greens. That will be so wonderful after a winter of dried fruit and salted pork. It's not like either of us has to . . ."

Finn caught her hand, and stopped her headlong rush. "Don't take on so. I promise not to speak to the Dutchman about this if it will make you happy. Everything's going to be all right, I promise."

* * *

Roselynde looked up into Finn's blue eyes. Her heart fluttered as she realized for the first time how important he had become to her. "Yes, you're right. Everything will be all right. And you just remember your promise, Finn. You're not to talk to the Dutchman at all."

* * *

That evening, Finn recounted the conversation to Dieter. This had become something of a ritual. Finn enjoyed telling the events of the day, and Dieter enjoyed the romance by proxy.

When Finn came to the end of his tale, he said, "And I had to promise her again at her doorstep not to talk to the Dutchman. She knows that if I promise it, I won't talk to him. I've given my word."

Dieter sighed in relief. If Finn didn't talk to the captain, it was much more unlikely that trouble would erupt.

Unfortunately, it was a little too soon for him to be relieved. Finn swung his feet off the bunk. "Dieter, going out tonight and looking around his office isn't talking to him, is it?"

"What exactly are you planning?"

Finn picked up the candle and smiled like a wolf. "Well, now. The Dutchman's up to something, I can feel it in my bones. His office would be an interesting study, and since I promised not to talk to him, I have to look at it when he isn't there, like right now."

Dieter felt as if he were trying to hold onto moonlight. Finn dodged around him, then stopped outside the door of the tent. "You're coming, aren't you? Just to keep me out of trouble, as it were?"

* * *

The moon was dark, and the clouds were thick. It was difficult to see anything except in the open spaces. The blackness of the empty buildings was deeper than the darkness of the landscape around it. Dieter knew that appearing to sneak called attention to you, so he strolled across the yard as if he owned it.

Finn was already at the office door when Dieter arrived. "Quick, Finn. Someone will see us. Can you get it open?" Finn examined the lock, handed Dieter the unlit candle, then took a step back as if to throw himself at the offending object.

Dieter hissed. "We don't want to be heard either, you big oaf. Be quiet."

Finn nodded, then re-examined the doorknob. "This won't take but a minute." He braced himself on one side of the door jamb, and put his boot on the other side, next to the latch. He leaned back, and pushed with his foot. The building creaked and groaned like an old miser faced with the tax collector. Then the door quietly swung open. "Is that what you wanted?"

"I promised myself that I wouldn't allow you to drag me into any more trouble. How come I always find myself with you, outside an open door in the dead of night ?" Dieter asked.

"Because you're just luckier than most." Finn closed the door, then lit the candle.

"What are we looking for, do you think?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. Why don't you keep watch while I look for it?" Finn walked around to the chair, where the captain would sit to work. The Dutchman was by no means a neat accountant. Everything was strewn in heaps and piles.

When he started methodically sifting through the paperwork and books, Dieter turned his attention back to the window, and kept nervous watch.

Fifteen minutes passed by, and the search was taking longer than Dieter had planned. "Finn, aren't you done yet? Someone's going to see the candlelight, and we'll get fired for sure . . . if not worse."

Finn said, "Mmm." He wasn't really listening. "Dieter, this is very interesting. It seems that our Dutchman is part of a larger group of bandits. They smuggle the supplies off the train, and sell them to the black market. He's already gotten paid for one of the missing loads, and is arranging to sell the other this week. He seems to have it stashed somewhere in the woods nearby. I knew he was up to something."

"What does that . . . Wait, someone's coming!" Dieter dived behind the door, and Finn blew out his candle as he slipped under the desk.

The door came open, and the Dutchman entered, carrying a shrouded lantern. He turned back to speak into the darkness. "You can't just show up here now and demand the shipment. I've got to feed these men something."

A voice sounded outside in the darkness. "That's not really my problem. I just know how many barrels of flour and salt pork are needed by my associates on the coast. And that's how many I'm taking."

There were footsteps coming toward the desk. Finn made sure that he wasn't visible and held very still. No one had seen him or Dieter yet.

The Dutchman walked over to the desk, looking for something in the mess of papers. "Give me the money now, and I'll meet you at the rendezvous before dawn."

The laugh was an evil thing. "Do you truly think I trust you that much? You'll get your silver as soon as I've counted every one of the barrels and crates you promised. Until then, you can just dangle for your money."

The Dutchman was silent for a moment. "My pipe. Where did I leave it?" He opened a drawer on the desk, and brought out his pipe and tobacco, then stomped out the door.

Dieter was just letting out his breath when they heard the key in the lock.

"Why don't we just go get my hammer and beat some sense into the Dutchman's head?" Finn asked.

Dieter peered out a window, hoping that no one else was outside. "Who knows how far up the conspiracy goes? Shouldn't we send a message to headquarters?"

"Dieter, my lad, who are we going to get to send the message? The Dutchman? We're going to have to wait until the company sends out inspectors and auditors. I think they're due some time before summer. But it's not summer yet. That's why I want to express my opinions on the Dutchman's skull tonight."

"No time for that now. It's well past the middle of the night. I think it's a miracle that we haven't been caught in here yet. We need to get back to the crew tent before we're missed. I would prefer that no one ever knew that we were here. You've got to do the thing to the door again."

* * *

Monday seemed to drag for Dieter. He had not slept well for two nights, worrying. What if somebody had seen them? Still, there hadn't been any rumor of a break-in, maybe they weren't in for it after all.

This morning breakfast had been a little thin. The men had always been provided with bread and beer to break their fast before work. Today, there was only enough bread for each man to have one thin slice, and the beer was watered to tastelessness. At lunchtime, there was not much more than some bread, boiled eggs and thin soup. The men were beginning to grumble more loudly.

After lunch, Dieter saw the Dutchman came out of his office, and walk down the rail to examine their work. As he approached, the grumbling faded into silence, only to well up behind him as he passed. He seemed oblivious to the smoldering glares and icy silence directed at his back.

Dieter turned his head slightly as the Dutchman came near. He was half afraid that his guilty conscience was reflected in his eyes.

Finn didn't seem to have that problem. He was able to look at the Dutchman. As he approached, Finn rose to his full height, and rested his hammer on his shoulder. Dieter placed another spike in the fish plate to keep busy and not look like he was watching. Finn looked directly into the Dutchman's eyes, and grinned slightly. Then he straightened, lifted the sledge off his shoulder, and brought it down with a grunt. Another blow, and he stepped forward to the next tie.

The Dutchman looked nervous. "What is it, then, you idiot? Do you have something to say to me?"

Finn glanced at the Dutchman again, then turned to Dieter. "Are you ready? Let's see how many more of these spikes we can set before dinner." He knocked Dieter's placed spike into the tie with two solid blows.

The Dutchman watched for a moment, then continued the rest of his inspection round. After he left, Dieter took a step forward, and placed a spike on the next tie. As they continued down the length of their rail, the work blended into a graceful dance of set and swing and step and tap. The afternoon slid into the background as they concentrated on their movements.

* * *

As the week progressed, the mood at the camp worsened. The rain didn't help, either. It began Tuesday afternoon before the end of lunch. There was no lightning or wind, just the steady rainfall. It came in gentle waves, but there were very few moments that the work crew didn't have water dripping from their hair, making their grip on the tools difficult.

Late Friday afternoon, Finn was about the only crewman remaining cheerful. He was standing with his hammer on his shoulder as if nothing was wrong.

Dieter began to dislike him intensely for his cheerful smile. "My mother told me that if I were wicked, something like this would happen. Do you think it rains like this in hell?"

Finn's smile was maddeningly happy. "No. But it rains like this in Ireland. I grew up working in the thicker air." Finn waited for Dieter to place another spike. "It's nothing but a little water. And since you're not made of salt, you've nothing to fear from it."

"I like water fine when I'm washing up, but not when it's running in my eyes. I'm just as likely to drop a spike and have you drive me into the tie instead."

Finn laughed. "Well, set up that spike, and we'll see if I hit you or it, why don't we?"

Dieter was grateful when the horn blew for the end of the day.

* * *

Some effort had been made to provide a shelter for dinner. Tarps and cloths had been stretched between trees. But the grass was still wet, and the pathways treacherous with mud.

Finn and Dieter were not at the head of the line, but they were close enough to hear the words exchanged by the man in front and the girl at the table. "What do ye mean this is all we have?"

The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, and was frightened by the shouting crewman. She was from a nearby village, and had only been working for the company for a couple of weeks. She listened to the shouting man for just a moment, then turned and ran sobbing into the cook tent.

After a moment, Roselynde came out with a rolling pin in hand like a destroying angel. "You great lump, were you raised in the barn with the pigs? What do you think, making Marie cry like that? I'm even thinking that you don't deserve any dinner at all, if you would treat the girls that way."

The man who had done the shouting didn't back down. "See here, I was told we'd be fed properly for working here. Not just a bit of bread and watery soup."

Roselynde didn't back down either. "If you want more than that, you have my permission to catch a fish from the lake over there. But I better not see you yelling at these girls anymore. You'll go cool your head a little before I'll serve you any dinner."

The man stomped away. She turned to the other men in line. "And what about the rest of you? Are you wanting to shout at any more of my girls?"

The other men ducked their heads, not wanting to look at her. Roselynde turned and went back into the tent, and the line began to move again. Dieter thought a lot about that. He decided that it was just best never to get on Roz's bad side.

Dinner wasn't as bad as it could have been. The soup was mostly cabbage, but it had been stewed with some beef bones, and there were fresh greens in it, too. There was bread as well. The men picked up bowls from the table, and shuffled forward, careful to not complain too loudly. Nobody wanted to see what Mistress Roselynde would do if she got really angry.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned bright and lively. It promised to be a beautiful day. The little bit of mist that wafted between the trees melted as the sun touched it. There were still puddles and mud, but it was the model of a beautiful spring day.

Before the horn blew for breakfast, the whole crew was out and about. Word spread that an inspection team had arrived.

It was something of a holiday on the line. Well, almost. The work was halted while the safety inspectors went over each rail and tie, looking for sloppy work. The men weren't allowed to leave the job, but the break from work was like a holiday anyway.

While the inspectors worked their way down the railroad, most of the crew found their entertainment by sitting on barrels and rocks along the sides of the right of way.

But Finn and Dieter weren't found among the other workmen. They were hurrying along the path toward the mess tent. "Finn, I don't understand exactly what we're doing."

Finn gestured with his hand as he hurried toward the cook tent. "Ah, Dieter. It's as clear as glass. The inspectors are going to want to see all the records as well as the rail work. Roselynde is quite certain that the Dutchman will try to throw the guilt onto her lovely shoulders. We just need to make sure that the auditors catch him at his shenanigans and keep her out of trouble."

Dieter was a little winded trying to keep up with his partner's long strides. "And how are we going to do that?"

"Well, if I know Mistress Roselynde, she'll jump into trouble with both feet. We need to be there to pull her out."

* * *

Finn was right. Roselynde had already jumped in feet first. She just didn't know how much trouble was heading in her direction.

As soon as the auditors started at the mess tent, she slipped out the back. This was the opportunity she was looking for. She opened the door to the empty office, and hurried inside. She became engrossed in her search for evidence, and didn't pay attention to anything else.

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Then the door flew open, and the Dutchman stood framed against the bright sunlight. He saw Roselynde behind his desk, papers in her hand, then quickly closed the door. "Here, what's this? What are you doing in here?"

Before she could hide the letter she held, he caught her by the throat. "Roselynde, we can make it through this inspection together, if you cooperate. If not, I'll claim you were robbing my office and turn you over to the authorities. We'll see how long after that you have a job, let alone a protector in that Irishman. You're better off with me, anyway. What do you say? I'll cut you in for two hundred silver, up front."

Roselynde's heart was rattling in her chest like a captive finch, and she could hardly breathe with the Dutchman's hand on her throat. Her fear was so strong that it tasted like acid.

His fingers began to squeeze slightly, and his eyes began to burn. "Answer me now or you'll regret it. I'll have to tie you up and hide you away somewhere until the inspection is over. Answer!"

Roselynde wasn't afraid now. She was angry and getting more so. "You fool. I see nothing in you that's worthwhile. I'd never throw in with you, a liar, a thief and a bully." She pulled his hand off her throat with both hands. He still held her elbow with his other hand, but her anger seemed to give her superhuman strength. She gripped his left hand, sinking in her fingernails.

He kept glaring at her as he struggled to release his hand and bend her to his will.

Roz began to realize that she had more control over his hand than he had over her. In fact, she actually started enjoying the thought that he was in pain. Her anger overflowed, and everything around turned red. She bent and sank her teeth into his thumb.

* * *

Finn and Dieter searched the cook tent, the women's quarters, and the open areas in between. Finn scowled. "This isn't good at all. I'm sure she's gone to the office to try and prove her innocence." He broke into a run.

They were just outside the office when they heard a scream and a thud. They both recognized the voice. Finn kicked the door open.

Finn caught the Dutchman with a left hook. Not to be defeated so easily, the Dutchman came up and drove his head directly into Finn's torso. The momentum threw them both out of the cabin.

* * *

Roselynde came to the door of the office and saw him on top of Finn, the anger still burning bright in her heart. She launched herself onto the Dutchman's shoulders, screaming like a banshee and tearing at his neck and head with her fingernails. She was truly a frightening sight to behold.

When he got a chance, Finn reached out and pried her off the Dutchman.

Roselynde was spitting like a rabid cat. "Put me down, you great clod of a man. Couldn't you see that I was helping?"

Finn kept an eye on the Dutchman while he struggled to hold the raging and wiggling Roselynde. "Dieter, now I know how you feel trying to keep me out of trouble. Give me a hand here."

Roselynde was trying to break Finn's hold. "Oh, I see now. Only the men can take care of business. You want me to step aside, and let you take care of everything. Well, I'm done with that! I can take care of myself, you know."

The Dutchman stepped back out of range of Roselynde's kicks. He dabbed at the blood on his mouth. "Hold her just like that until the inspector arrives, O'Donnell, and I'll not press charges against you for attacking a superior."

Finn placed Roselynde on her feet next to Dieter. "Hold her."

Now Roselynde had a new victim. She screamed and clawed at Dieter's heavy coat, but just couldn't get to anything she could hurt.

While Roselynde spouted threats, Dieter eased her away from the fistfight that had ensued the moment she was separated from it. "Roselynde, we have other things we can do to protect Finn. The inspectors are here now. They are the ones to deal with the Dutchman. You need to search for evidence to show them. It's up to you to find whatever you can before the fight breaks up. Finn's distracting the Dutchman now, but it can't go on forever."

She stopped struggling. "All right, Dieter. I'll look for the paper I had before the Dutchman found me. It can't have gone far. You go get Finn's hammer." She frowned. "And make sure he doesn't kill Finn. I'm holding you responsible!"

"Yes, ma'am, it's what I'm best at. I've kept that Irishman alive up till now, and I don't intend for him to be killed today."

* * *

As he reached the sidelines, Dieter could see that there were very few of the crew who had any sympathy at all for the Dutchman. Some were even moving among the rest, taking bets.

The crew were not the only ones interested in the proceedings. The inspection team came out of the kitchen tent. One caught Dieter by the arm. "See here, man. What is all of this? Why is that man attacking Herr Keese?"

Dieter paused to explain. "I think the captain gave an illegal order, and the other man is expressing his opinion of that order." One inspector stayed to observe the fray, and the other hurried off to find their guards. Dieter let him go. Time enough later to worry about legal complications. Now he needed to be get Finn's hammer and stay nearby in case Finn needed him.

* * *

The Dutchman caught Finn in the side of the head with a roundhouse blow. Finn saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and ducked. He jerked his head sideways, rolling backward to get his feet underneath him, coming up facing the Dutchman, hands in front, protecting his face.

The Dutchman charged in again. They were trading blow for blow, like titans in the battle at the end of the world. After a little while, the Dutchman took a step or two back, and stood with his hands on his knees, sucking in great breaths, letting his sweat and blood drip onto the ground. Finn stepped back also, and stood observing for a moment.

"Here, now. Are you surrendering?" Finn called.

The Dutchman straightened and glared, then brought his fists up again. "I'm more of a man than you, you uneducated ogre. I'll not surrender."

Finn stood up with his fists at the ready. "Ogre am I? Well, you little weasel, take your best shot."

The Dutchman charged again. He stepped up and delivered a two punch combination, left and right. Finn caught one of the blows on his forearm, but the second came past, and slammed onto his cheek. The Dutchman rolled back and turned, just as Finn's fist came hurtling toward him. He tried to duck, but his feet found one of the many mud puddles in the area and he slid into the mud.

Finn started to laugh. The spectators pushed their way forward, and Finn was shoved into the mud as well. Laughter scattered across the entire meadow.

When the Dutchman fought his way to his feet, he was almost knee deep in the muck. Mud clung to every part of him, sticks and leaves as well. There was a low rumble through the crowd, as he resembled nothing so much as the ogre he'd just invoked.

Finn stood, covered in the same glorious muck. He went at the Dutchman, throwing punches, plowing through the slippery slime as though he were a locomotive. By the time they reached the bank of the mud hole, the Dutchman was standing more from stubbornness than anything else.

The edge of the puddle met the back of the Dutchman's knees, so suddenly he was sitting. When Finn saw his opponent collapse, he backed up to see what was happening. The Dutchman blinked like a rabbit blinded by a bright light.

Finn leaned forward, and rested his hand on his knee. His breath was blowing like a warhorse after a sprint. He heard a groan from the crowd.

So Dieter spoke for everyone. "Hey there, Finn. You're not finished yet, are you?"

Finn straightened. "No, Dieter. We're not near finished yet. My friend here was only taking a small breather. Any of you fellows got some water for us?"

It was only moments before a wooden bucket appeared. The Dutchman stood to get a drink, and was a little surprised to have the water poured over his head instead. Finn, watching from the other side of the mud hole, burst out laughing until a similar bucket was emptied over him.

"Here, now. What's the idea?" Finn shook out his hair like an dog after a bath. "Wasn't I wet enough already?"

Finn made his way out of the mud hole while the Dutchman cleared enough muck out of his eyes to see. Finn turned and offered his hand to pull him up out of the mire. The Dutchman took Finn's hand and finally reached solid ground. Then, keeping hold of Finn's hand, he pulled Finn close and swung his fist at his head.

Finn tried to duck the blow, but caught some of it. He stumbled, but didn't let loose of the Dutchman. He tumbled to the ground, taking his adversary with him. They rolled across the grass, causing the crowd to back up.

Then Finn got his feet under him, stood up with the Dutchman's lapels firmly in each hand. He swung the lowlander around, flinging him against the wall of the nearby office, then he put his head down and rammed it into the Dutchman's gut.

* * *

Roselynde was startled when the walls shook and the crowd roared. Dust shook out of the rafters, and she coughed a little. Then, looking down, she finally found a crumpled letter under the edge of the desk. She stooped to retrieve it. Yes, this was important, a list of shipments that she had never received.

Then she noticed a wooden box under the desk. The box was locked, but Roselynde wasn't even slowed down. It didn't look very sophisticated. A few moments work with a letter opener, and the box was open.

Inside, there were a couple of money pouches, and several papers. It was the letter underneath that was exactly what she was looking for.

* * *

Outside, the Dutchman snapped a punch into Finn's chest. The big Irishman's arms wind-milled and he stumbled back. Before he could recover, the Dutchman was on him, throwing a hail of body blows. They broke apart, and rolled slowly to their feet. This time Finn was ready. The Dutchman charged, Finn swung hard and he bounced backward, the momentum carrying him into the kitchen area of the camp, knocking over pots and pans, stumbling into crates and barrels.

Finn followed him. His face no longer carried a look of laughter or fun. The crowd drew back from him as they would from a bear in the forest.

The Dutchman scrambled to his feet as if to make a break for it. Then he spotted something that had been thrown from an overturned table. He picked up the butcher knife, holding it like a bully from the docks.

Now that the Dutchman had a weapon, one that he obviously knew how to use, a hush fell over the crowd. The only sounds were the fire hissing nearby, and a few bookmakers at the back of the mob.

"Finn, I fetched this for you," Dieter called. "Thought it might come in handy." He threw Finn's huge hammer. Finn held out his hand and caught it.

Finn raised his voice. "Are ye sure you want to do this? It will not go well for you."

The Dutchman crouched slightly, and held his knife like a dagger. "I've heard bluster like yours before. You don't want to come against this knife. You should just let me leave in peace."

Finn crouched slightly as well, and took a couple of steps to the left. The two men circled for a moment, then charged.

* * *

It was difficult for Dieter to tell what was happening. He saw the butcher knife glitter, and the hammer swing, almost too fast for the eye to follow.

Finn stepped back, blood dripping from his left forearm. The Dutchman was laying on the grass, unmoving. Dieter moved cautiously next to Finn. "What did you do, Finn? Is he dead?"

Finn lowered his hammer and looked down. His voice sounded distant, as if he were coming back from a far place. "No, I don't think so. When he came at me, I aimed at his elbow. I think I heard it crack. Then I threw a blow right into his knee. I decided not to kill him, just tapped him lightly on the back of the head. Not hardly a blow at all, really."

Finn kicked the knife away into the tall grass. "I guess his head wasn't as hard as he thought it was."

Dieter heard a disturbance at the back of the crowd. He turned and saw Roselynde come out of the office, letters in hand. She was shouting and waving them over her head. Her red hair streamed behind her like a bright flag.

"Where are the inspectors? I have proof the Dutchman was stealing from the railroad company, and I have the name of his accomplice."

As she shouted and ran, the crowd parted in front of her, and she found herself next to Dieter and Finn. "What happened here?"

Finn's smile was like the sun after a cold March rainstorm. He seemed to come back to himself with Roselynde next to him. "Nothing at all. We were just dancing a little. And then he tripped and fell, right there."

Roselynde put her hands on her hips. "And, pray tell me, how did you get that bloody wound on your arm? Is it a bug bite, perhaps?"

Their conversation was cut short when the inspectors appeared with guards in tow. Ten men with six foot staffs followed their commander, who was armed with a shotgun.

The men surrounded Finn and the Dutchman, and held their staves at the ready. Roz stepped next to Finn.

"Here now. What is all this?" the head inspector asked. "We don't need a riot. What did you do to Herr Keese?"

Finn put his right hand on his chest, and grinned a little. "Herr Inspector, I'm afraid that the captain can't speak to you right now. He's napping."

The guard commander knelt and felt the Dutchman's throat. "He's alive all right. Where's your medic? I think he needs to look after this man."

The inspector frowned up at Finn. "What's the meaning of this? Assault on a supervisor is not tolerated by the Grantville Central Railroad."

Before Finn could answer, Roselynde stepped between him and the inspector. "My name is Roselynde, and I'm in charge of the kitchens. We've been having difficulty finding enough to feed these men. He's been selling the food to bandits." She gestured with her evidence. "I found these letters that prove it." She pointed. "And when he tried to kidnap me, why, Finn only stepped up to protect me. And that's the whole story."

* * *

The inspectors remained on the site for three days more, examining the books and all the papers in the office. Gijsbert Keese had been carted off to lockup by the guards, and Finn and the other men had been sent back to work. The fully-stocked supply train showed up bright and early Monday morning, and Roselynde was able to feed the crew as much food as they wanted.

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On the final day of his business, the head inspector summoned Finn into the captain's office. He was sitting behind the desk, shuffling papers when Finn tapped on the door frame. "Ah. Finn. Come in, come in."

Finn was a little nervous. It was very possible that he would still be reprimanded for striking a superior.

The inspector stood, and offered Finn his hand. "Have a seat. As we're planning to move on tomorrow, there are a couple of things that you and I have to talk about. This worksite is in need of a competent captain, and I'm ready to offer you the job."

"Me? You want me as the captain?" Finn was having a little trouble following the discussion. There was a roaring in his ears, and the room seemed to tip dangerously to the side. He eased himself into the chair in front of the desk.

The man sat down in the other chair. "Why, yes, we do. We've had reports from many of the men that you're a good leader and an honest man. That's exactly what we need. Your pay will increase accordingly, of course. You'll be expected to keep track of the records, as well."

Still, Finn couldn't find his voice. It was all like a dream.

The inspector looked at him, then continued. "You'll need an assistant, as well, I think. There's really a lot to do here. You can hire anyone you feel fit for the position. As a matter of fact, it's the first task you'll have as captain. So what do you say, O'Donnell? Can we depend on you?"

Suddenly, everything was clear as glass. This would finally give him the opportunity and standing to marry Roselynde. "Yes, I'll do it. You can certainly depend on me."

 

April 1636
Farther down the line

Dieter was sitting at the desk, shuffling paper. There was a knock, and the door opened. A very pompous man stepped into the office. "I'm Schmidt, the civil engineer for this project. Are you the captain?"

Dieter stood, and shook the engineer's hand. "Have a seat, Herr Schmidt. The captain isn't available today. I'm his assistant. What can I do for you?"

The heavy man settled carefully in the small chair, and looked disgruntled. "This is very disturbing. Where is Herr O'Donnell, the captain? I was told he was always on site."

Dieter leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I'm afraid that this week I'm all you'll get. Don't worry, I know everything you need. But Captain O'Donnell and his wife aren't available. They took some time off to celebrate the birth of their first son."

* * *

 

NONFICTION:

Industrial Alchemy, Part 2: Inorganic Chemical Bestiary

Written by Iver P. Cooper

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Within a few weeks of the Ring of Fire (RoF), Greg Ferrara tells the "Emergency Committee" that "Sulfuric acid is about as basic for modern industry as steel." The 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica (EB11) and the modern Encyclopedia Americana (EA) agree that sulfuric acid is the most important of all chemicals. But that, of course, doesn't mean that it is the only chemical that the up-timers need more of. If there are a dozen they want at the end of 1632, I guarantee that they will be begging for hundreds by the end of 1634.

Elements, Ions and Compounds

The non-metals, discussed in section I below, are carbon; the pnictogens ("pn" as in phosphorus and nitrogen), the chalcogens (oxygen, sulfur, selenium), the halogens (fluorine, chlorine, etc.), and the noble gases (helium, etc.). Hydrogen is sui generis, the proverbial "sore thumb" of the Periodic Table, but I will treat it as a non-metal.

The non-metallic elements, by themselves, can form molecules (e.g., the two atom molecules of nitrogen, oxygen and chlorine), covalent compounds (e.g., carbon dioxide), and many important anions (e.g., chloride, carbonate, sulfate).Many anions are salts of acids having the form HX, and the X (the anion part) always contains at least one non-metal atom and sometimes is entirely composed of non-metallic elements. Many metal salts are of the form MX, where M is one or more atoms of the same metal, and X is one or more copies of the same anion, each one or more atoms.

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In section I, I will identify which non-metallic elements, and compounds and ions composed just of those elements, were known prior to the RoF, which weren't known to the down-timers but occur in nature, and which will first be synthesized after RoF. I will also discuss how these elements and compounds are made and used, and make suggestions as to when they may be first available in the 1632 universe.

The metals and their salts are discussed in section II below, which is organized first by the column (1-16) of the periodic table which the metal falls into, and then by the metal itself.

The metals are sometimes classified as

—the group Ia (column 1) or alkali metals (notably lithium, sodium, potassium)

—the group IIa (2) or alkaline earth metals (notably beryllium, magnesium, and calcium)

—the transition metals (3-12) (notably iron, nickel, platinum, copper, silver, gold, zinc, mercury)

—the inner transition metals (which I will be ignoring)

—the "poor" (lower melting) metals (13-16) (notably aluminum, gallium, tin, lead and bismuth)

There are also metalloids, intermediate in behavior between metals and nonmetals. These are boron, silicon, germanium, arsenic, antimony and tellurium. Note that I have chosen to discuss boron and silicon with the non-metals, and arsenic and antimony with the metals.

I. Non-Metallic Elements and Compounds

Table 2-1 looks at the non-metals from a modern OTL perspective:

 

101125006438.jpg * Emsley.

Hydrogen

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Hydrogen, discovered in 1766, is used in the manufacture of ammonia and methanol, and in hydrogenation of unsaturated organic compounds. It also had direct uses; in the early twentieth century, as a buoyancy gas, and in the late twentieth century, as a rocket fuel and welding gas (part of the oxyhydrogen torch).

In Huff and Goodlett, "Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part 3: Boris, Natasha . . . But Where's Bullwinkle" (Grantville Gazette 10), set in September 1633, the Russians are experimenting with their third hot air balloon, but they are anxious to move on to hydrogen. By June-July 1634, according to their "Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part 6: The Polish Incident or the Wet Firecracker War" (Grantville Gazette 15), a hydrogen-filled dirigible is flitting about.

In contrast, in September 1635, Marlon Pridmore is flying a hot air blimp in the Grantville area. Kevin and Karen Evans, "Sailing Upwind" (Grantville Gazette 13). Of course, the USE has planes, and therefore less incentive to experiment with dirigibles.

The simplest method of obtaining hydrogen gas is by reacting a metal with a source of hydrogen. Thus, zinc or iron will react with dilute sulfuric acid, and sodium even with cold water. It is also possible to obtain hydrogen by electrolysis of water (which also yields oxygen).

Given the ready availability of zinc or iron, and sulfuric acid, there is no reason someone couldn't have made hydrogen as early as 1631 (Paracelsus supposedly made it in the sixteenth century). And in Grantville, with cheap electricity, the electrolysis route is feasible. Indeed, Tasha Kubiak gives Dr. Phil instructions for "bubbling off hydrogen and oxygen" in July 1631 (Offord, "Dr. Phil's Amazing Lightning Crystal," Grantville Gazette 6).

The problem isn't generating the hydrogen, it's hanging onto it once you have it. Clearly, by 1634, the Russians are doing both, in dirigible-sized quantities.

The classical concept of an acid is as a substance which, in water, dissociates to produce one or more hydrogen cations, and an anion characteristic of the acid. These acids will have formulae like HX (e.g., hydrochloric acid or nitric acid), H2X (e.g., sulfuric acid), or even H3X (orthophosphoric acid). The hydrogen cations behave much like the alkali metal cations. The first three strong acids known to the alchemists—hydrochloric, nitric and sulfuric acids—were all used in assaying, hence the term "acid test." (Salzberg 87).

Hydrogen forms ionic or interstitial hydrides with metals, and covalent hydrides with non-metals. The ionic hydrides are made by passing hydrogen gas over the warmed metal. (CW184 says to use temperatures of 300-700°C, 725°C for lithium). Hydrides of interest include sodium, potassium, lithium, calcium, strontium, palladium and titanium hydride, and lithium aluminum hydride. (EB11, EA). They are used variously as sources of hydrogen (they will decompose water), reducing agents, and fuels. Lithium aluminum hydride (preparation, see CW273) and sodium borohydride are among the most popular reducing agents in organic chemistry.

After 1634, the availability of the metal hydrides will be limited by the availability of the metal of interest.

Group 17 Non-Metals (Halogens)

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The halogens of interest are fluorine, chlorine, bromine and iodine. They combine with hydrogen to form acids of the form HX, where X is halogen. The halides are salts in which the anion is a halogen atom: fluorine, chlorine, bromine or iodine. There are also related oxyanions including hypochlorites, chlorites, chlorates, perchlorates, bromates, perbromates, iodates and periodates.

Some of the metal halides (e.g., sodium chloride) can be extracted from natural sources, others are made by the reaction of 1) the metal with the halogen directly, or 2) the metal, or its oxide, hydroxide or carbonate, with the appropriate acid. For example, you can treat lithium carbonate with hydrochloric acid to make lithium chloride.

Fluorine

The principal natural source of fluorine is fluorspar (calcium fluoride). Fluorine is also found in cryolite (sodium aluminum fluoride) and fluorapatite (calcium fluorophosphate).

Hydrogen fluoride (known as hydrofluoric acid when dissolved in water) can be made by reacting fluorspar (calcium fluoride) with concentrated sulfuric acid at elevated temperature (first carried out by Scheele in 1771) (EB11/Fluorine). HF is extremely nasty stuff. Unfortunately it's critical to the production of many different fluorinated compounds, inorganic and organic. It's also used to etch glass and clean metals.

Since canon says that HF and synthetic cryolite are available in early 1636, see Offord, "Doctor Phil's Family" (Grantville Gazette 15), it is likely that fluorspar was being mined at least as early as 1635, and sodium and potassium fluoride, and perhaps aluminum fluoride, were probably being made in small quantities by late 1636.

The most straightforward way of making fluorine itself is probably by electrolysis of anhydrous HF containing dissolved potassium fluoride (EB11). The addition of the potassium fluoride is necessary since HF itself is non-conductive. (CW460).

I don't think it likely that there will be any fluorine gas production before 1640. Fluorine is not only a gas, it's a gas that can cause stainless steel to burn! In the old time line, elemental fluorine was not produced commercially until World War II (when it was needed for the manufacture of uranium hexafluoride).

Chlorine

 

A dilute form of hydrochloric acid (HCl) is already made by down-timers and used as part of aqua regia (the mixture of HCl and HNO3 used to dissolve gold). Concentrated HCl was obtained by Glauber (1648). The first commercial production was by the LeBlanc process (1790), in which sodium chloride is treated with concentrated sulfuric acid, yielding sodium bisulfate (or sulfate) and HCl. (LeBlanc's purpose was to make sodium carbonate.) The brute force method is to combine hydrogen and chlorine and it is used when you must have ultrapure material.

In OTL, chlorine was discovered in 1774. In the nineteenth century, chlorine was produced by oxidizing HCl with a strong oxidizing agent (air, manganese dioxide, potassium dichromate, etc.) A more modern method is electrolysis of sodium chloride solutions, yielding chlorine, sodium hydroxide, and hydrogen. (EA, EB11).

There are several canonical clues that chlorine is available by 1633. When the Grantville delegation to England left in June 1633, they carried DDT with them, and the chlorine atoms of the DDT were almost certainly introduced by reacting an intermediate with chlorine gas. By winter 1633-34, the Essen Chemical Company is producing small quantities of sulfanilamide (apparently in preference to Grantville's preferred antibiotic, chloramphenicol) as well as calcium hypochlorite. See Mackey, "Ounces of Prevention" (Grantville Gazette 5). By 1634, the French have made potassium chlorate (first synthesized 1786 OTL), possibly by reacting chlorine with potassium hydroxide. (cp. EB11/Chlorates).

Also, Dr. Phil makes bleach (Ethereal Essence of Common Salt) in 1633, by electrolysis of a sodium chloride solution. (Offord, "Dr. Phil's Amazing Lightning Crystal," Grantville Gazette 6) Chlorine is produced at the anode and hydrogen and hydroxide at the cathode. The chlorine then reacts with the hydroxide to produce some hypochlorite. If a membrane (such as asbestos) were placed between the anode and cathode, to block the movement of the chlorine, then you can produce chlorine gas.

Some chlorides are available from natural sources. The best known chloride is certainly sodium chloride (common salt), which is produced by mining rock salt, or evaporating brine from wells or seawater. Potassium chloride can be obtained from the ores sylvite (at Stassfurt, Germany) and sylvinite, or from seawater. It is also a byproduct of manufacturing nitric acid from potassium nitrate and hydrochloric acid.

The other metal chlorides can be obtained by reacting the metal, or its hydroxide, oxide or carbonate, with HCl. An alternative, brute force method is to heat the metal in a stream of chlorine gas. (EB11).

The alkali metal chlorides in general are also useful as sources of their metals; the latter can be produced in elemental form by electrolysis of the corresponding molten metal chloride.

The oxyanions of chlorine are hypochlorite, chlorite, chlorate and perchlorate. The hypochlorites are made by combining chlorine with a cold solution of a strong base; if you want the chlorate, use a hot solution. In both cases, you also produce a chloride.

There are a number of important covalent compounds that contain chlorine. These include sulfur dichloride, thionyl chloride (SOCl2), phosphorus trichloride and phosphorus pentachloride. The latter three are standard chlorinating agents in organic chemistry. (M&B 601). EB11 says to synthesize sulfur dichloride by "distilling sulfur in a chlorine gas," phosphorus trichloride by reacting heated red phosphorus with chlorine, and phosphorus pentachloride by further reaction of the trichloride with chlorine. All three should be feasible in 1634.

The availability of thionyl chloride is more uncertain; neither EB11 nor EA clearly state how to make it. However, CW453 describes a route from phosphorus pentachloride and sulfur dioxide. So perhaps we will be making it by 1635.

Bromine

Bromine was originally isolated from seawater (1826), in which it occurs as bromides in concentrations of just 65 ppm (EA). In 1911, the principal commercial source was the salt deposits at Stassfurt, Germany; the salt is a mixture of potassium, sodium, and magnesium bromide (EB11). The commercial "periodic" process required chlorine gas (which oxidizes the bromide ion), either manganese dioxide or potassium chlorate, and sulfuric acid. EA describes procedures (requiring chlorine gas, and either sodium carbonate or sulfur dioxide) for recovering bromine from seawater bromide. Since bromine is a liquid, it is actually easier to handle than chlorine (although bear in mind that its name comes from the Greek word for "stench").

Once you have elemental bromine it is easy enough to make hydrobromic acid (HBr) and the various salts. Silver bromide is a photosensitive salt used in early photography. Sodium and potassium bromide were favored in the nineteenth century as anticonvulsants and sedatives. Lithium bromide is used as an absorbent in absorption refrigeration systems. Huston, "Refrigeration and the 1632 World: Opportunities and Challenges" (Grantville Gazette 8).

In view of the similarities of bromine and chlorine chemistry, I would predict that bromine, HBr and the common metal bromides could be produced as early as late 1633. However, the demand might not be sufficient to move production along that quickly.

Iodine

 

The concentration of iodine in seawater is very low (0.05 ppm). Fortunately, some seaweeds concentrate it—Laminaria is up to 0.45% iodine. Not surprisingly, seaweeds were the first commercial source of iodine. Particulars are given in EA and EB11; chlorine or manganese dioxide is used to oxidize the iodide ion to iodine (a solid). Originally, the big producers were Normandy and Scotland; later Japan became a major player.

Another source, of more limited distribution, is Chilean saltpeter, which contains sodium and calcium iodate. The iodate is converted to iodide with sodium bisulfite and the iodide to iodine by adding fresh iodate. (EA).

Finally, iodides can be found in brine wells, although I am not sure whether this is the case in Europe.

Lewis Bartolli has access to iodine crystals in 1634, although we don't know when they were prepared. He used them in an unsuccessful attempt to develop a latent print on linen. Cooper, "Under the Tuscan Son" (Grantville Gazette 9). Sharon Nichols also has iodine, but not enough for the operation on Ruy Sanchez. Flint and Dennis, 1634: The Galileo Affair, Chapter 43.

Hydrogen iodide (a gas) is made by direct combination of the elements over a platinum black catalyst (EB11). The iodides can be formed by direct iodination of a metal, or reaction of hydrogen iodide with a metal or its oxide, hydroxide or carbonate (EB11). Alternatively, potassium iodide is used to form iodides of most other metals, by replacement (EA). Tincture of iodine, an antiseptic is an alcoholic solution of potassium iodide and iodine.

The USE is not likely to be a big producer of iodine compounds because it lacks ready access to cheap natural sources. The demand for iodine doesn't appear likely to be high enough to stimulate early (pre-1636) production. Whether there is commercial production in 1636 is likely to turn on the political situation in both Scotland and France.

Group 16 Non-Metals (Chalcogens)

 

Oxygen

 

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The method first used (1770s) to obtain oxygen was by heating a heavy metal oxide, e.g., mercuric oxide. It can also be obtained by chemical decomposition of other oxygen-containing compounds, electrolysis of water, or fractional distillation of liquefied air (ca. 1895). The latter two methods are mentioned in EA.

Dr. Phil knows by mid-1631 about electrolysis of water; otherwise, nothing has been said in canon about oxygen. But we know that historically, oxygen was isolated in 1774, same as chlorine. Since chlorine is canonically available in 1633, and oxygen is at least as useful as chlorine, I propose that oxygen is available then, too. Indeed, an oxygen cylinder is used by Mary Pat in October 1633, but I don't know whether the oxygen was prepared after RoF. Ewing, "An Invisible War" (Grantville Gazette 8).

Ozone is a molecule consisting of three atoms of oxygen instead of the usual two. It is produced by exposing oxygen to an electric discharge, by reacting sulfuric acid with certain peroxides (see below), or oxygen with certain heated metal oxides. (EB11). It was used at one time as a water sterilant, before it was replaced by chlorine. It can be used as an oxidizing agent, or to cleave certain organic compounds.

Some metal oxides occur in nature, including the oxides of copper (cuprite), iron (hematite, magnetite), chromium (chromite), tin (cassiterite), manganese (pyrolusite), titanium (rutile, ilmenite).

Oxides can be made, straightforwardly, by the reaction of oxygen with the appropriate element (e.g., zinc). It may also be possible to make them by reacting the appropriate element (e.g. potassium) with the nitrate of the same element (yielding nitrogen as a byproduct), or the appropriate nitrate (e.g., silver nitrate) with an alkali hydroxide; or by calcining (heating to decomposition) the appropriate carbonate (e.g., of calcium), nitrate, or hydroxide.

Metal oxides can be reduced to the elemental metal by heating in the presence of carbon or hydrogen. (We'll discuss specific oxides under the heading of the other element.) They can be reacted with hydrogen sulfide, carbonic acid, nitric acid or sulfuric acid to make the metal sulfide, carbonate, nitrate or sulfate.

Metal peroxides are made by reacting the corresponding oxide with more oxygen, or by direct reaction of the metal with oxygen at elevated temperatures.

Hydrogen peroxide is used as an oxidizing agent, catalyst, bleach and disinfectant. EA suggests three methods of making it, of which the oldest (1818) is reacting barium peroxide with sulfuric acid. EB11 indicates that the barium peroxide may be decomposed with any of several acids. (Barium peroxide presumably made like other metal peroxides.) The other two EA methods are electrolyzing sulfuric acid and then hydrolyzing the product; and autooxidation of 2-ethyl anthraquinone (discovered 1936).

The hydroxides of the alkali (e.g., potassium, sodium) and alkaline (e.g., calcium, magnesium) metals are strong bases and find much use in synthetic chemistry. Hydroxides may be obtained by reacting the appropriate oxide with water, and thus should be available on the same terms as the metal oxides.

Sulfur

Sulfur is readily available in elemental form, usually associated (as "brimstone") with volcanoes, such as those of Sicily. The Frash process (1890s) piped steam into underground sulfur deposits (particularly, those of Texas, Louisiana and Mexico) to melt the sulfur so it could be pumped out economically.

It can also be obtained by reduction of sulfides and sulfates, possibly as a byproduct of metal smelting.

Hydrogen sulfide (H2S) is used as a reagent in the production of metal sulfides, and as a source of elemental sulfur. It is the "rotten egg" smell emanating from volcanoes. It was produced by down-time alchemists as a byproduct of the synthesis of liquor hepatis and pulvis solaris. It can be made by direct combination of the elements, by reaction of a metal (especially iron) sulfide with sulfuric acid, or by decomposing antimony sulfide with hydrochloric acid. In the late twentieth century it was a byproduct of desulfurization of petroleum.

Many metal ores are sulfides, found in hydrothermal deposits. Such deposits may contain sulfides of several different metals. The sulfide ores include cinnabar (mercury), galena (lead), pyrite (iron), stibnite (antimony), sphalerite (zinc), realgar (arsenic), and less well known, pentlandite (nickel), chalcocite (copper), covellite (copper), molybenite, chalcopyrite (iron and copper) and arsenopyrite (iron and arsenic).

Metal sulfides can be roasted in the presence of oxygen to yield the corresponding oxide, and sulfur dioxide. There are various routes from the oxide to the elemental metal.

Carbon disulfide (CS2) is used as a solvent for many organic substances, and in production of others, including carbon tetrachloride, viscose rayon and cellophane. It's made by heating coke and sulfur in an electric furnace. (EA)

Sulfites are prepared by reacting a metal oxide, hydroxide or carbonate with sulfur dioxide (EB11/Sulphur). Thus, sodium sulfite is made by reacting sodium carbonate with sulfur dioxide (EB11/Sodium).

Sulfuric acid (oil of vitriol) was first made in the early sixteenth century, at Nordhausen, by "dry distillation" (heating which first decomposes the solid into some kind of liquid mixture which is then distilled) of iron or copper sulfate. The metal sulfate decomposes into metal oxide, water and sulfur trioxide. (Derry 268).

Derry says that sulfuric acid "was of virtually no industrial importance until the seventeenth century." Historically, dry distillation was superseded, by 1651, by Glauber's method. It had already been known in the sixteenth century that one could react sulfur with air (oxygen source) and obtain a gas (sulfur trioxide). And Biringuccio's De la Pirotechnica (1544) took the next step; burning sulfur under a glass bell, in the presence of water, so that the sulfur trioxide combined with the water to make sulfuric acid (Salzberg 129). Glauber's innovation was the use of saltpeter (potassium nitrate) as a catalyst. He burnt a mixture of saltpeter (potassium nitrate) and sulfur in the presence of steam. The result was called, "oil of vitriol made by the bell." (Some authorities believe that the bell process was invented earlier, by Cornelius Drebbel (1572-1633), but the evidence is wanting.) (Kutney, Sulfur, 9).

In 1744, it was discovered that you could make a very nice blue water-soluble dye (indigo carmine), very cheaply, by reacting indigo (insoluble once exposed to air) with sulfuric acid. That suddenly increased the demand for sulfuric acid. (Caveman Chemistry) The old glass vessels didn't scale up well; Roebuck (1746) replaced the glass vessels with lead-lined ones. Still, the acid was, at best, of 77% purity.

The most important improvement, which permitted complete purification of the acid, was the "contact process," invented in 1831 but forgotten until the 1870s. In essence, sulfur trioxide (a waste gas is reacted with oxygen in the presence of a heated platinum wire catalyst. The "contact process" will probably become dominant as soon as the platinum catalyst becomes available.

The "chamber" and "contact" processes are described in both EA/Sulfuric Acid and, in more detail, in EB11/Sulphuric Acid.

The large-scale production of sulfuric acid is an early target of Grantville R&D. On Rebecca's talk show, Greg Ferrara explains "the critical importance of sulfuric acid to practically all industrial chemical processes." (Flint, 1632, Chapter 43). A conversation between Amy Kubiak and Lori Fleming in May 1632 implies that sulfuric acid is readily available (although given her subsequent reference to a "flame thrower," she may have been joking). Mackey, "The Prepared Mind" (Grantville Gazette 10). Discussing the synthesis of chloramphenicol with Rubens, Von Helmont comments that he needs "very pure" sulfuric acid, which is "quite difficult" (but he didn't say impossible) to obtain. Mackey, "Ounces of Prevention" (Grantville Gazette 5). In February 1634, Dr. Phil has about fifteen hogsheads of 90% pure sulfuric acid in hand, made from sphalerite. Offord, "Dr. Phil Zinkens A Bundle" (Grantville Gazette 7).

By fall 1633, Grantville has sulfanilamide, so its chemists must previously have made chlorosulfonic (chlorosulfuric) acid. CW456 says it's made by reaction of sulfur trioxide with dry hydrochloric acid. (This reaction is supposed to be carried out in sulfuric acid.) It's also possible to chlorinate sulfuric acid with phosphorus pentachloride—(Wikipedia/Chlorosulfonic Acid.)

Sulfates are typically made by reacting an elemental metal, or a metal hydroxide or oxide, with sulfuric acid. It is also possible to oxidize a metal sulfide or sulfite, or to add sulfur trioxide to a metal oxide. In some cases, a metal sulfate can be reacted with a different metal to yield a sulfate of the second metal (e.g., copper sulfate + zinc -> zinc sulfate).

Sulfur dioxide is known to the down-timers. Sulfur dioxide is formed when sulfur is burnt in air, and it can also be released when a metal sulfide is roasted. Sulfur trioxide was first made (at least by 1675) by distillation of green vitriol (copper sulfate) but can also be obtained by the catalyzed union of sulfur dioxide with oxygen. Both are useful in the preparation of sulfuric acid, and the trioxide may also used, with hydrogen chloride, to make chlorosulfonic acid.

Elemental sulfur, and the sulfur compounds known to the down-timers, should be coming into Grantville by late 1631. Additional sulfides and sulfates will become available as new sulfide ores are mined, and by chemical conversion of elemental metals, or their oxides, hydroxides or carbonates.

Group 15 Non-Metals (Pnictogens)

 

Nitrogen

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Nitrogen is used in the production of ammonia, and as an inert atmosphere and (in liquid form) a coolant for chemical reactions. Typically nitrogen is obtained, directly or indirectly, from air (which is over 70% nitrogen). First of all, active metals can be burnt with air to form nitrides, and the nitrides subsequently decomposed to release nitrogen. Secondly, air can be passed over heated coke, thus converting the oxygen to carbon dioxide, and the latter absorbed into water. Or you can instead burn phosphorus in air, or pass air over heated copper. The purest form of nitrogen is made by liquefying and fractionating air. Nitrogen was first obtained in 1772, by removing oxygen from air. Ammonia, ammonium nitrite, or ammonium nitrate can also be used as sources of nitrogen.

There is reference in Offord, "Silencing the Sirens' Song" (Grantville Gazette 23) to an experimental facility, operating in July 1634, for using electricity to extract nitrogen out of the air. It is manufacturing nitric acid.

Nitrates (NO3-) are fairly common minerals, and metal nitrates, because of their solubility, are useful in the preparation of other metal salts. Potassium and sodium nitrate are both naturally occurring.

In 1631-32, one of the new chemical firms has someone making the rounds, asking for chicken manure for a nitrate farm. DeMarce, et al., "The Brillo Letters" (1634: The Ram Rebellion). Nitrates are excellent fertilizers. In 1632, this is known to the English. Turner, "Hobson's Choice" (Grantville Gazette 3). By 1634, this information has disseminated at least as far as Russia. Huff and Goodlett, "Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part Five: The Dog and Pony Show" (Grantville Gazette 13).

Nitric acid (aqua fortis, spirit of nitre, HNO3) is nearly as important as sulfuric acid, and, like it, was made by down-time alchemists. It was made by heating potassium or sodium nitrate with concentrated sulfuric acid (EB11), and was used by the down-timers to dissolve silver and thereby separate it from gold (Derry 268). In 1632-33, the up-timers were producing nitric acid in only limited quantities because they insisted on use of stainless steel reactors and the stainless steel then had to be recycled. However, I would predict that if the "stainless steel bottleneck" isn't solved by 1634-35 the down-timers will simply ignore it and make nitric acid in glass-lined reactors (see "Corrosion Control" in Part 1).

Nitric acid can be used to make metal nitrates. The acid is also used to add nitro (NO2) groups to organic compounds. Guncotton, for example, is nitrocellulose.

Nitrites (NO2-) can sometimes be made simply be heating the corresponding nitrate. EB11 recommends making sodium nitrite by heating the nitrate with lead, or with sulfur and sodium hydroxide.

Nitrogen can react with oxygen to form various oxides. Nitrous oxide(N2O) is made by heating ammonium nitrate (this has to be done gingerly, to avoid an explosion) and is used as an anesthetic. We know from canon that it's being produced by September, 1635 by Dr. Phil's chemical works. Offord, "The Creamed Madonna" (Grantville Gazette 19). Given that ammonium nitrate is available at least by December 1633, and there is demand for anesthetics, I would have expected it to be in production in 1634. (It can't be available before December 1632 since the dentist is still out of anesthetic. Flint, 1632, Chapter 39; Wentworth, "Here Comes Santa Claus", Ring of Fire). But there are so many compounds, and so few chemists. . . .

Poor Dr. Phil. What he actually wants is to duplicate the effects of VIAGRA® sildenafil. Sildenafil inhibits an enzyme which recycles a metabolite which in turn is released as a result of the action of nitric oxide (NO). Dr. Phil figured that if he couldn't make sildenafil, the next best thing to do was to distribute a tonic containing pressurized nitrogen oxide. As Carl pointed out, his first mistake was to use the wrong nitrogen oxide (nitrous, not nitric). But I also have grave doubts that even nitric oxide, if orally delivered, will have any effect on ED.

Once he realizes his first mistake, he will find that the encyclopedias say how to make nitric oxide; react nitric acid with ferrous sulfate in sulfuric acid solution. Or combine ammonia with atmospheric oxygen under the benevolent attention of a platinum catalyst. (EA).

Ammonia (NH3) is primarily used in the manufacture of fertilizers, but also finds application as a refrigerant, and in inorganic and organic chemical synthesis. The compounds synthesized using ammonia include nitric acid, nylon, dyes, pharmaceuticals and explosives.

Ammonia was made by down-timers in several ways. First, by treating the distillate of animal horns with hydrochloric acid, and was therefore called spirit of hartshorn. A second route was by reacting ammonium chloride with alkali (hydroxide). Finally, the down-timers knew that it could be extracted from urine, as was done in 1631-32 by Dr. Philip Gribbleflotz of Jena for the Kubiaks. Offord, "The Doctor Gribbleflotz Chronicles, Part 1: Calling Dr. Phil," Grantville Gazette 6. The down-timers used ammonia in the manufacture of alum, and of a lichen-derived dye (archil).

In the nineteenth century, ammonia was one of the byproducts of coal pyrolysis. But by the early twentieth century, it became possible to make ammonia by direct combination of nitrogen and hydrogen (the Haber process) . . . which, in turn, meant you didn't need access to nitrate deposits or even coal, since nitrogen and hydrogen can be found in air and water, respectively.

The late twentieth century embodiments of the Haber process use pressures of 200-900 atmospheres and temperatures of 400-650°C. At 300 atmospheres and 500°C, the nitrogen, hydrogen and ammonia will reach an equilibrium in which the mixture in the reactor is 26.5% ammonia. (EA)

A detailed analysis of the effect of both pressure and temperature on the equilibrium percentage of ammonia appears in EB11/Nitrogen Fixation. As would be predicted based on Le Chatelier's Principle, increasing the pressure increases the yield, whereas increasing the temperature reduces it. So, you logically ask, why not stay at room temperature, or even cool things down? The problem is that the reaction is very slow at room temperature. For a decent production rate, you need elevated temperatures.

You can use a catalyst, rather than a higher temperature, to increase the rate without loss of yield, but a catalyst isn't a panacea. Even with a catalyst, you need a fairly high temperature. EB11 says, "the formation of ammonia begins at as low a temperature as 360°C," but admits that the reaction is still "exceedingly slow." So that's why the temperature is bumped up to 500°C. And with high temperatures, you need high pressures to get respectable yields.

Catalysts can also be expensive (the first ones used were osmium and uranium). They tend to deteriorate over time, so, for economic reasons, you need to know how to recover and regenerate them. If your materials aren't pure enough, the catalyst can be poisoned. The modern catalyst consists "primarily of magnetic iron oxide (Fe3O4) or iron oxide mixed with the oxides of other metals" (EA/Ammonia), but we don't know the exact physical form (e.g., particle size, porosity, etc.). And the devil is in the details (Wikipedia/Haber Process; Frankenburg).

Increasing pressure is good for both high yield and fast reaction rate, but it takes energy to maintain a high pressure, and very expensive structures to safely contain it (especially at high temperatures). So plant designers typically use more moderate pressures, and compensate for the reduced equilibrium level in two ways.

First, they remove the ammonia as a liquid, taking advantage of the higher boiling points of nitrogen and hydrogen. (They can remove ammonia much faster than the system can come to equilibrium.) Secondly, they recycle the nitrogen and hydrogen gas, given them further opportunities to react.

Amides. Active metals can react with ammonia to form amides (NH2-); sodium amide is used in organic chemical synthesis.

Ammonium. (NH4+) is a cation consisting of a hydrogen ion added to ammonia, and behaves somewhat like a Group 1 metal.

Ammonium hydroxide, a strong base, is made when ammonia is bubbled into water. The alchemists called it "spirits of hartshorn."

Ammonium chloride (sal ammoniac) was known in antiquity, as it forms in volcanic regions. Ammonium nitrate is made by reacting nitric acid with ammonia.

Ammonium nitrate, made by reaction of ammonia with nitric acid, is the fertilizer that Mike Stearns discovers, in December 1633, is stored in a shed near the stricken Magdeburg coal gas plant. (Flint, 1634: The Baltic War, Chapter 3). The ammonia could come from the ammoniacal liquor produced by destructive distillation of coal

"Ammonia" (probably ammonium carbonate) smelling salts are used to awaken Magdalena in Huff and Goodlett, "The Monster" (Grantville Gazette 12).

Clearly, nitric acid, ammonia (albeit not by the Haber process!), and several nitrates (ammonium, potassium) are going to be available in 1631-32, whereas the availability of other nitrite and nitrate salts will be "metal-limited." And I am reluctantly forced to assume that nitrous oxide isn't on the market until late 1635, and nitric oxide later still.

Phosphorus

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Phosphorus exists in several different elemental forms (allotropes) with different structures: white (yellow), red and black (violet). White phosphorus is the ordinary form. The white allotrope is the most reactive, and the black the least. Red phosphorus is what is used in modern matches, the white allotrope being much more poisonous. Phosphorus can be combined with the more electronegative elements like oxygen and halogens to make various covalent or ionic compounds. It also appears as the core atom of the phosphate anion.

The down-timers were on the brink of making phosphorus (it was extracted from urine in 1669) so it's not surprising that as of the ride to Grantville at the time of the Croat Raid, Harry Lefferts had already been told by Greg that (white) phosphorus bombs were doable. Flint, 1632 (chapter 59). In 1634, Paddy lights a "phosphorus stick." Robison, "O for a Muse of Fire" (Grantville Gazette 11).

The main commercial source of phosphorus is phosphate rock, which consists primarily of phosphate minerals, especially phosphorite (calcium phosphate). Phosphates are important as fertilizers, and there is reference to this in Turner's "Hobson's Choice" (Grantville Gazette 3).

Phosphoric acid was first made by treating bone ash (calcium phosphate) with sulfuric acid; phosphate rock is now used instead, resulting in acid of 60-70% purity. A higher grade acid is made by burning phosphorus in an electric furnace, then (the part not explained by EA) reacting the resulting phosphorus pentoxide with carbon to form carbon monoxide and gaseous phosphorus. For ultra pure acid, you boil red phosphorus with nitric acid (the reaction is driven by the escape of gaseous nitrogen oxide).

Phosphorus is not usually an end-product. To make white phosphorus, you may heat phosphoric acid to decompose it into hydrogen, carbon monoxide and phosphorus. Or reduce calcium phosphate in phosphate rock, using coke (carbon), sand (silica) and a high temperature. The silica reacts with the calcium salt to form calcium silicate and phosphorus, and the latter reacts with the carbon. The red phosphorus is made by calcining (heating without air) the white form. And the black form is obtained by heating the white allotrope under high pressure.

The phosphoric acid can be used in the manufacture of non-naturally occurring phosphates.

Manufacture of both phosphoric acid, and the various forms of phosphorus, seems to be of a difficulty on par with making ammonia from urine. So it could have been done as early as 1631-1632, but thanks to Paddy, we can be sure it was achieved by 1634.

Group 14 Non-Metals

Carbon

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Carbon occurs in nature as diamond, graphite and various coals. These are all known to the down-timers.

Diamond-making requires pressures and temperature which are outside the realm of 1630s possibility.

The telephone people in Grantville want graphite, because of its electrical properties. By April 1634, the USE embassy to Venice has ordered a supply of "good English graphite." Flint and Dennis, 1634: The Galileo Affair, Chapter 29.

Carbon monoxide was first made in 1776, by heating zinc oxide with carbon. Other metal oxides can be used similarly. Or you can heat a carbonate with a reducing agent (zinc or iron), or pass carbon dioxide over carbon, or burn carbonaceous material with a limited air supply (EB11). Carbon monoxide is used to make the "synthesis gas" of organic chemistry.

Carbon dioxide gas is used as a reagent and as a carbonating agent. It's frozen to form dry ice, a refrigerant. That requires first liquefying it, which, at room temperature, requires a pressure of about 56 atmospheres. (EA).

It was identified as a distinct gas by von Helmont, an alchemist alive at the time of the RoF. (He appears in one of Kim's stories.) He called it gas sylvestre, and noted that it was produced by fermentation of sugar into alcohol, and complete combustion of coal.

While carbon dioxide can be produced by combustion (reaction of oxygen with carbon), an important industrial derivation is by fermentation of sugar to alcohol and carbon dioxide. It also can be made by decomposing carbonates with heat or mineral acids. (EB11); it's a co-product, with lime, of the decomposition of calcium carbonate.

Carbides are compounds made by combining carbon with a more electropositive element, such as most metals. EB11 states that carbides can be made by (1) "direct union" of the metal with carbon at high temperature, (2) reduction of an oxide with carbon, again at high temperature, (3) reduction of carbonates with magnesium (a very powerful reducing agent) in the presence of carbon, or (4) reaction of a metal with acetylene.

Once silicon and boron are available, we can try to make their carbides, which are extremely hard (8-9 Mohs scale). CW293 says that silicon carbide (carborundum) and boron carbide are made by reducing the corresponding oxides with carbon in an electric furnace.

Carbonates (CO3-2) and bicarbonates (HCO3-) are salts of carbonic acid (H2CO3). Potassium, sodium, magnesium, manganese and copper carbonates are usually isolated from natural sources. Metal carbonates also can be prepared by passing carbon dioxide through a solution of the appropriate hydroxide.

The cyanide ion is CN-. The acid, hydrogen cyanide (prussic acid), is found in nature (e.g., cherries, apricots, bitter almonds). Ammonium cyanide was made in 1843 by passing ammonia gas over hot coke or charcoal. EB11 says that the most important salt is potassium cyanide, because of its use in the extraction of gold.

Cyanogen (CNCN) can be prepared by oxidation of cyanide anions by copper (II) cations (EA/Cyanogen). A derivative, cyanogen bromide, is used as a cleavage agent in studies of proteins.

There are several important ions related to cyanide: cyanate (OCN-). isocyanate (OCN-). and fulminate (CNO-). The cyanates are obtained by oxidizing the corresponding cyanide. The isocyanates are made from cyanates, although this is not very clearly communicated by the encyclopedias. They do provide synthetic routes to several fulminates, but because they are highly sensitive explosives, I am deliberately not discussing how they are made.

Potassium ferricyanide is used in the ferro-prussate process for making blueprints. Potassium ferrocyanide is used in assays for zinc. Prussian blue was an early synthetic dye (1704).

Silicon

Silicon dioxide (silica) is the basic chemical component of glass and sand, and is the mineral of quartz and various gemstones such as amethyst. The metal silicates can be considered to be combinations of a metal oxide with silicon dioxide.

Silicon is used in alloys and, when ultra-pure, in the semi-conductor industry. Silicon, discovered in 1824, occurs in both amorphous and crystalline forms. Amorphous silicon can be prepared by heating silica with magnesium in the presence of magnesia, and the crystalline form if magnesia is replaced with zinc. There are other synthetic routes, too. (EB11). The modern method is by heating silica with coke in an electric furnace (EA).

Silicates are the most common type of minerals. Unfortunately, the silicates are not very useful as ores; it is hard to liberate the metal. Hydrofluoric acid will dissolve silicates, however.

The more useful silicates include phenacite (beryllium ore), zircon (zirconium ore), willemite (zinc ore), petalite (lithium aluminum silicate), thorite (thorium uranium silicate) and asbestos, the fibrous form of the mineral serpentine (hydrous magnesium silicate).

Metal silicates can be made by reacting molten silica with the metal carbonate. Thus, sodium silicate is made by combining sand and soda ash.

Group 13 Non-Metals

 

Boron

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Boric acid (H3BO3) occurs naturally in the Maremma of Tuscany. Its salts are the borates, and sodium (borax, kernite), magnesium (boracite) and calcium (colemanite) borate, and combinations (ulexite), are all found in nature. At least calcium borate is in down-time long-distance trade under the name "tincal." See Cooper, "Adventures in Prospecting and Mining for Minerals" at http://www.1632.org/1632tech/faqs/ for more information on boron sources.

In April 1634, Sharon Nichols expresses concern about the availability of borax: "The Turks seem to be the only ones who've got it, and they're not being real friendly so far." Flint and Dennis, 1634: The Galileo Affair, Chapter 29. Tibetan borax (tincal) was sold in Italy pre-RoF. (Admittedly, it passed through Ottoman middlemen). By April 1634, borax is used by the Antonite hospital in Cologne to facilitate the manufacture of penicillin. Mackey, "The Prepared Mind" (Grantville Gazette 10). Also in 1634, Lewis Bartolli travels to Tuscany and makes arrangements for "mining" of the boric acid of the Maremma. Cooper, "Under the Tuscan Son," Grantville Gazette 9 . However, while he arrives in early 1634, production probably doesn't begin until late 1634.

Suffice it to say that tincal should be available in small quantities in Grantville by 1632, and that large-scale production of boric acid and desired borates by the Tuscans should commence in 1634-35.

Elemental boron was isolated in 1808 by (1) heating boron trioxide with potassium (a classic single displacement reaction) and (2) from boric acid. (EB11). The modern methods are by reduction with magnesium (followed by washing with alkali, hydrochloric acid and hydrofluoric acid) and by hydrolysis of boric oxide over tungsten. (EA, CW226).

Diborane (BH3BH3) is used in the production of certain alcohols from alkenes. It can be made in the lab by reacting boron trifluoride (a strong acid, made by reacting calcium fluoride with sulfuric acid, CW233) with a metal hydride, or industrially by a high temperature, aluminum-catalyzed reaction of boron oxide with hydrogen (CW237-9).

Group 18 Non-Metals (Noble Gases)

We backtrack now to the noble gases. They are extremely unreactive with other elements.

Argon and neon are produced, along with oxygen and nitrogen, by liquefaction and fractional distillation of air. Air is 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, 0.94% argon, 0.03% carbon dioxide, 0.0012% neon, 0.0004% helium, 0.00005% krypton, and 0.000006% xenon. (EA)

Argon is used to provide a protective atmosphere; it's used in inert-gas-shielded arc welding and to protect molten metals from oxygenation. (EA). Neon, krypton and xeon are mainly used in lighting.

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Helium is also found in natural gas, but not necessarily all natural gas. The Great Plains (Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma) is one source (EA), and Poland is another. (Emsley 177-9) What about Grantville? The Transactions of the Electrochemical Society (39:47, 1921) reported that an unidentified "part of West Virginia" had natural gas bearing 0.1-1.5% helium. Helium is used in ballooning, in air supply for deep-sea divers, and in cryogenics.

Other Non-Metals

I have chosen not to discuss the noble gas Radon; the radioactive halogen Astatine, and the chalcogens Selenium, Tellurium and Polonium.

Predictions

Table 2-2 shows when various non-metals, covalent compounds, and anions appeared in canon, or, if they haven't yet made an appearance, when I predict they could have first been available.

 

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II. Metals and Their Salts

To make a chemical compound which includes a metallic element, we need a source of that metal, whether that be the metal in elemental form, or a salt of that metal. The salt may occur in nature as a mineral, and those minerals from which the metal can be recovered in an economically feasible way are said to be its ores.

Once we have one salt of the metal, we can convert it into other salts. By way of example, if you had sodium chloride, it can be used in the production of, e.g., sodium carbonate, bicarbonate, sulfate, silicate, and fluoride, if you had the appropriate reactants. (And of course sodium chloride isn't just a source of sodium, it's a source of chlorine, too.) Sodium carbonate also occurs in nature, and is used in a similar way.

Alternatively, you can reduce the metal ion in the salt to the elemental metal. Sodium metal is typically prepared by electrolysis of molten sodium chloride.

The elemental metal, in turn, can be alloyed with other metals, or used in further reactions to make additional salts of the metal of choice. Sodium metal can be used to make any of the previously mentioned sodium salts, as well as sodium oxide, peroxide, superoxide, hydride, phosphide, arsenide, bismuthide, bromide, iodide, sulfide, selenide, and amide. (It can also be used in the reduction of other metals, such as potassium and titanium, incidentally forming a sodium salt in the process.)

Table 2-3 lists, for selected metallic elements, the immediate commercial source of the element (the substance that is directly reduced to yield the element) and the natural commercial source—the naturally occurring substance, such as a mineral, from which the element is directly or indirectly produced. For example, potash (potassium carbonate) is mined and converted directly or indirectly to potassium hydroxide, and in the final reaction, the potassium hydroxide is electrolyzed to yield potassium metal.

This article identifies the principal ores of the more interesting metals, but doesn't go into details as to how or where the ores are found. For an introduction to the problems of prospecting for ores not previously of interest to the down-timers, see Runkle, "Mente et Malleo: Practical Mineralogy and Minerals Exploration in 1632" (Grantville Gazette 2).

Some anions—silicates, carbonates, nitrates, sulfates, chlorides, oxides, hydroxides, sulfides, and phosphates—occur widely enough in nature that the problem in making a salt containing that anion is more likely to be finding the metal to go with it than finding the anion. Of the rarer anions, some are the polyanions which contain a metal or metalloid themselves—chromate, tungstate, molybdenate, arsenate, etc.—and those are conveniently discussed together with the metal(loid) itself. Other rarer anions, such as fluorides and borates, were discussed in section I.

 

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Group 1 Metals

Lithium

The chloride is said to be the most common lithium salt. (EA). In the time frame of this article, the only one likely to be of interest is lithium aluminum hydride (as a reducing agent in organic synthesis). And perhaps lithium carbonate, if we have any manic-depressives we want to treat.

The standard processing of lithium ores, which unfortunately are silicates, results in production of either (1) first a hydroxide and then a chloride, or (2) first a sulfate, then a carbonate, and finally a chloride (EA). Lithium also occurs in sea and spring water (EB11), and Chilean brines are actually the principal modern source of the element; other salts are crystallized out and then the lithium removed as lithium carbonate by reaction with sodium carbonate. (Emsley 237).

Metallic lithium can be obtained by heating lithium hydroxide with magnesium (EB11) but the more modern approach is by electrolysis of the chloride (EA). There is some demand for the metal; "Lithium-magnesium alloys have the highest strength-to-weight ratio of all structural materials."

That said, given the difficulties of finding and processing the ore, I don't expect lithium to be in play in the 1630s.

Sodium

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Sodium chloride is, of course, a classic food additive, and is also a deicing agent and a desiccant/preservative. The chemical industry uses it as a source of sodium (particularly sodium hydroxide and carbonate) and chlorine.

Sodium hydroxide (lye, caustic soda) has been used as a strong base since medieval times (OED). In Gassage's method (1853), it was made by reaction of quicklime (calcium oxide) with a boiling solution of crude sodium carbonate. The modern industrial method is by the electrochemical chloralkali process. (EA). Sodium hydroxide is used by Lewis Bartolli in summer 1634 as a forensic reagent, to detect iron in gall inks. (Lewis has other weak and strong acids and alkalis at his disposal, but we don't know which.) Cooper, "Under the Tuscan Son" (Grantville Gazette 9).

Sodium carbonate (soda ash) was derived down-time from seaweed, or salt-tolerant land plants. The plant material was dried and burnt, and then the ash was washed with water, and the resulting crude solution boiled dry to yield a purer ash. Because sodium carbonate was used as a flux in the glass industry, some of the plants so used were called glasswort. Spain exported soda ash (30% sodium carbonate) made from Salsola soda; it was illegal to export the seed.

The modern American source is trona, which is a mixture of sodium carbonate and sodium bicarbonate. Trona itself is similar to ancient Egyptian natron (the inspiration for the "Na" used to symbolize the element sodium).

Sodium carbonate can also be synthesized, and several of the earliest industrial chemical processes were intended to produce it (EB11, Alkali Manufacture). The LeBlanc process (1790) featured a double replacement reaction; sodium chloride reacted with sulfuric acid to make sodium sulfate and hydrochloric acid. The sodium sulfate was then "fluxed" with calcium carbonate and coal.

The LeBlanc process was eclipsed by the ammonia-soda process (1838), especially as improved by Solvay (1872). Ammonia, water and carbon dioxide react in situ to make ammonium bicarbonate, and that reacts with sodium chloride to make sodium bicarbonate and ammonium chloride. The bicarbonate, when heated, releases the carbonate and carbon dioxide.

Sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) can be synthesized by adding carbon dioxide to sodium carbonate. Another route is by interrupting the Solvay process of producing sodium carbonate. Sodium bicarbonate was made in 1631-32 by Dr. Phil in Offord, "The Doctor Gribbleflotz Chronicles, Part 1: Calling Dr. Phil," Grantville Gazette 6. Dr. Phil used the Solvay technique (Offord, private communication).

Sodium nitrate is found in large deposits in Chile, and can be converted to potassium nitrate by reacting it with potassium chloride. Glauberite (sodium calcium nitrate) is found in Stassfurt (EB11).

Glauber's salt is sodium sulfate and was first prepared (as sal mirabilis) by Johann Glauber in 1658. He reacted sodium chloride with sulfuric acid.

Sodium fluoride is made by treating sodium hydroxide or sodium carbonate with HF.

Natural cryolite (sodium aluminum fluoride) is mined in Greenland, in summer 1633, by an expedition sponsored by Louis De Geer. Mackey, "Land of Ice and Sun" (Grantville Gazette 11). The cryolite is of value in making soda (sodium carbonate) by the "cryolite soda" process, as a flux in smelting aluminum from aluminum oxide, and as an aluminum ore in its own right. By early 1636, Dr. Phil's HDG Enterprizes has made synthetic cryolite in small quantities. Offord, "Doctor Phil's Family" (Grantville Gazette 15). Most likely, this was by reacting sodium hydroxide, aluminum hydroxide, and HF.

Sodium metal is a johnny-come-lately. It was first made in 1807 by electrolysis of sodium hydroxide. Then, for a period, it was made by igniting charcoal with sodium hydroxide. The current production method is by electrolysis of molten sodium chloride together with calcium chloride or sodium carbonate.

The metal is used as a reducing and dehydrating agent, and in sodium vapor lamps (EA). It can also be used in preparation of the organic chemical reagent sodium borohydride.

I expect sodium metal to be the first of the group 1 or 2 metals to be produced post-RoF. However, problems (see EB11/Sodium) should be expected in attempting to reduce so reactive an element.

Potassium

Potassium nitrate (saltpeter) is formed by bacterial action on human and animal waste. It is one of the three main ingredients of gunpowder.

Potassium chloride's principal use is as a source of potassium ions for plant growth. It's also used to make potassium carbonate. It's found naturally as sylvinite (potassium and sodium chloride) or carnallite (potassium and magnesium chloride). The latter is found at Stassfurt (Emsley 336).

Potassium chlorate has been used, by 1634, as a primer for the French "Cardinal" musket. Greg Ferrara, the USE's R&D boss, had told Mike Stearns that "the production process would be way too complicated," but that was an oversight on his part. Flint, 1634: The Baltic War, Chapter 55.

Potassium hydroxide (caustic potash) is made by down-timers by reacting calcium hydroxide (slaked lime) with potassium carbonate (EB11). The reaction is driven by the precipitation of the insoluble calcium carbonate. The modern production method (I don't know if it's known in Grantville) is by electrolysis of potassium chloride solutions.

Potassium carbonate was derived down-time from hardwood trees. The wood was burnt, and the ash washed with water and then boiled dry to yield the impure salt, potash. This could be baked in a kiln to make a purer form, pearlash. A modern method of making it is by electrolysis of potassium chloride in an aqueous solution, yielding potassium hydroxide, which in turn is carbonated.

Potassium bicarbonate is useful in baking and, interestingly, as a fire suppression agent.

Alum is not a single compound but rather a series of related compounds that are all "double" sulfates, that is, sulfates of two different cations, an alkali metal (or ammonium) and a trivalent metal. Potassium aluminum sulfate occurs in nature in the mineral alunite, from which it can be obtained by treatment with sulfuric acid. In the late twentieth century, the two most important alums were potassium aluminum sulfate and ammonium aluminum sulfate All of the alums can be made by mixing and heating solutions of the appropriate single sulfates. Alums are used as mordants, that is, to fix dyes to fabric.

Potassium metal isn't used much, because its uses are similar to those of the cheaper metal, sodium. (EA).

Other Group 1 Metals

Rubidium, cesium and francium. Ignored.

Group 2 Metals

Beryllium

 

Beryllium metal is alloyed with copper (EA) and nickel (Emsley 58), improving their conductivity and elasticity. Beryllium oxide is used in ceramics.

The principal ore is beryl (beryllium aluminum silicate), and European sources exist. (EB11/Beryl). The modern production method involves treatment with, successively, sodium fluoride, caustic soda and HCl or HF, and then electrolytic reduction of the chloride or magnesium reduction of the fluoride (EA).

The beryllium content of beryl is rather low (Simons 13) and I can't help thinking it's more trouble than it's worth.

Calcium

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Calcium oxide (quick lime) is produced down-time by heating calcium carbonate (from limestone) sufficiently to decompose it into calcium oxide and carbon dioxide. It is much more important than calcium metal (Table 2-3 above; Emsley 87).

Calcium hydroxide (slaked lime) has also been known since ancient times, and was made by reacting calcium oxide with water.

Calcium sulfate is, in hydrated form, the mineral gypsum. It is used in the manufacture of plaster of Paris and Portland cement.

Calcium hypochlorite. In December, 1633, Nicki Jo tells Scaglia and Rubens that Essen is producing this bleach and a disinfectant. Mackey, "Ounces of Prevention" (Grantville Gazette 5). It's doing so by the processes described in Wagner, A Handbook of Chemical Technology (1872) (Mackey, private communication). Wagner makes calcium hypochlorite by reacting chlorine gas with slaked lime (calcium hydroxide). That reaction is described in EB11/Alkali Manufacture.

Calcium carbide is made by reducing lime with coke in an electric furnace at 2000oC. It is an "acetylene generator"; add water, and it decomposes into acetylene and lime. This reaction explains the flame of the miner's safety lamp. Carbide lamps are used in January 1635 by the miners in Huston, "Twenty-Eight Men" (Grantville Gazette 10). They have clearly been made since the RoF since they were retrofitted onto the up-time hard hats.

Calcium carbonate is the principal mineral of chalk, limestone and marble, and is also found in shells.

Calcium metal is used as a reducing and drying agent. Its reducing power is such that it can react with water to generate hydrogen. It's produced by electrolysis of the fused chloride or fluoride, or reduction of lime with aluminum and heat. (EA).

Plainly, several calcium compounds are going to be available even in 1631. Calcium metal can be made electrolytically in Grantville, which has cheap electricity, at least once we have graphite to serve as the anode. The question is when will the demand be sufficient to warrant the startup costs. My guess is that this will be affected by the demand for metals which can be reduced by calcium but not (at least easily) by carbon—e.g., sodium and magnesium. Outside Grantville, production of calcium metal will be dependent on the availability of aluminum.

Magnesium

Magnesium has a variety of uses. Pure magnesium powder is used in pyrotechnics and incendiaries. Magnesium is also necessary to make Grignard reagents, which are important organic chemical intermediates. The bulk metal can also be used to protect less active metals from corrosion. Magnesium-steel alloys have a high strength-to-weight ratio.

There are several ores (see table 2-3), and magnesium can also be found in seawater and salt well brines.

The secret to extracting magnesium from seawater (0.13% magnesium) is to add a calcium salt, which, by a double replacement, causes production of an insoluble magnesium salt. The latter can then be converted into the chloride.

Magnesium metal is preferably made by electrolytic reduction of the fused chloride, and CW215 suggests that it be a mixture of magnesium, calcium, and sodium chlorides (which avoids a separation step). The alternative is chemical reduction of the oxide with carbon or ferrosilicon ,at high temperature, but it's inefficient. EB11 teaches that carboreduction doesn't work, but CW215 suggests heating with coke at 2000oC followed by rapid quenching.

Epsom salts (crude magnesium sulfate) were discovered by Henry Wicker in 1618 (Emsley 245).

Strontium

Ignored.

Barium

Barium is found principally as barite (barium sulfate) or witherite (barium carbonate). Barite is associated with lead and silver ore veins (EB11/Barytes), and it can be found near Stuttgart (HCA).

It has been known since 1602 that barite phosphoresces if heated. Barium sulfate is undoubtedly known to Grantville's doctors because of its use in X-ray studies of the digestive system. Lithopore (mixture of barium sulfate and zinc sulfide) is a white pigment. Both the sulfate and the carbonate are used in fluxes. Barium peroxide was used in 1818 to prepare hydrogen peroxide.

Barium proper, in vapor form, is used to remove oxygen, nitrogen and carbon dioxide from vacuum tubes. Manufacturing barium is by reduction of barium oxide (derived from the sulfate or carbonate) with aluminum.

In conclusion, barium is an element of mild interest. Barite itself can be exploited early on, but use of the metal must await the production of aluminum (and vacuum tubes).

Radium

Ignored.

Group 3 Metals

Scandium, yttrium and lutetium. Ignored.

Group 4 Metals

Titanium

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Titanium dioxide occurs in nature as the minerals rutile, rookite and anatase. There are hints that Portuguese entrepreneurs are considering the mining of the Keralese beach deposits in Cooper, "Gajam Raanni," (Grantville Gazette 25).

Titanium was first used as a structural metal in 1952 (NACE 1978); it has the highest strength-weight ratio of the metals (making it attractive for aircraft), and good corrosion resistance. Some of the early methods of extracting titanium include fusion with potassium bisulfate or with potassium carbonate, or by the reaction of titanium fluoride with steam. (EB11/Titanium). However, EA says that it was not possible to mass produce titanium until the development of the Kroll process (1937), which it nonetheless characterizes as "relatively slow and costly." The requirements for the Kroll process include chlorine (to form titanium tetrachloride), metallic magnesium or sodium, and some kind of inert atmosphere (typically argon or helium, and very definitely not nitrogen).

In view of the discouraging text, not to mention the difficulties of satisfying the prerequisites for the Kroll process, I think that titanium isn't likely to be exploited, in elemental form, in the 1630s.

Of course, that doesn't mean we can't make use of titanium dioxide directly; it's a fine white pigment.

Zirconium

The principal ore of zirconium is zircon (zirconium silicate), which pokes its toe into seventeenth century international commerce as a Ceylonese gemstone. EB11 gives instructions for the preparation of zirconia (zirconium oxide); you need potassium fluoride, hydrofluoric acid, and ammonia. Zirconia is good for high-temperature ceramics.

We could probably make zirconia in 1636, but we aren't like to have a need for it for many years later. The metal (which has good corrosion resistance) is unlikely to be of interest in the up-timers' lifetimes.

Hafnium

Ignored.
Group 5 Metals

Vanadium

Vanadium is the most important metal of this group. The metal is alloyed with steel and titanium; Runkle listed it as an important ingredient for tool steel and stainless steel.

Vanadium was first discovered in the slag from a Swedish iron smelter; the iron ore came from Taberg. The ore descloizite (lead-zinc vanadate) is found at, among other sites, Eisen-Kappel near Klagenfurt in Carinthia, associated with lead ores (EB11). There are other ores which are oxides or sulfides. There are relatively few mines. (Simons 224).

Considering not only what the encyclopedias say about vanadium extraction, but also other sources, I get the impression that the process is on the difficult side. While the encyclopedias mention alternative methods, it seems that the principal large-scale process is reducing the oxide with calcium (see above) in the presence of calcium chloride or iodide at a high temperature, and possibly in an inert gas (argon) atmosphere. (Emsley, 485; Simons, 224; Patnaik 964). EA mistakenly says that vanadium oxide can be reduced with carbon (Emsley).

The only hope I see for "first decade" production of vanadium-steel alloys is if we can make those alloys without first extracting vanadium. Emsley says that "ferrovanadium," which is what is added to steel, can be made from vanadium oxide by heating with ferrosilicon.

Niobium

Niobium (EB11/Columbium) is used as an anti-corrosive alloying element in steel. It was produced, at the end of the twentieth century, at a rate of 25000 tonnes annually, of which over 85% came from Brazil (Emsley 284). Its principal ore is columbite, a complex oxide. The closest source to the USE is probably Rabenstein, Bavaria (EB11/Columbite), but I don't know if it's an economic one.

Tantalum

Tantalum is of minor importance; even in 2000, demand was around 1000 tonnes annually. At one time, lamp filaments were made out of Tantalum, but such were superseded by Tungsten. Nowadays, it's important mostly because of its superb corrosion resistance, which is comparable to that of glass (rembar.com), and as a melting point-enhancing alloying element. It is usually found with niobium.

Group 6 Metals

Chromium

Chromium is needed to make stainless (>10% chromium) steel, and other alloys (nichrome, stellite). It can also be used to plate other metals. The principal ore of chromium is chromite (ferrous chromate). There are chromite prospectors in Kemi, Finland by 1633 (1633 Chap. 26) and in Maryland perhaps by 1634. (Mackey, "Trip to Paris," Grantville Gazette 9). However, as of July 1634, Lolly Aossi is not aware of any chromium having come on the market yet. Runkle, "Sunday Driver" (Grantville Gazette 13).

Of course, the chromium has to be extracted. It can be recovered by several methods, one of which successively requires soda ash, coke and aluminum, and the other, direct reduction with carbon or silicon in an electric arc furnace (EA), and there are additional variations disclosed by EB11. My guess is that the electric arc furnace process would be favored in Grantville, which has plentiful cheap electricity. Essen has also obtained cryolite (see "Aluminum") and therefore might favor the first method.

EA/Steel says that virtually all stainless are at least 11.5% chromium, and that AISI 302, with excellent corrosion resistance, is 0.15% carbon, 18% chromium, 8% nickel.

Chromic oxide is used as a green pigment, and it's an intermediate in the soda ash-coke process of producing chromium. Sodium chromate, sodium and ammonium dichromate, and chromic acid are strong oxidizing agents. Lead chromate (the mineral crocoisite) is the pignment "chrome yellow." Chromic acid is obtained by dissolving chromic oxide in water, and EB11/Bichromates and chromates explains how to make many of its salts.

The earliest I imagine chromium metal could be available is 1635, but 1636 is perhaps more likely. Once we have chromic oxide, we can make the chromates and dichromates.

Molybdenum

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Molybdenum is used as a catalyst and an alloying element (it hardens and toughens steel). The main ore is molybdenite (molybdenum sulfide) , which looks quite a bit like graphite, and like it was used in "lead" pencils (Sarkar, 504). Chemists didn't distinguish molybdenum from graphite until 1779. It's therefore conceivable that a pre-RoF reference to a "drawing lead" is actually to molybdenite, but I think that unlikely, as the principal European deposits are in Norway and Norway was not very developed in the early seventeenth century.

Absent that fortuitous breakthrough, exploitation of molybdenum will require prospecting, by individuals armed with good descriptions of the mineral, and sent to the right vicinity. We know to look for molybdenite in a few European locales (notably, at Slangsvold near Raade in Norway, EB11/molybdenite), but if those fail, our best bet is probably once European civilization reaches Colorado (EA). I have no idea how many years that will take.

Curiously, there are fourteenth century samurai swords which are rich in molybdenum, no doubt as a result of the use of native molybdenite at some point in the forging process.(Emsley 266).

Tungsten

Tungsten is probably best known to the average up-timer as the filament of the electric light bulb. It's also used, less obviously, to make alloys with iron and aluminum, and in high temperature processing. Josh Modi told magnate De Geer that "tungsten would allow you to make a steel close to what was called 'hi-speed tool steel.'" Mackey, "The Essen Chronicles, Part 3: Trip to Paris" (Grantville Gazette 9). The cemented carbide tools which Larry Wild broke (Cresswell and Washburn, "When the Chips are Down," Ring of Fire) are sintered composites of tungsten carbide in a cobalt matrix.

Tungsten's principal ores are scheelite (calcium tungstate) and wolframite (iron-manganese tungstate), which can accumulate in placer deposits. Josh also declared that, according to the encyclopedias, tungsten can be obtained from the tailings of tin mines. Mackey, "Essen Steel, Part 1: Crucibellus" (Grantville Gazette 7). EB11/Wolframite confirms that wolframite is "commonly associated with tin ores." However, this should not inspire a false sense of confidence. "This element is far less widely distributed than tin . . . it is probable that on the whole tungsten is not more than one-hundredth as abundant in Cornwall as tin . . . there may be tin without tungsten, but not tungsten without tin." (Collins 333-4). The principal European source is actually Portugal (EA).

Wolframite does occur with cassiterite in the Erzgebirge (Mineral Industry of the British Empire and Foreign Countries, 24, 1921) and indeed it's believed to have gotten its name from German tin miners (they thought the wolframite devoured tin) (Emsley 470) So we will be able to produce tungsten . . . just in limited quantities.

To complicate matters further, the standard methods of extracting tungsten are reduction of tungstic acid with aluminum or heating tungsten oxide with carbon in an electric furnace. So you either need aluminum, or lots of electricity.

Group 7 Metals

Manganese

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The principal ore of manganese is pyrolusite (manganese dioxide), and it has been used since ancient times to decolorize soda lime glass (which otherwise has a greenish cast) or to instead give it a purple tint (Emsley 250-1). It can be (and probably already is) mined at Ilmenau and elsewhere in Thuringia (EB11/pyrolusite). Another ore is rhodochrosite (manganese carbonate), which is associated with silver.

The alloy ferromanganese (introduced 1839) is used in steelmaking to remove oxygen and sulfur impurities; indeed, it was a key component (1856) in the perfected Bessemer process. Manganese also serves as an alloying element. EA says, somewhat cryptically, "Ferromanganese is produced from manganese ore in blast furnaces in somewhat the same manner as pig iron." I take this to mean that a mixture of hematite (iron oxide) and pyrolusite (manganese oxide) is reduced by the combination of heat and carbon.

The metal can be obtained from the oxide by reduction with aluminum, or by heating the carbonate with carbon. (EB11).Another option, which I am not sure is documented in Grantville, is to electrolyze magnesium sulfate (Emsley 251). The sulfate, in turn, can be derived from manganese dioxide and concentrated sulfuric acid (EB11).

Manganese dioxide is also useful as an oxygen source in a common dry cell (EA) and in the production of chlorine gas by reaction with HCl (Emsley 251).

The manganates are made by fusion of manganese dioxide with the metal hydroxide in presence of an oxidizing agent. In turn, adding carbon dioxide or chlorine to a manganate should yield the permanganate. Potassium permanganate is an important oxidizing agent. Historically, potassium manganate and permanganate were both prepared by Glauber in 1659.

It seems to me that the down-timers had everything they needed to make ferromanganese and potassium permanganate, all they lacked was knowledge of the underlying chemistry (so they would know what to do with the pyrolusite) and of the uses for these materials (so they would have the motivation).

I figure that until the end of the Baltic War, there will be reluctance to fiddle around with new alloys; the emphasis will be on producing as much basic steel as possible. However, by late 1634, there may well be some ferromanganese production. And I think that the alchemists will be experimenting with potassium permanganate even earlier, perhaps in 1633. After all, there is a connection between strong oxidizing agents and things that go BOOM!

Technetium, Rhenium

 

Ignored.

"Platinum Group" Metals

 

These are ruthenium, rhodium, paladium, osmium, iridium and platinum, which are group 8, 9 and 10 elements which tend to occur together, because of their high density and similar chemical properties, in the same deposits. However, the same is true, to a lesser degree, of iron (group 8), cobalt (9) and nickel (10).

Group 8 Metals

Iron

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Iron, of course, is extremely well known to the down-timers, and methods of using it to make steel are discussed in Boatright, "Iron" (Grantville Gazette 3). Iron forms both ferrous (+2 valence) and ferric (+3) compounds; EA gives uses for ferrous sulfate, sulfide, phosphide, chloride, and ferric sulfate, sulfide (pyrite), chloride, hydroxide, oxide (hematite) and bromide. All of these compounds can be made by disclosed reactions (EA, EB11) of iron, or iron compounds, with reagents such as sulfuric acid, sulfur, phosphorus, hydrochloric acid, chlorine, ammonia and bromine. Chlorine is available in NTL 1633, and most of the others even sooner. The only question mark is bromine.

Some iron compounds are known to down-timers. Green vitriol (vitriol of Mars) is ferrous sulfate heptahydrate. The down-timers use it in the manufacture of iron gall ink, and as a mordant. In the nineteenth century it was used as a developer in the collodion process. Yellow ochre is hydrated ferric oxide. Colcothar is a red iron oxide made by roasting green vitriol.

Ruthenium

Ignored.

Osmium

Osmium metal is associated with other platinum group metals, and was first discovered in "the residue left when crude platinum was dissolved by aqua regia." (EB11). Nowadays, it's a byproduct of nickel refining. It's useful as a catalyst (it was one of the first good catalysts for the Haber process) and in specialized applications requiring extreme hardness (nibs for ultra-expensive fountain pens). Still, the demand for it is minute. (<100 kg 2000: Emsley 295).

The most intriguing osmium compound is the tetroxide, which is used to detect fingerprints. (EA) EB11 says that it forms "when osmium compounds are heated in air, or with aqua regia, or fused with caustic alkali and nitre."

Even though it was discovered at a surprisingly early date (1803), Osmium is not likely to be seen commercially in our time frame.

Group 9 Metals

Cobalt

Cobalt is a peculiar case. Cobalt compounds have been used since the days of the Pyramids to make blue glasses and ceramics. This usage appears to have been forgotten in Europe after the fall of Rome as, when medieval miners in Saxony and Bohemia encountered cobalt ores (smaltite, cobalt arsenide) in Saxony and Bohemia, they didn't consider them to be of value (Emsley 116). In this regard, cobalt's rather like nickel. However, it appears that "smalt" was rediscovered by the Bohemian glass makers in 1540-60 (Gettens, 158).

At some point in the seventeenth century, it was discovered that if a cobalt ore were dissolved in aqua regia, it formed an "invisible ink" which was revealed by heat. (Emsley 119).

Cobalt is used principally as an alloying element, to impart temperature resistance. Cobalt arsenides are associated with nickel, silver and gold, and other cobalt ores with copper. (EA). Cobalt is mostly produced as a byproduct of nickel refining (Emsley 117) and EA warns that extraction is usually "complicated . . . because of the presence of numerous contaminating elements."

Rhodium

Rhodium, discovered in 1803, is used as an alloying element, in electroplating other metals, as a reflective coating for mirrors, and as a catalyst (in particular, in catalytic converters of cars). It's a byproduct of platinum mining. (EA; Emsley, 362).

Iridium

Iridium, discovered in 1802, is perhaps the most corrosion-resistant of the metals, and is used in electrical contacts and pen points (EA). While found in a platinum ore (EB11), it's usually a byproduct of nickel refining (Emsley 202).

Group 10 Metals

Nickel

The European down-timers have encountered nickel, but without realizing what they were dealing with. The nickel ore niccolite (nickel arsenide) is found with cobalt, silver and copper in Saxon mines (EB11/Niccolite). The miners called it kupfernickel (St. Nick's copper), because they deemed it a demonic imitation of copper. Lolly Aossi tells Father Smithson in July 1634 that nickel has been found in tailings from more than one mine." Runkle, "Sunday Driver" (Grantville Gazette 13).

The up-time interest in nickel is likely to be mostly in the metal itself, which can be used as a catalyst, as a metal plating agent, or in alloys with other metals, such as iron (Stainless steel), copper (Monel) or chromium (Nichrome).

Palladium

Palladium is associated with platinum (and nickel) ores, and with certain placer deposits of gold and silver. It's used mainly as a catalyst, and, in that guise, can be found in the catalytic converters of cars manufactured shortly before the RoF (older converters used platinum).

It will probably not be sought out independently, but those refining the associated metals may keep an eye out for it.

Platinum

EA says that "platinum was known and used by pre-Columbian Indians in South America," and this is confirmed by archaeological evidence. Even before RoF, a few Europeans were aware of platinum's existence: "In 1557, an Italian scholar, Julius Scaliger, wrote of a metal from Spanish Central America that could not be made to melt and this must have been platinum [MP 1772°C]." Serious European investigation did not begin until the early eighteenth century. Even then, the authorities initially considered platinum to be detrimental (it could be used to adulterate gold), and banned it for decades. (Emsley 319).

If the up-time texts excite Spanish interest in mining platinum, then they can probably find Indians who know where the Columbian deposits are located. It appears that sometime after October 1633, Antonio ("Catalina") de Erauso went to Cartagena to begin a search for platinum. Mackey, "Land of Ice and Sun" (Grantville Gazette 11).

There are three commercial forms of platinum: powder ("platinum black"), spongy and compact. Both the powder (made by reduction of platinum chloride) and the spongy form (made from ammonium chlorplatinate) are used as catalysts, whereas the compact platinum is formed into jewelry. Platinum is also used in many applications in which heat or corrosion resistance are important.

Ammonium chlorplatinate is obtained by dissolving platinum ore in aqua regia, and then precipitating the desired salt by adding acidified ammonium chloride. Platinum chloride is recovered if you heat chlorplatinic acid in dry chlorine or dry hydrogen chloride. (EB11).

Platinum dioxide, which is also a catalyst, is made by fusing chlorplatinic acid with sodium nitrate (EA) or caustic soda (EB11).

Group 11 Metals

The elements of this group are all available pre-RoF as both the elemental metals, and in several salts.

Copper

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Copper carbonate occurs naturally as malachite and azurite, copper sulfide as chalcocite, chalcopyrite and bornite, and copper oxide as cuprite.

Copper hydroxide, a pigment, was made down-time by reacting sodium hydroxide (lye) with copper sulfate (blue vitriol). It can also be made electrochemically. (Analogous reactions are used to make iron hydroxide.)

The alchemists' "blue vitriol" ("blue copperas") is copper sulfate pentahydrate. Its modern use is as a pesticide and analytical reagent.

Copper sulfate and nitrate are made by reacting copper (or copper salts) with sulfuric or nitric acid, respectively. The hydroxide and chloride are also easy to make. (EB11). The chloride ("resin of copper") was reportedly made by Robert Boyle in 1664 (Levity).

Silver

Silver nitrate, the most important (and least expensive) silver compound even today, was known to the alchemists as "lunar caustic," "magisterium argenti," "crystalli dianae," or "lapis infernalis." It was first prepared by the eighth century Geber, and came into medical use in the seventeenth century (Sadtler, 402). Beginning in the nineteenth century, it was placed in newborns' eyes to prevent eye infections (EA), and used to silver mirrors by the Liebig method. It is made by reacting the metal with nitric acid.

Silver chloride is the alchemists' lac argenti (milk of silver) or luna cornea, which occurs in nature as the mineral cerargyrite (horn silver) and in that form was described by Oswald Croll in 1608. Since it is insoluble, it can also be obtained by reacting a soluble chloride with a soluble silver salt (such as the nitrate). Silver bromide and iodide are obtained analogously. These three insoluble silver halides darken on exposure to light, which explains why they are useful in photography. Silver iodide has also been used to seed clouds.

Fulminating silver (silver nitride) is an explosive, and was also known to the alchemists. EB11 says that it can be set off by the touch of a feather.

Silver carbonate and silver chromate are used in organic synthesis. Silver carbonate is made readily from sodium carbonate and silver nitrate. The bottleneck in producing silver chromate will be obtaining a chromate salt; potassium will do.

Silver salts have been used to sterilize drinking water. (Emsley 396).

Gold

Gold is ductile, a good electrical conductor, and resistant to corrosion. Gold coatings are occasionally used in industrial chemical equipment to protect surfaces from corrosive fluids. But because of gold's unreactiveness, preparation of gold salts isn't easy.

Gold chloride may be made by dissolving gold in aqua regia, a mixture of nitric and hydrochloric acids. Gold chloride is the secret ingredient of the ruby glass of Bohemia, which would have been invented by Johann Kunkel (1630-1703) but for the RoF.

If gold chloride is reacted with stannous chloride, you obtain Purple of Cassius, which is a mixture of colloidal gold (tiny gold particles) and tin oxide (EA). It was first made by Andrea Cassius in 1685, and it was used to impart a ruby color to glass, or purple to porcelain. (Emsley 167).

Another interesting compound is gold hydrazide ("fulminating gold"). It has been called the world's first high explosive, and it was probably made inadvertently by alchemists when they fiddled around with gold chloride (EB11). We know that both Robert Hooke and Johann Glauber experimented with it during the seventeenth century. (Lateral Science)

Since gold is readily available, but expensive, the commercial appearance of gold compounds is going to be "demand-driven."

Group 12 Metals

Zinc

Brass, a zinc-copper alloy, has been used since antiquity, but the ancients thought of it as simply being a form of copper. Elemental zinc was produced in medieval India (hence the name "Malabar Lead" or "Indian Lead"), and zinc smelting technology was transmitted to China by the sixteenth century. In 1597, Libavius received a sample of Indian zinc, but he took it to be a "peculiar kind of tin." I strongly suspect that the "Japanese zinc" mentioned in 1634: The Galileo Affair (Chapter 33) is actually Chinese.

After the RoF, zinc is in high demand. Chad Jenkins complains in May 1632 that zinc is not available for galvanization at a reasonable price. Rittgers, "Von Grantville" (Grantville Gazette 7). In April-July 1633, the recycling crew carefully strips zinc off any unusable galvanized steel, and "later date American pennies" (mostly zinc) have been pulled out of circulation. Schillawski and Rigby, "Recycling" (Grantville Gazette 6). Nonetheless, in 1634, Lewis Bartolli has arsenic-free rods of zinc metal. Cooper, "Arsenic and Old Italians" (Grantville Gazette 22).

Nowadays, the principal ore of zinc is sphalerite (zinc sulfide), which is found in the Harz. However, prior to the RoF, it was calamine (a zinc carbonate, with some zinc silicate) which was most likely to be used by Europeans to make brass. Indeed, Beckmann (78) asserts that by the mid-sixteenth century, there was isolated use of "furnace calamine" (a calcined zinc) from the Rammelsberg mine in alloying, under the guidance of Erasmus Ebener. Clark, "The Secret Book of Zink" (Grantville Gazette 2) explains how zinc can be extracted from calamine and used to galvanize iron, or to make zinc oxide or zinc chloride.

Nonetheless, Dr. Phil ordered a large quantity of sphalerite in December 1633. He received about five tons worth, in fact, and figured out how to recover, not only the zinc, but various potentially salable byproducts, notably sulfur and sulfuric acid. Offord, "Dr. Phil Zinkens A Bundle" (Grantville Gazette 7). Nonetheless, in April 1634, Sharon Nichols orders two hundred tons "Japanese zinc" from her Venetian connections, and expects delivery by June 1635.

In the twentieth century, the single most important use of metallic zinc was in galvanizing steel, but it's still used to make brass (and other alloys). Because of its reactivity, it's useful as an anode in certain batteries, and it can be used as an oxidizing agent in chemistry.

Zinc oxide was produced in thirteenth century Persia (Emsley 502). It's a normal intermediate in the reduction of zinc ore to zinc, but it is preferably produced by oxidizing zinc vapors (EB11/Zinc). It's a possible substitute for titanium dioxide as a white pigment.

The alchemists' "white vitriol" is zinc sulfate heptahydrate, and it appears to have been known by the late sixteenth century (Beckmann, 81).. It's produced by reacting zinc with sulfuric acid. It's now used in making rayon, and in zinc plating.

Zinc chloride is mentioned as a wart remedy by Clark, "The Secret Book of Zink" (Grantville Gazette 2). It's used to preserve and fireproof wood, and for other purposes (EA). It can be made by reaction of the metal with chlorine gas or with HCl (EB11).

The main impediment to exploitation of zinc and its standard salts is one of communication; the up-timers have to accurately convey what it is that they are seeking. Zinc and its compounds should be available in limited quantities in 1633, but it will probably be a struggle to keep up with demand until 1635 or so.

Cadmium

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The situation of cadmium is a peculiar one, in that the down-timers may have encountered one of its compounds, without knowing that it contained a new element, and it's uncertain whether the up-timers will be able to enlighten them.

The principal cadmium ore is greenockite (cadmium sulfide). Emsley (77) asserts that it was mined in Classical Greece and used as a yellow pigment. This is plausible—it is found, in association with calamine, at Laurion—but it has been challenged by other authorities (Eastaugh, 176).

Cadmium sulfide entered the historical record in the early nineteenth century, when Stromeyer, the inspector of pharmacies, investigated a complaint by Hannover druggists that the zinc oxide they made by heating calamine sometimes was yellow rather than white. (Emsley 76). The calamine trade is centuries old, and I can't help but wonder whether this yellow adulterant is known to the seventeenth-century apothecaries. If so, they may question the up-time chemists about it, and Stromeyer's discovery may be anticipated by several centuries.

In any event, the up-timers certainly know that the element cadmium exists, and that it's associated with flue dust from zinc ore processing.

Cadmium plating has been used to protect steel from salt water, and cadmium is used in Nicad batteries. Cadmium sulfide is used as a pigment, semiconductor, and photoelectric cell component.

That said, I don't expect cadmium to come into the chemical marketplace in the NTL 1630s.

Mercury

Mercury, as a pure element, is known to the down-timers. It is obtained from cinnabar (mercuric sulfide). The mineral itself can be powdered to produce the pigment vermillion.

Mercury, although used by down-timers as a treatment for syphilis, is poisonous, which comes as an unpleasant surprise to potion maker Guba Ivashka Kalachnikov. Huff and Goodlett, "Butterflies in the Kremlin, Part Four" (Grantville Gazette 11) and is mentioned by Dr. Abrabanel in "Venus and Mercury" (Lee Grantville Gazette 24).

Heating the metal in air yields mercuric oxide, and then dissolving the oxide in nitric acid provides the nitrate (mercurous nitrate if dilute acid, mercuric if strong).

Mercurous chloride (calomel) occurs in nature, and was used in medicine (as laxative and diuretic) before RoF. It can be produced by heating mercury in chlorine, or reducing mercuric chloride, or reacting mercurous sulfate and sodium chloride.

Mercuric chloride (corrosive sublimate) is another alchemical favorite, and can be obtained by heating mercuric sulfate with sodium chloride, or mercurous sulfate with HCl, or by simply chlorinating mercury or calomel. (EB11). The twelfth century Indian method was "heating mercury, salt, brick dust and alum for 3 days in a closed earthenware pot, and then adding water to dissolve out the corrosive sublimate before crystallizing it" (Emsley 255).

Fulminate of mercury is used to make percussion caps. It is very dangerous stuff. Flint, 1633, Chapter 28. By September 1633 it is available in the USE, manufactured in pounds per week quantities, by workers receiving "hazardous duty" pay. Offord and Boatright, "The Dr. Gribbleflotz Chronicles, Part 2: Dr. Phil's Amazing Essence Of Fire Tablets" (Grantville Gazette 10) and Offord "A Change of Hart" (Grantville Gazette 25).

In April 1632, Jan de Vries, one of De Geer's lieutenants, mentions plans to make mercury fulminate by "trial and error." Mackey, "The Essen Steel Chronicles, Part 2: Louis de Geer" (Grantville Gazette 8). By 1634, the Bernese are experimenting with it. Evans, "Thunder in the Mountains" (Grantville Gazette 12). And the French did the same, until Glauber gave them a better solution (see potassium chlorate). Flint, 1634: The Baltic War, Chapter 27.

With the exception of the dangerous fulminate, mercury and its "standard" salts should be readily available, in limited quantities, even in 1631-32.

Group 13 Metals

Aluminum

Aluminum is a precious metal, post-RoF, at least until we start producing it again. Massey, "Ultralight" (Grantville Gazette 9); Bergstralh, "One Man's Junk" (Grantville Gazette 4); Schillawski and Rigby, "Recycling" (Grantville Gazette 6). Anneke has a brand-new aluminum slide rule; made from a recycled strip. Carroll, "Stepping Up" (Grantville Gazette 14). Dr. Phil is driving people a little crazy with his quest for aluminum. Offord and Boatright, "Dr. Phil's Aeolian Transformers" (Grantville Gazette 6); DeMarce "Songs and Ballads" (Grantville Gazette 14); Cooper, "Stretching Out, Part Three: Maria's Mission" (Grantville Gazette 14).

Cooper, "Aluminum: Will O' the Wisp?" (Grantville Gazette 8) explains where to find aluminum ores, how to extract alumina, how to refine it to obtain elemental aluminum, and finally how to use it. To mass produce it, we need bauxite as the ore, cryolite as a flux, and lots of cheap electricity. There are older methods which involve use of sodium or potassium as reducing agents. Right now, I am guessing "new" aluminum will be available in 1635. That's earlier than I said in my article, because I wasn't expecting cryolite to be mined as early as 1633. In Mackey, "Land of Ice and Sun" (Grantville Gazette 11), de Erauso brings back over 80 tons.

Aluminum sulfate occurs in nature as keramohalite, but is more likely to be obtained by treating an aluminum-rich kaolin or china clay with sulfuric acid (EB11/Aluminium).

Aluminum oxide (alumina) is an intermediate in the processing of bauxite into aluminum It is also the chemical composition of corundum, rubies and sapphires. .

This is probably as good a place as any to mention the thermite reaction. Thermite is a mixture of aluminum powder and a metal oxide, usually iron oxide. When heated to the ignition temperature, the aluminum reacts with the iron oxide to form aluminum oxide. This is an extremely exothermic reaction, so it creates intense heat. Erwin O'Keefe demonstrates thermite welding to Dr. Phillip Gribbleflotz in Offord and Boatright, "The Dr. Gribbleflotz Chronicles, Part 2: Dr. Phil's Amazing Essence Of Fire Tablets"(Grantville Gazette 7), and Dr. Phil's Candles of the Essence of Light are apparently fabricated from thermite powder. Thermite reactions are more than just a curiosity, or a useful welding technique; they underlie the method used to extract a number of metals from their ores.

Aluminum hydroxide is found in nature as the mineral gibbsite, in the ore bauxite. It is also produced by the Bayer process (1887) from alumina in bauxite. See Cooper, "Aluminum: Will O' The Wisp?" (Grantville Gazette 8).

Gallium

 

A byproduct of aluminum refining, hence unlikely to be exploited in the 1630s. It's used in high temperature thermometers because of its large liquid range. It is also a useful alloy. Gallium arsenide is a semiconductor.

Other Group 13 Metals

Indium, Thallium. Ignored

Group 14 Metals/Metalloids

Germanium

Germanium is associated with silver, copper and zinc ores. (EA). In its heyday, germanium, suitably "doped," was a major semiconductor material. (You needed to provide it in extremely pure form, of course.) Nowadays, it has been superseded by other semiconductors, and its main use is in glass for infrared devices.

For germanium to be of interest post-RoF, we would have to have advanced to the point of needing semiconductors, but not be able to make silicon in the necessary purity (Wikipedia).

Tin

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Tin is obtained by heating cassiterite (tin oxide) with coke. Tin was used in the ancient world; the tin was alloyed with copper to make bronze. There is also tin foil, which was used pre-RoF as a reflective backing for glass mirrors.

Tin is an old commodity, but the up-timers will teach the old dog some new tricks. These will include new alloys (e.g., Babbitt metal), tin plating of steel (the tin can be transferred to the steel surface by the chloride or sulfate, or deposited electrolytically), and the use of molten tin as the "float" in the Pilkington float glass process.

Some tin compounds are already known to the down-timers. Stannous chloride was discovered in 1630, by Cornelius Drebbel, to be useful as a mordant. Satterlund, "Dyes and Mordants" (Grantville Gazette 5). Stannic chloride (spiritus fumans) was made by Libavius in 1605, by reaction with mercuric chloride (Levity).

Other tin compounds should be fairly easy to make by instructions given in EB11, assuming the reagent is available.

Lead

 

Lead is also a metal of antiquity. Its principal ore is galena (lead sulfide), but cerussite (lead carbonate) and anglesite (lead sulfate) are also of interest. We will want to use lead, which is corrosion resistant, in sulfuric acid processing, and in making storage batteries.

Lead oxide (litharge) is known to the down-timers. But the up-timers will reveal to them that it can be used to make lead-alkali (flint) glass.

They are also familiar with lead acetate (sugar of lead), which is obtained by reacting lead oxide with vinegar.

Lead nitrate (calx plumb dulcis) was known to Libavius (EB11).

Lead chromate is a useful yellow pigment, known since the early nineteenth century (Eastaugh 99).

The availability of lead compounds is going to be "anion-limited"; we need HCl to make the chloride, and chromate to make chrome yellow.

Group 15 Metals/Metalloids

The elements of this group are all known to down-timers (although not qua elements) and hence can be exploited fairly rapidly.

Bismuth

The down-timers have encountered bismuth (which occurs naturally in elemental form), although it's often confused with lead, tin, and antimony. It can be mined in Schneeburg, Saxony and Joachimsthal, Bohemia (EB11).

The metal's most interesting use is perhaps as an alloying element in the low-melting Wood's metal. (EA). Unidentified bismuth compounds have been used to treat syphilis. Bismuth oxychloride might be used by the "new" cosmetics industry to impart an iridescent look.

Arsenic

Arsenic is known to the down-timers in the form of the naturally occurring realgar (disulfide)and orpiment (trisulfide), and the synthesized "white arsenic" (trioxide). The alchemists have probably made the metal itself, too, by reduction with carbon.

The most common mineral is arsenopyrite (iron sulfide + iron arsenide, and arsenic is usually obtained as a byproduct of copper, gold, silver, lead, nickel or cobalt mining.

Realgar and orpiment were in pre-RoF use as pigments (and white arsenic as the infamous "inheritance powder").

The reaction of arsenic with concentrated nitric acid produces arsenic acid. Several arsenate salts (copper, calcium, lead) were used in decades past as insecticides.

Arsphenamine, an organo-arsenic compound, was introduced in 1909 as a treatment for syphilis. Its formula appears in the Merck Index.

The most interesting use of elemental arsenic is probably in the hardening of lead shot (EB11/Lead).

Antimony

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Antimony is found in nature as white antimony (oxide) and black antimony (trisulfide; stibnite; kohl). The down-timers have isolated the pure element and quite a few antimony compounds. The Triumphal Chariot of Antimony, 1604 (attributed to Basil Valentine but actually written by Johann Tholde) apparently refers to antimony trichloride ("butter of antimony"), antimony nitrate ("fixed antimony") and antimony oxysulfide ("glass of antimony"). Oswald Croll's Basilica Chymica (1604) discussed antimony trichloride and antimony oxychloride ("powder of algaroth"). (Emsley II, 201). Beguin's Elements of Chemistry (1615) describes the reaction of stibnite with mercuric chloride to make antimony trichloride (Salzberg 151). The Chaldeans used lead antimonate, and there is reason to believe that Greek fire included antimony sulfide.

Antimony metal is used to harden lead. Antimony oxide is used as a flame retardant.

Predictions

Table 2-4 suggests a chronology for when the metals are available, whether as cations of salts, or in elemental form. This is a summary (and gross simplification) of the analysis earlier in the article. If you are interested in a particular chemical, read the detailed analysis. In general, the metal will first be available as a cation of a naturally occurring salt, and only later (sometimes much later) as the metal itself. How soon will depend on both the demand for the metal and the ease of extraction.

This table is not canon! If enough effort is devoted, early enough, chemicals can be produced earlier than what I forecast.

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Some of the elemental metals (e.g., potassium) are listed relatively late because I don't expect them to be in great demand. If you want to write a story whose character has an earlier need for potassium, that's fine with me and the Grantville Gazette Editorial Board.

Production of elemental metals is dependent on access to the ores. For the purpose of this article, I ignore which countries control that access. For control issues, see Cooper, "Mineral Mastery: Discovery and Control of Ore Deposits After the Baltic War" (Grantville Gazette 23).

And I assume a minimum of problems in getting access. Please note that it can take years to get an expedition approved by a government (especially Spain), and without bureaucratic blessing, you can find your mother lode and have it taken away from you immediately. And it can take more years to find the deposit, especially if you have to hack your way through jungle or fend off unfriendly natives.

Production of metals can also be dependent on technology, e.g., an electric furnace or electrochemical cells. I have assumed that these are available, on a laboratory scale, by 1633.

There are also "connections" between chemicals. For example, some elements are found as byproducts of mining for other elements. Others are extracted using another element (e.g., aluminum, sodium) as a reducing agent. That increases the demand for the reducing agent, but means that if there are problems obtaining it, the chronology gets thrown off.

 

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Next Part . . . Organic Chemistry!

Binding the Land With Steel

Written by Kevin H. Evans

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It came to pass in the days of Gustav Adolphus, messengers came forth from another time, and the people all did clamor, "Our children are starving and we are cold."

And behold, the messengers did create Granges and Factories, and plenty from there came forth. And the people again did cry out, "The bounty does not come forth from the messengers to feed our children."

Wherefore, the messengers were sent to create roads of iron. And thereafter, rails did span the land, and there was abundance for all.

Maybe this is how European historians will record it hundreds of years after our time frame. It will appear that the up-timers waved their magical wands, and the railroads were created. These abilities would be terrific, but the reality of creating a working railroad from scratch is much different.

Construction of a railroad, especially a railroad where almost all the work is done by hand, is an enormous undertaking. Such construction may be one of the largest projects that the down-time population has ever seen. The construction of the mighty Roman roads and cities, or the great cathedrals of Europe come close in the amount of manpower and effort required. Of all works that people create, railroads are among the largest.

Even a short line railroad typically includes a right-of-way, or path, that is some fifty feet wide and many hundreds of miles in length. The facilities required include stations, track maintenance facilities, the actual track, and large numbers of vehicles that are used to transport people and commodities over the route. The crews that build these railroads are really large. In the late 1800s the crew that built the transcontinental railroad from Omaha, Nebraska to San Francisco was composed of over twenty thousand men. Construction required a little over five years, even with such large crews. The record for the amount of track laid in one day was only ten miles. Food, shelter, sanitation, and supply were major concerns.

While we will use the railroads constructed in North America as our source, we will primarily talk about the new timeline. Constructing a railroad falls into roughly ten major areas of concern, or tasks. These responsibilities will be divided over three crews.

In order of process, these tasks are: setting the standards, obtaining the right-of-way, financing, surveying the route, creating the road bed, laying down the ties, setting the rails, attaching the rails to the ties, ballasting the track, and all of the support services needed to keep everybody working.

The three crews actually involved in the construction are the survey crew, the grading crew, and the track-laying crew.

The first couple of the tasks mentioned have either been covered elsewhere, or are too complicated to go into for this article. The tasks of setting the standards and route selection have been covered by Iver P Cooper and Carsten Edelberger in Grantville Gazette, Volume Seven. In these articles, careful attention has been paid to just exactly what we need as standards, and where we need to build the railroads.

Obtaining the right-of-way has also been covered. We should note that in the 1632 universe, railroads are very new ideas. Nobles and landowners, farmers and local residents, city dwellers and itinerant workers will all be alternately frightened, concerned, fascinated, or misinformed on the real value of railroad. So before anything is done on building, securing the land to build on will be paramount.

Land ownership in Germany is a confusing issue, and obtaining the permanent right to base a facility on each little piece of land will be an enormous undertaking. So if you have a whole battery of lawyers that are currently in mothballs, negotiating right-of-way will soak up their services just fine, for quite a long period of time. Indeed, serious intervention by high levels of the government will probably be needed in order to obtain these rights-of-way.

Financing is another area that is mostly outside of the purview of this article, and will only be mentioned in passing. As with any large projects, financing the railroad will consume numbers of lawyers, governmental officials, private officials, and time. In the early days of railroads, most railroads were privately owned and built, but almost all of them had some form of government assistance. This assistance could be anything from the government granting tracts of land on which to build to direct financial assistance or even a substantial amount of money earmarked by the government so that the railroads would be built in their area. Something that you can absolutely depend on is that the financing of railroads will provide unusual opportunities for fraud, corruption and just downright weirdness. All these are inherent with such a large project with so many people involved.

The Survey Crew

Let's start with the survey. Surveying a right-of-way is the first step that people in general will see. A team, sometimes before the right-of-way is selected, sometimes after it is selected, goes out along the proposed route of the railway and defines precisely where the track will go. The surveyors are responsible for making sure that the track is level and that curves and inclines as gradual as possible.

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The surveyors are also responsible for making the railroad as inexpensive as possible. That means, if at all possible, you go around hills rather than through them. They also have to ensure that the railway will not be flooded out in the spring or completely blocked by winter snows or avalanches. Tunnels and cuts cost a lot of money. Bridges also add significantly to the final cost, but one should remember that in many cases, a bridge over a low spot or valley is still cheaper than a cut or a tunnel.

The surveyors need to take into consideration the general slope and lie of the land, predict where water flows in the spring rains, determine water flow and strength of rivers and streams, make a determination whether a short tunnel is more financially advantageous than a long loop of track around the hillside or mountain, and plan a route so future improvements can increase the profitability of the line. The surveyors and the job they do can make or break the future of a railroad. A mistake by your surveyor can take, literally, hundreds of years to correct.

This crew is not normally very large. Any number from one to twenty people is normal. Initial surveys are usually made by one or two people on horseback checking the proposed route. Detailed surveys, or the survey that will define precisely where the track is laid, are usually performed by a crew of eight to twenty, and involves the use of surveying instruments and extensive recordkeeping. The instrumentation, at a bare minimum will include compasses, maps, surveyors transits, surveying polls, measuring chains, very detailed ledgers and record books.

For our purposes we will set a surveying crew of eight, along with and their equipment. A light wagon will be required for transport. Also, they will need either camping gear or sufficient funding to room and board with the locals in the area as they survey the right-of-way. The right-of-way survey must be exactly marked and recorded in the ledgers so that the construction road crew will know exactly where the road bed must be placed.

The Road Grading Crew

The next task, grading the road bed, is the first area we encounter very large numbers, often larger than any other task. In the early days of railroad construction in the new timeline, the crews will be small- to medium-sized. Instead of the thousands that were involved in the project in our timeline, we will probably have a crew that numbers in mere hundreds. The minimum crew and equipment should include scraper operators and their mule-driven scrapers, pick and shovel men, carpenters, blacksmiths, wagon masters, bridge builders, rock drillers, explosive experts, a portable saw mill, administrators and crew bosses, cooks and helpers, and a group to oversee and supervise field sanitation and behavior within the camp. And, of course, all the people will have their own equipment that will need to be transported from place to place as the railroad progresses.

By far the largest in number will be the manual laborers. A great deal of the earth will have to be moved. Scrapers and well-trained operators can do the finishing touches, but sometimes it just comes down to the man with the shovel.

The actual construction of the road involves removing the topsoil and putting in a solid base of ballast. Ballast is material that is firm and solid and does not have a tendency to move around. It also provides the road with excellent drainage. The roadbed should have the ability to let water pass through it, yet still firmly hold any materials in place so as to keep the track from moving around. Good ballast is usually made of broken stone, or gravel. Ballast can also be divided into a lower layer of large ballast, and an upper layer of finer, crushed ballast. The ballasted roadbed must be leveled and smooth, especially anywhere there is a stream or water is likely to run off during a rainstorm. The planning of the railway must include some form of drainage culverts or areas where the water can pass through.

Culverts can be made out of boxes that resemble large wooden tunnels. The larger culverts and bridges will be much more efficiently constructed out of wood, especially in the early years of the railway. Bridges will require a large amount of lumber. Supply officials can either provide their carpenters and bridge builders with lumber from local villages, or buy the rights to the timber and cut their own supply.

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Sometimes there will be large obstacles that are too expensive to go around. Then the railroad must plan on cutting a tunnel. For this, you'll need stone drillers or miners, the explosives and experts that can handle the task with care, and the proper excavation site. Much of the excavated stone from tunnels and cuts can be transported and used as ballast and fill, or for constructing permanent buildings along the right of way.

There is a large amount of civil engineering involved in setting the roadway. Fortunately, we have examples of modern styles of road bed within the Grantville area. Many railroad hobbyists keep libraries about railroad subjects so that their models are as much like reality as possible. It is entirely possible that one or two books on the civil engineering aspects of creating a railroad came through the ring of fire.

To support this large crew, we have cooks, sanitation workers, administration people, and general roustabout workers. Some of the unskilled jobs, of course, can be done by the general laborers. But much of the work will involve specialization. All supplies for the grading crew will likely have to come in by wagon. Because of the large size of the crew, local housing in the form of tents will be preferred. Even in the seventeenth century, man-hours can be expensive. The company will want as much work for their money as they can get, so travel times to and from distant living areas would be discouraged.

So how big is this crew? My guess is that there will be six to eight scrapers and their operators, a sawmill crew, around thirty carpenters, three or four smiths, two to three hundred general laborers, ten to twelve wagons and their crews, two or three cooks and a staff of seven or eight scullery helpers, a camp captain and his assistant, and probably twenty people involved in field sanitation and other cleanup. Some of the tasks, such as sanitation or simplified cooking chores, can be performed by the general laborers on rotation from their normal duties. However, this still gives us a work crew that is between two hundred fifty and four hundred people. The size of the work crew will probably fluctuate wildly until the companies building railroads get a good feel for the job. Sometimes it is difficult to predict how many people they need in order to keep the roadbed ahead of the track laying group.

The Track Laying Crews

These individuals are divided up into several different teams. First, the tie-setters. This crew is responsible for bringing the treated wooden ties to front of the project, and aligning them down a previously prepared ballasted road bed. Getting the ties to the worksite will involve several wagons, cart drivers and supervisors, along with the unskilled labor for heavy lifting. Loading crews at the supply storage area in the camp will load large numbers of railroad ties on the wagons. These wagons will then hurry forward to the tie-laying crews, where the ties are thrown off the wagons as they roll along the side of the ballasted road. The actual tie-laying crew will grab ties, usually with two men to each tie. These men take the tie, set it on the roadbed, and align it to a survey chain held by two more members of the crew. By aligning one end of the ties to the survey chain, the course of the railroad can be kept in accord with the surveyed route. The tie crew will also include at least one surveyor whose job it is to keep the actual road aligned with the previous survey.

Once the ties are on the ground and aligned, the rails will need to be put in place. This is accomplished by the rail crew. Rails are loaded on the carts at the supply-side of the camp. These carts ride on railroad wheels and run on the track that has been previously laid. The carts are pulled forward to the end of the rails, usually by horses, where each rail crew awaits the cart. When the cart arrives the first man of each rail crew grabs the end of the rail and starts to pull. Whenever three or four more feet are free, another crew member grabs the rail.

The rails are carried forward and set on the ties at the end of the previously positioned rails on each side of the cart. After the rail is positioned on the ground, the rail crew returns for a new rail. When the rail cart is empty, it is flipped off the track to allow the next rail cart to proceed forward. Depending on the size of the crew, as many as four rail carts will be in use at any given time.

The rail next to the aligned end of the ties will be positioned an exact distance from the end of the ties. The previously aligned ties ensure that the rail is straight, nonetheless a surveyor in transit will normally be involved to make sure that the rails are indeed laid properly.

This is not like a model railroad, where the pieces come already curved. When the surveyor indicates that the road goes into a curve, one end of the rail is spiked down, and a sufficient number of laborers grab the other end and pull it into position along the curve, holding it while it is spiked down.

Once the first rail is in position, temporary spikes are laid to keep it there, then the gauge men, a crew of two men who hold a steel bar gauge, are employed to indicate the exact distance between the first and second rail. The second rail is put into position, and the fish plate and bolt up crew use pre-drilled steel bars to bolt the rails together.

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The spike teams are a large body of men whose job is to firmly attach the rails to the ties. While there are many possible choices of method, during the early days our railroad is likely to use a large version of a nail, a spike, to hold the rail down to the wood. The team putting spikes in the wood will usually be made up of a spike holder—who holds a spike in position—and the spike driver—who drives a spike home with a hammer or maul. This will usually involve three or four strikes.

Depending on the needs of the construction, there will be areas where only some of the ties are spiked. In areas with curves, or those in which heavy traffic is expected, every tie will be spiked to the rail. After the rail is spiked down, the final ballast crew completes the work. This crew has wagons, usually flatbeds with stake sides. They proceed down both sides of the track, shoveling the ballast off onto the rails. The wagons stay on the side so that the supply wagons providing spikes and rails to the front of the worksite can get past them.

The ballast is usually broken, egg-sized gravel. Once it is on the track, a group of men with flat plates on poles tamp the gravel between and around the ends of the ties. This provides a solid matrix to hold the ties in place, and allows any water that falls on the track to drain away. In our timeline, these workers have an interesting name. They are called Gandydancers, because the primary manufacturer of the tamping tool was a company called Gandy. As is true with any work, the laborers using the tampers learned to operate them in the most efficient manner possible. This came to resemble a dance, creating the term Gandydancer.

Behind all of this is a large support crew of cooks, supply clerks, loaders and unloaders, administrators, sanitation workers, and even a small watch force to maintain order. All of these people have specific responsibilities, and are active at the campsite.

How many people make up this crew? First we should consider the loaders and unloaders. These are the people at the supply area who load the various wagons with the supplies needed at the forward edge of the worksite. They also unload any supply trains or wagons that come into the camp. Depending on the equipment they have, they should number between forty and seventy individuals.

The tie setting crew needs to have enough people so that they can get the ties down fast and stay out of everybody else's way. At two men to a tie, with the ability to set a tie every thirty seconds or so, we would need around fifty tie setters, at least two chain teams, and a supervising surveyor. This should amount to somewhere around fifty-five people.

The number of people on a rail team depends on the weight of the rail. The heavier the rail, the more people you need to move it into place. 1890s rail average was fifty to seventy pounds per yard. They were generally about the same length as the shipping car, or thirty-five to forty feet long. This gives us a rail weight of around five to seven hundred pounds per rail. Rails of this size would probably need nine or ten men per rail to move them, especially if they're moving rails all the live long day. You need a crew for each side of the cart. In fact, you probably need at least three teams for each side of the cart. This gives us a team for carrying rails of about sixty individuals. Fish plate, nuts and bolts, gauging, and surveying personnel should add another forty people to the rail positioning crew.

The spike team, or the crew of individuals that spike the rails down to the ties will operate in pairs and we will probably need four crews for each rail being spiked, allowing for two rails being spiked at a time on each side of the road. This will give us sixteen crews or about thirty-two people.

Ballast crews will include the wagon teams, laborers with shovels, and the tamping crew. Allowing for four wagons and a large crew of laborers, we come to about one hundred twenty-five men moving gravel.

Then we come to the people who make sure everybody else has what they need to work. Cooks, clerks, and administrators all have an important part in keeping the camp operating. These personnel should add another twenty-five or thirty individuals.

The total comes to around four hundred people. Certainly any given part of the crew could be expanded, especially at times when the work has to go faster. A crew of four hundred should be able to put between one and three miles of rail in place per day.

Here we have almost a thousand people, all working together to create a whole new form of transport in Central Europe. Before we leap into this kind of project, there are many things we have to plan for. Where are they living? How much do they eat? How much does it cost to pay them? How long will they be in any one place? And what will be the effect beyond the local communities?

New skills will be needed in our new timeline. Chief among these skills are those having to do with roadway construction. Scrapers, bridge builders, and the infrastructure required to keep the road intact through inclement weather are not yet common. However, the Roman roads left over from the old Empire have established a tradition that high quality roads are both possible and desirable.

On the supply side, we need to consider the sheer quantity of stuff that goes into building a railroad. Aside from several hundred tons of roadbed ballast, a mile of track will require some 3,200 cross ties, 264 forty foot rails, 6,400 spikes and several hundred pounds of fish plates and bolts to tie everything together. Altogether, three hundred or more tons of supplies need to be moved for every single mile of track laid. This does not include food, shelter, shops, or any of the other equipment necessary for such a large number of people to live together in one spot. In addition to track materials, the railroad construction crew will need to be supplied with food and clean water on a daily basis.

Using two pounds of food per person per day as an average, a four-hundred-man crew will consume close to six tons of food a week, much of which must be transported to the end of the track. This means wagons, wagons beyond everything else needed for the construction crews.

This is probably also the time to mention payroll. The workers building the railroad are going to have to be paid. They could be paid in something exotic like working off fines and commitments to the government, or they could be working for shares of stock in a railroad, but most likely workers will be paid in money of some sort.

Just for argument's sake I'm going to set the pay of a skilled laborer as one guilder per day, plus room and board. From the railroad company's point of view this means, for the thousand or so workers installing the railroad, you'll have to pay on the close order of twenty-five thousand guilders each four-week period.

Of course, with workers getting paid that much money, you will have what was called "Hell on wheels" in North America. The phrase refers to the wagon train of grifters, merchants, gamblers, bars, and ladies of easy virtue that followed behind every single railroad construction company in 1800s North America. This situation will create the need for some sort of security officers from either the local government or the railroad to maintain order.

The amount of track currently in existence in Grantville can be used to set the standards for all other railroads. This pre-existing track is probably the most significant reason that standard gauge in the new timeline will be the same as standard gauge in the old timeline. That is to say, significant amounts of equipment already exist in the standard gauge so new equipment will probably be built to match.

The first track-laying railroad crews will probably be fairly small. These very first crews will probably consist of eight or ten men. As the full scope of the work becomes more and more apparent, the size of the crew will increase rapidly. And, as mentioned previously, crew sizes will vary wildly until the people building railroads begin to understand the true scope of the project.

As the crews increase in size, the amount of equipment and infrastructure will also increase. Housing the really large number of men involved will be one of the first things to be dealt with. Early in the railroad-building era most crews will be housed in a manner similar to the large mercenary armies that have been rampaging through the countryside. It will already be apparent that housing hundreds, even thousands, of men in the villages along the route of the railroad will be impractical. Gathering the men up before the days work and scattering them back to their housing at the end of the day, and finding new housing as a rail-head moves forward uses tremendous amounts of time that could be more profitably used in putting track on the ground.

Large tent compounds will probably be the preferred method of housing this large group of workers. Supporting this large housing compound will be necessary sanitary facilities and kitchen equipment and personnel needed to feed the large group of workers.

It should also be noted that some railroad companies in our timeline did not maintain large cooking compounds and equipment, but distributed a week of rations to each crew of 10 or 15 men and had them do their own cooking. Each method has its advantages and disadvantages. When a crew does its own cooking and housing, it uses up time that the railroad corporation would rather have spent on construction. Also, it creates the need for baggage wagons for the equipment all the individual workers need as living supplies. Having a kitchen crew allows centralized production of food and good, consistent control over what is consumed, but it comes with the requirement of additional personnel and equipment.

Another consideration is where to hire all of these workers. With the agriculturally-based economy prevalent in our new timeline, there will not normally be a large group of people able to just pull up stakes and move on. At least they will not be available from the farming villages or the industrial centers currently in existence. There is, however, a fairly large group available whose current employment is winding down. These are the mercenary regiments that have been fighting in the Thirty Years' War.

It is entirely possible that some mercenary regiments may see the future of declining combat in Europe and decide to switch over to being railroad construction companies. This would provide the work crews with organization and cohesiveness that will be sorely needed when they are trying to do something so new. Further the opportunity to earn "cold hard cash" will be almost irresistible to certain segments of the general population. This opportunity to work will draw large numbers of individuals out of the general population.

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The organization of companies to build railroads will spin off many other industries. Suppliers that make ties, rails, and ballast will need to be created, shipping companies will need to be organized, and supply groups will need to be formed in order to provide the thousand and one things needed to build a railroad. Companies will come into existence to build locomotives, railcars, communications equipment, and signaling equipment. All of these things will be absolutely required for the new railroad to work properly.

These new concerns will tend to create railroad companies that have little or no contact with up-timers. As a matter of fact, a railroad construction crew may never see any up-timers at all. The Grantville connection will be almost all about training, or teaching the skills needed to the construction workers.

Another Grantville connection will probably be in labor organization. Unlike our timeline, the new construction companies will have the example of a large well-organized union. They get this both from the United Mine Workers and the Grange. This is very different from the railroad construction companies of our past. In North America, during the construction of the first transcontinental railroad, construction workers were extremely undisciplined and ill-mannered. This was so much the case that the Union Pacific Railroad hired military leadership to impose control. Even with this, fights, murders, extortion, and criminal activity were all common in the large masses of men building the railroad across the continent. Hopefully, railroad construction may not be so disorderly in the 1632 universe.

One last item may be of interest. While not directly related to putting the steel on the ground, the financial aspect of such large corporations may be relevant. Whenever there is a large amount of money under the control of a fairly diverse group of people, corruption and illegal activities are often present. It's entirely possible, even likely, that graft, thefts, substandard materials, fraud, and confidence schemes will abound. Many corporations will want to abuse labor for as much as they can get. Many labor organizations will want more than their work is worth. The opportunity for open conflict will be very large.

Railroad construction requires large numbers of highly organized workers. Construction speed will vary from no miles in a day to around ten miles in a day. As the various political organizations in the new timeline see the advantages of rail transportation, many miles of railroad will be constructed.

In our timeline, the railroad construction phase has not yet ended. Even now many new miles of track are being laid. Likewise, in the new timeline, railroad construction may well be a fairly permanent condition. Railroad construction will start out slow and will accelerate as more and more industrial capacity becomes available.

References

http://www.uprr.com/aboutup/history/hist-ov/hist-ov4.shtml

http://cprr.org/Museum/Chinese.html

http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/ndlpedu/features/timeline/riseind/railroad/trans.html

http://www.scalefour.org/resources/track.htm

*[EA] "Railroads," Encyclopedia Americana

*[EB11] Encyclopedia Britannica, 11th ed. (1911), [EB11/R] "Railways," [EB11/B] "Boiler," [EB11/SE] "Steam Engine;" see also "Rolling Mills," "Brake," "Traction," "Coal," "Fuel," etc.

*Ellis, Pictorial Encyclopedia of Railways

Clarke, et al., The American Railway: Its Construction, Development, Management and Appliances (1972)(reprint of 1897 edition)

[NOCK/RE] Nock, Encyclopedia of Railroads (1977).

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