by Eric Flint
He leaned over and tapped the location on the map that indicated Luebeck's bay. "That fleet is doomed, if Simpson can get through the North Sea and into the Kattegat. About all that could stop him now would be bad weather and severe seas. From what we've learned from our spies, the one great weakness of the ironclads is that they're not especially seaworthy."
"What about-"
"Our ambush, at the mouth of the Elbe?" Turenne shrugged. "We can hope for the best, but I can't say I have any great expectations. Unlike their divers last year, ours won't have the advantage of surprise."
He straightened up from the map. "Right or wrong, that's my assessment-and we'll operate accordingly."
There was a quick round of nods from the officers gathered around the table. Whatever reservations any of them might have, Turenne was not only their commander in name but one who had won their confidence.
"When, then?" asked Gassion. "The sooner the better, from a political standpoint."
Turenne smiled thinly. "Don't tell me. The duke of Julich-Berg is getting nervous."
Lefebvre laughed. " 'Nervous' is hardly the word. By now, he's like a cat on a hot tin roof."
Several of the officers grinned. Oddly enough, given their fierce French patriotism, Turenne's new elite cavalry force had adopted American idiom with equally fierce enthusiasm. Perhaps it was their way of thumbing their collective nose at the French military establishment which most of them had come to detest as much as their commander did.
Turenne rubbed his jaw. Ideally, he'd prefer to wait a few more days before launching his expedition. The great danger he faced, from a purely military standpoint, was that if he moved prematurely Torstensson would still have a large enough army at Hamburg to send a sizeable force down to meet him. Better to wait until he was sure Torstensson had started marching toward Luebeck.
But… perfection was a more unobtainable goal in war than it was anywhere else in life. And whatever sarcastic remarks anyone might make about Wolfgang Wilhelm, the duke who ruled the area, it remained a political necessity to keep him from severing his ties with France altogether.
Turenne couldn't blame the duke, really. For even the boldest prince, having five thousand foreign troops quartered in or near his capital city was a very uncertain proposition. Wolfgang Wilhelm had only agreed under a certain amount of duress-and had then insisted that Turenne's force remain as inconspicuous as possible and pass through his lands with the utmost speed.
"Inconspicuous" was an absurd term, of course, applied to five thousand armed men and their horses. The fact that Turenne's officers had only set up an unofficial headquarters in the city fooled exactly no one. Certainly not the innkeeper, as happy as he might be to get the flood of business-and he'd surely have been talking to his relations and friends, over the past few days. So would the farmers outside the city, on whose land most of Turenne's troops were camped. They'd be well-compensated, to be sure-which simply meant they had the money to provide them with idle time in which to gossip.
So. Turenne agreed with Gassion. It was best to leave the city as soon as possible, and just hope that the speed of their attack-and Gassion's diversion-would keep the enemy off balance.
"We'll leave tomorrow morning," he said. "At first light."
Seeing a few frowns around the table, the marshal grinned. "Excuse me. 'Crack of dawn,' I should have said."
The siege lines of the Spanish army in the Low Countries, outside the walls of Amsterdam
"And this is definite?" the cardinal-infante asked, looking down at the message he'd been handed. "No chance of error?"
Miguel de Manrique considered the question, for a moment, before answering. "I don't think so, Your Highness. Not in this instance, anyway. The couriers who sent this report were stationed several miles downstream from Hamburg. They've seen the ironclads for themselves, after-"
"After having passed through the city. Yes, I understand." Don Fernando carefully folded the message, being meticulous simply for the sake of giving himself time to make the decision.
The decision, he knew, in substance if not in form. In all likelihood, at least. There was still a possibility that problems of one sort or another-mechanical, perhaps, or inclement weather, or both-might stymie or at least delay Admiral Simpson. But it would be foolish to depend on such happenstances. Judging from the report, the American admiral's flotilla had passed through Hamburg's formidable fortifications with no significant casualties. Even the three timberclads that accompanied the four ironclads had come through largely unscathed. Whatever casualties they'd suffered had apparently been minor.
The cardinal-infante was fairly certain that the French were planning to ambush the flotilla at the mouth of the Elbe. But he would be very surprised if that came to much. No, if Simpson could get through Hamburg that easily, there was nothing in the way of hostile action that was likely to stop him until he reached the Baltic. The Kattegat, for sure.
Having finished his precise folding of the message, Don Fernando tucked it away and took a few slow steps to reach the top of the berm that gave him a good view of Amsterdam. Manrique remained below, allowing his commander some distance to ruminate in peace.
Once into the Baltic, Simpson might bombard Copenhagen, but Don Fernando thought it far more likely that he'd press on to Luebeck Bay and attack the big Danish and French fleet stationed there. If he could drive them off-and assuming, which the prince thought it would be wise to do-that Gustav Adolf had sent orders to Stockholm for the Swedish navy to sally…
They'd have transports, too, bringing fresh troops from Sweden.
For a moment, silently, Don Fernando cursed the fact that his artisans had not yet been able to develop a radio capability of their own. They might have, if he'd ordered them to start soon enough. But until recently, he'd accepted the common assumption that radio operations required the sort of huge towers the enemy had erected in Grantville and Magdeburg. Or, later, the cables they'd attached to existing towers in Amsterdam and Antwerp, which had provided him with a radio connection to Antwerp and to Magdeburg. He had seen no need to do more than have a few of his artisans tinker with radio, thereafter, since building such structures would require many months and a tremendous diversion of resources. Instead of placing a major priority on developing radio, he'd simply had a few of his artisans fiddling with the problem.
Only a month ago had it dawned on him that the up-timers might not necessarily need great high antennas for radio communication. There were clues aplenty in the up-time books, once he looked at the problem seriously. He then realized, finally, that the diplomatic responses he'd been getting from Rebecca Abrabanel were too rapid. Even granting that she'd been given a great deal of leeway as an envoy, being the wife of the enemy prime minister, she was making decisions that were just that little bit too important, just that little bit too quickly.
Which meant the towers were probably a ruse of war. Don Fernando wasn't positive, but he had come to the tentative conclusion that the up-timers had other methods of using radio, that were neither as cumbersome nor as visible. And, if true, that meant they were able to coordinate their actions far better than the League of Ostend's armies and navies, even leaving aside their advantage of possessing interior lines.
He stared at the walls of Amsterdam, but they were really just a blur. His thoughts were focused inward.
So… If he was right, one of the principle axioms of the League of Ostend's military calculations was a mirage. Richelieu and Christian IV-probably Charles, as well, but it hardly mattered what that dolt thought about anything-had been certain that Gustav Adolf's strategy would come to naught in the end, defeated by the simple realities of war, since it so obviously depended on bringing together four major and widely scattered forces in precise and proper sequence: his own army at Luebeck, Torstensson's army that was now being repositioned at Hamburg, Simpson's flotilla, and the Swedish fleet at Stockholm.
Impossible, on the face of it. The Swedish king had grown arrogant and over
confident from his past success. His elaborate plans would come to pieces, each of the separate forces arriving whenever they did-if they did at all-and being defeated in detail.
But what if all four of those forces were in constant touch using radio? What then?
Suddenly, Amsterdam came into focus again. The city that was right in front of him, as it had been for the many months of the siege.
Almost half a year, that siege had lasted, far longer than Don Fernando had foreseen in the heady days right after he seized Haarlem and began his rapid reconquest of most of the rebellious Dutch provinces. Half a year-and it would require at least another half a year to take the city, if he could do it at all. And that assumed-not likely!-that if Gustav Adolf was victorious in northern Germany he would not continue onward to come to the aid of his ally the prince of Orange.
The cardinal-infante knew that he'd been lucky, at that. The diseases that normally ravaged besieging armies after a time had been thankfully mild, in this siege. But that was mainly due to the quiet assistance he'd gotten from the medical specialists in the besieged city itself. That, and the tacit agreement that the siege would not be a hard-fought one, so his soldiers could devote enough time, energy and resources to maintaining good sanitation in the trenches and fieldworks investing Amsterdam.
Enough. It was time to decide. There was Amsterdam in front him; concrete, palpable, a victory that was already within his hands. Or there was the storm coming to the east, as nebulous as it was dark.
He turned away and trotted down from the berm, where Manrique waited for him.
"Have the tercios ready to march out within three days, Miguel," he commanded. "Let's say… half of them. That should be enough."
"Yes, Your Highness. And their destination?"
Don Fernando tugged at his fleshy lower lip. "Grol. Since we rebuilt the fortresses there, Grol should do nicely."
The relief that announcement brought to Manrique was quite visible on his face. The town of Grol was at the eastern end of Gelderland, bordering on Munster. It had good fortifications of its own, was an easy march from Amsterdam-and would make just as easy a march to get back, if need be. Best of all, while it was close enough to the German territories that would soon be the scene of major battles to make it appear as if the cardinal-infante was attempting to intervene, it was very far from the Elbe. In fact, it was no farther north than Hannover.
"The archbishop will protest mightily, you understand."
"Oh, yes, of course. I shall naturally issue a fierce demand that he allow our forces passage through Munster. But…"
Don Fernando shifted his shoulders, in a very slight shrugging gesture. It was easy enough to include a phrase or two in such a stiffly worded demand that made it clear he was willing to negotiate. Archbishop Ferdinand, as one might expect from a brother of Maximilian of Bavaria, was notorious for being prickly and contentious, even toward his allies. By the time a settlement allowing passage of Spanish forces through his territory could be made, it would most likely all be over.
Manrique began to leave.
"One thing more, Miguel."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Have word sent across to Amsterdam, inviting Senora Abrabanel to dinner at my quarters. The night after tomorrow, let's make it."
"Rubens also, I assume?"
"Oh, yes. That Scaglia fellow who's visiting him, as well. And…"
He spread his hands and raised them, as if offering a sacrifice to the gods. "There's no point avoiding the matter. Not any longer. Invite Richter and her husband also."
Amsterdam
After the Spanish messenger left, Rebecca turned to the other people in the USE embassy's salon and smiled widely. "So. He's decided. I shall tell Michael tonight."
Gretchen eyed her skeptically. "We all know you're smart. Don't ruin your reputation at the last moment. What if he hasn't decided?"
Rebecca shook her head. "Oh, Gretchen, don't be silly. If he still wanted to negotiate-or simply stall for time-he certainly wouldn't have invited you."
Gretchen thought about it for a few seconds. "He did once before," she pointed out.
"That was curiosity-which you satisfied. This is… call it a statement. A subtle one, but a statement nonetheless."
Gretchen thought about it for a few more seconds, then smiled herself. "I suppose I should take the invitation as a compliment, then."
"Oh, yes. In a manner of speaking."
"I'm still taking my shotgun," Jeff insisted stoutly.
Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Are you kidding? Yeah, sure, it's a compliment. One of those 'my, what big teeth you have, dear' sort of compliments. Best to make sure he doesn't decide he misgauged the length of the fangs, huh?"
Rebecca sat back down on the divan, sighing. "I can remember when you were a trusting and innocent sort of person, Jeff."
He grunted. "Yeah, sure, so can I. Wasn't all that long ago, either, if you measure it in years and months."
"As opposed to what?" his wife asked.
Jeff started counting on his fingers. "Lessee. One Battle of the Crapper. Followed by-well, never mind, even if everybody knows you did it and I covered it up for you-followed by one Battle of Jena. Complete with you shooting a pimp, just for the hell of it."
"It was not 'just for the hell of it'!" Gretchen protested.
"Yeah, fine. You had your reasons, which I can sure enough find with a microscope, not that I'd accuse you of being quick on the trigger, God forbid. But we were talking about my lost innocence, remember? Brand new wife gunning down pimp goes a long ways, when it comes to removing the dew from innocent hubby's eyes. You'd be amazed how well that works. Moving right along-"
He went back to studiously counting off on his fingers. "One Croat raid. One pirate ambush in the English Channel, that you know and I know and the man in the moon knows was set up by Cardinal Richelieu. Man of God, no less. One French and English betrayal of the Dutch fleet, requiring us to scramble like mad for Amsterdam. One-"
"Stop bragging, husband," said Gretchen.
Jeff dropped his hands. "Wasn't. Just explaining how it happens that at the tender age of twenty-two I'm more suspicious than your average retired cop."
"I said, stop bragging."
Chapter 43
London, England
"Search their quarters?" said Sir Paul Pindar. "Are you mad, Sir Francis?"
Seeing Windebank starting to bridle, Richard Boyle immediately intervened. "Please, Paul! That was uncivil."
Pindar visibly restrained his temper. By now, unfortunately, the antagonism between him and Windebank had reached the point where it was something of a constant problem for the earl of Cork. Not for the first time, he missed Endymion Porter. Although one of the youngest of Cork's party, Sir Endymion had had the knack for soothing frayed tempers.
"My apologies, Sir Francis," said Pindar. The curt manner in which he extended the apology almost vitiated it of any real content-there was certainly no sincerity in it-but the fact was enough.
"That's done, then," said Boyle. "Francis, I have to tell you that I agree with Paul, although he didn't need to be rude about it. Searching the quarters of the American embassy would be most unwise."
Windebank shifted his angry gaze from Pindar to Cork. "Richard, they've been there for months. I only discovered yesterday that Wentworth never had their quarters or persons searched after they arrived. Proof of treason in itself, that."
Boyle had to fight to keep his own temper down, now. He didn't actually disagree with Pindar's assessment of Windebank. The man was an arrogant ass, who'd have been insufferable except that his influence in powerful circles made suffering him a necessity. That was the reason the earl of Cork had proposed him for Constable of the Tower in the first place. It was a prestigious position, which had led Windebank to accept-and had the great benefit of keeping him out from underfoot constantly at the real center of power in Whitehall.
Not out from underfoot enough, unfortuna
tely. Sir Francis still spent far more time in the royal palace than he did overseeing his responsibilities in the Tower. The problem with the man wasn't simply that he was arrogant, but that he was an ass. Not technically stupid, perhaps, but the distinction didn't mean much in practice. Windebank was one of those men so sure of himself that, within a week, he was convinced that his own lies were the truth-which was dangerous, under the circumstances.
Referring to Wentworth as a traitor was absurd, and everyone in Cork's party knew it. The charge had served the purpose of giving Cork an immediate pretext for having the earl of Strafford arrested and removed from power. A plausible enough one, too, at the time. But, that done, to pursue it would be folly. The last thing Richard Boyle wanted was for Parliament-and such a charge would have to be presented to Parliament, given the situation-to start nosing about the events of that fateful day. Fabricated evidence was risky, and there simply wasn't any evidence that wouldn't be fabricated.
Windebank, overconfident as always, was sure that the bloody escape of the three officers who'd been detained was sufficient evidence in itself. But that probably wouldn't have been true even if they'd obtained a signed confession from Leebrick. In the absence of any such document, especially with Leebrick and his men still at large, it would be risky to pursue the matter.
For that very reason, in fact, they'd all agreed a fortnight earlier to destroy the unsigned document and quietly let the search for Leebrick lapse into dormancy. By now, the three mercenary officers were surely off the island, in any event. Best to just let the whole business die a natural death-given that it was so much easier to simply charge Wentworth with having grossly violated the laws and customs of the kingdom. The man was so widely hated in England that Parliament would accept that, and cheerfully. By following that course, even if Leebrick did someday surface, what would it matter? An accusation that they had falsely accused Wentworth of treason when no such charge was formally leveled would simply be shrugged off. Who was to say what had been involved in their bloody escape? Perhaps nothing more than a quarrel with Endymion Porter that had escalated to murder-which, if need be, could be substantiated by the officers' theft of Porter's purse.
