by Eric Flint
That was the diplomatic way of putting it. What Harry Lefferts had actually said was: "Stephen, there ain't no better rifle shot in the world than Julie, and her husband and my man Darryl are both solid guys. So's Gayle Mason, for that matter, even if she ain't a guy. And I got no reason to think otherwise of Cromwell. But the fact remains that they could really use a shooter. If you know what I mean. Not long-range, not stout-hearted, not any of that bullshit. Put a pistol in a man's face and blow his head off right now and not blink. That kind of shooter. I think they're going into a world of hurt and they'll need it."
He smiled a little, at the memory. Stephen Hamilton was coming to like Harry Lefferts, and he was a man who liked very few people. Perhaps that was because Harry reminded him of a younger version of himself.
He coughed, disguising the smile with his fist. "Well… I should have said those are their official duties so long as Michael Stearns is the prime minister. It's quite unclear, actually, what will happen if Stearns loses that position. Knowing Captain Lefferts as I do now, I suspect the real allegiance is to the man, not the post."
"Oh, yes," murmured Andrew Short. He was smiling faintly also. Both men had come to the conclusion early on that they'd willingly exchange the formal security of their posts as Yeoman Warders for the considerably less stable positions of being-as the Americans might put it-"one of Harry's guys."
They were quite medieval themselves, in many ways, Stephen Hamilton and Andrew Short. Harry Lefferts commanded loyalty and trust from his people as naturally as he breathed, and one could only conclude that the same was true of the man he considered his own liege lord, Michael Stearns.
Stephen and Andrew had had their fill of overlords like King Charles and the earl of Cork and Sir Francis Windebank. They'd gladly trade them in for a very different sort, and leave the rest to Providence.
"So there it is," Hamilton concluded. "I'll go with them, the rest of you go across to the Continent. We'll see each other, soon enough."
The only clear memory Mike Stearns thought he'd ever retain of the Achates' voyage across the North Sea was that he was seasick the whole time. Whatever its other qualities, the shallow-draft, paddle-wheeled timberclad was a tub on the open sea.
No, he'd have two clear memories. The other was of Captain C.H. Baumgartner's lugubrious commentary.
"Blind luck the weather's holding up," he pointed out. "Sheer happenstance. This time of the year, a good channel gale would capsize us in a minute."
He made that statement on at least ten occasions, that Mike could recall. The first time, before they'd even finished casting off from the pier at Ritsenbuttel.
And that was among his cheerier comments. Some others were:
This thing was never designed for the open sea, you know. He's a fine man, the admiral, and a splendid commander. But an incorrigible optimist, all the same.
Very rough weather it has, the North Sea. Even seaworthy craft negotiate its waters at their peril.
Don't believe anyone who tells you drowning's a good way to die. Sheer nonsense. Your mind ruptures even before your lungs do. By the time life flees your body, your sanity's already gone.
Not too many sharks in these waters. But it hardly matters, with all the scavengers. Nothing but your bones will settle on the seafloor, you can be certain of that.
In between bouts of puking over the side and trying not to get pitched overboard in the process, Mike wondered where and when and how-most of all, why?-John Chandler Simpson had selected Baumgartner to be one of his ship captains. The miserable bastard could cast a pall of gloom over a wedding. Invite him to a christening, and all he'd talk about would be the baby's inevitable death. Of old age, if he was lucky-that would be accompanied by a long recitation of the ailments visited upon the elderly, in grisly detail-but more likely of some horrid childhood disease. Or an accident, as a teenager. Or syphilis, if he made it to his thirties.
If he'd had the strength, Mike would have strangled the captain and taken his chances in a court of law. Could you convict a nation's chief executive officer of mutiny for killing one of his own subordinates? He didn't think so. And a straightforward charge of homicide would fall flat on its face. Be laughed out of court, in fact, if he finagled himself a jury trial. Had history ever witnessed a clearer case of justifiable homicide? The jurors would carry him out of the courtroom on their shoulders.
His novel theories of jurisprudence would never be put to the test, however. Mike doubted if he could have strangled a mouse. Any good-sized rat would take him down, three falls out of three.
Baumgartner was a fountain of wisdom on that subject, too.
Oh, yes, the filthy creatures positively thrive here. God help a man who gets pitched on his head-which is easy to do, on this lubberly craft. If he lies unnoticed for more than five minutes, the rats will strip his flesh clean.
Mike would have been a lot better off if he'd accepted Captain Juan Hamers' offer to travel on his ship, one of the two merchant sailing vessels that were accompanying the paddle wheeler. Those vessels that would carry off the people rescued from England. The timberclad's sole function was to serve as their bodyguard. Or bank robber, if might be better to say, with the merchant ships being the getaway vehicles.
But Mike had decided that would be unwise. Everyone knew that the real risk in crossing the North Sea, given the decent weather they were having, would be borne by the shallow-draft paddle wheeler alone. Since he was the commander of the whole expedition, it would be bad for morale if he didn't go on the warship.
No, three clear memories. He'd also remember spending a fair amount of time, while puking over the side and trying not to get pitched overboard in the process, pondering a heretofore-unexamined philosophical problem.
Why was it that the expression "maintaining morale" was never applied to the commander of a military force?
Maybe he'd ask Gustav Adolf and John Chandler Simpson. If he survived the seasickness. He wasn't in the least bit worried about the other dangers of the expedition.
Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He had a dark suspicion-very dark; seasick heave your guts out dark-that they'd both just laugh at him.
Thomas Wentworth read the note one more time. Which was pointless, really, since by now he had it memorized. Perhaps some still-childlike part of his soul thought there might be some magic in the paper and ink itself, that would provide the answer for him.
From Samuel I, chapter 29, verse 10, this one:
Wherefore now rise up early in the morning with thy master's servants that are come with thee: and as soon as ye be up early in the morning, and have light, depart.
He couldn't possibly be misreading it. So, finally, it was time to decide. Until this moment, he'd not had to do so. Not really. Thomas had been entirely a passive observer in the process, whose acquiescence had been simply a matter of silence rather than outright consent.
He still had no idea what the Americans were planning specifically. But he didn't have much doubt that, whatever their scheme, it had a good chance of succeeding. For all its formidable reputation, the Tower of London was by no means impossible to escape from. Several people had done so, over the centuries.
All of those escapes had had one feature in common-they'd had help both from inside and outside the fortress. They'd never been feats carried out by a prisoner on his own.
The help on the inside was now established. Somehow, the Americans had managed to suborn at least part of the Yeoman Warders. By what means, Thomas didn't know. It could be anything, from an offer of riches to simple personal allegiance, or any combination thereof.
That still left the help needed from the outside, but Thomas didn't have any doubt that would be there on the morrow. The people whom the crown of England had kept prisoner in St. Thomas' Tower were not friendless outlaws or despised heretics, after all. They were the embassy of a foreign power, and one which had great resources to draw upon. Whatever was going to happen tomorrow morning, he was quite sure it had been months
in the planning.
So, finally, there was nothing left but the heart and soul of Thomas Wentworth, now the earl of Strafford. Was he prepared to go into exile? He'd be labeled a traitor, for a certainty-and this time, the charge would be very hard to deny. Given that his escape would involve colluding with a foreign and hostile nation.
He didn't know. He simply didn't know. He'd studied the message for hours, rather than tossing it into the fire as he'd done with all the others.
And he still didn't know. His mind seemed paralyzed.
He knew now that he'd go to bed not knowing. Toss through the night, and still not know come the morning. Thomas Wentworth had never felt so lost and helpless in his entire life. A man sure to a fault, who was now unsure of everything.
Chapter 54
London
"Here comes the barge," Anthony Leebrick murmured. He looked around the area from the small wharf on the south side of the Thames where they'd just finished setting up Julie's shooting bench. "And there's still no one about."
" 'Cause they ain't crazy," said Julie. "The sun's just coming up. Damn, I'm cold."
She had her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, to keep them warm. Unfortunately, it was a thin coat to begin with. She'd brought a heavier one to London, but it wasn't really suitable for good shooting.
However, she was mostly just grumbling to keep her nerves steady. She wasn't really worried that the early morning chill would affect her shooting. She wasn't that cold, after all-not to mention that her original plans, way back when, had been to compete for a position on the U.S. biathlon team in the Olympics. That meant skiing as well as shooting, and you didn't ski in mid-summer.
Alex was sitting on the bench next to her. Oddly, given her husband's slender frame, Alex never seemed affected very much by low temperatures. Maybe because he'd been born and raised in Scotland, who knew? He not only had his hands out, he was holding the spotting scope, whose frame had to be downright icy.
His presence was a great comfort, though, more than enough to make up for the chill. Leaving aside all personal considerations, by now Alex had become the best spotter Julie had ever worked with.
Throughout, after that one glance around, Leebrick had kept his attention either on the barge slowly moving down the river or on the wharf directly across from them, right in front of the Tower of London. He'd leave it to Patrick and Liz, who were positioned ten yards back and to either side, to keep an eye out for awkward passers-by. Even if someone showed up, there shouldn't be any serious problems.
"Getting close to the wharf now, Julie," Leebrick said, still in that same soft and unhurried tone. "And Richard's got our own craft following not far behind."
A few seconds later, he added, "The gun crew's beginning to stir, it looks like."
Alex raised the scope to his eyes. "Indeed, they are. Get ready, love."
There were gun batteries on the Tower's wharf, but in time of peace they weren't normally manned at all. Since the mercenary companies took over handling the Tower's security from the Warders, however, they'd always maintained one gun crew on the wharf. Not for any practical purpose anyone could imagine, but simply as a means of mild punishment for miscreants. Spend a night shivering on the wharf instead of sleeping in a billet.
Needless to say, the gun crews always dozed off once enough time had passed after sundown for there to be no danger of an officer moving about on inspection. That posed a constant headache for the people in St. Thomas' Tower, because they couldn't extend the radio antenna out of the window until they were sure the gun crew wasn't paying attention. Sometimes that took long enough that they missed the evening window altogether.
But it was all about to come to an end. This night's gun crew was coming to life, finally, seeing a big barge approaching the wharf just as the dawn broke. The craft clearly intended to dock alongside. Right in front of the Traitor's Gate, in fact, with the bulk of St. Thomas' Tower looming above.
It had no business being there, certainly not at this time of day.
Julie brought the rifle into position. "Call it, Alex."
"Not yet. They're still just staring at the barge. Sluggish bastards. Take out the fellow with the plumed hat first. He's likely the sergeant."
Julie found him in the scope. "On your call."
"Just a bit longer." '
Standing in the bow of the barge, Harry Lefferts gave the gun crew a cheery wave of the hand. That might hold them for another few seconds.
Not that he really cared. Not with Julie Mackay across the river.
Still, it'd be handy if they could finish tying up before the shit hit the fan.
He glanced back and saw that Matija and Paul had already hopped off the barge and were taking care of that. Now, he just had to wait until they cleared themselves off to the side. He didn't think the rubble from St. Thomas' Tower would hit the barge itself-although everyone on it was staying as far as they could to the stern or the bow, just in case-but it was sure and certain to land all over the wharf.
In the event, he didn't need to give the signal. The crack of Julie's rifle did it for him.
Harry didn't waste time looking to see if she'd hit her target. Or the next one-by the time he brought the walkie-talkie up to his lips, she'd fired a second round.
And Darryl didn't wait for him, either.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Melissa Mailey hissed, crouched in the heavy stonework that held the machinery for the watergate below St. Thomas' Tower. All the members of the embassy were crouched there with her. Months ago, they'd decided that would provide them with a safe refuge from the blast.
Darryl McCarthy was the one nearest the entrance to the rest of the tower. He had an electrical detonating device in his hands and a truly disgusting grin plastered on his face. Melissa wasn't sure if the grin was because of the overall situation, which Darryl seemed to view as a great adventure, or the more specifically cheerful fact that the many weeks they'd had to delay their escape had had its side benefits. One of them being that, with the Shorts serving as the couriers and go-betweens, Darryl and Tom had been able to replace the primitive fuses they'd originally planned to use with much fancier mechanisms. Harry Lefferts seemed to be an endless cornucopia, when it came to anything that could wreak havoc and destruction.
Rita Simpson was crouched right next to her. "Never expected you'd wind up in a combat operation at your age, huh? Me neither, tell you the truth, and I'm still a spring chicken."
Melissa shook her head. "No, it's not that. It's-"
She heard a sharp cracking sound, coming from somewhere outside. That had to be a rifle shot. Glancing over, she saw that Darryl was already-
"Yee-haaaaa!" he shouted.
The noise was deafening. Even the heavy stonework seemed to shake.
Darryl was up and entering the main part of St. Thomas' Tower the instant the blast ended. "Oh, man!" she heard him shout. "You wanna talk about a beautiful sight!"
Melissa lowered her head. "I can't believe it. We just blew up the Tower of London." Her voice began to rise. "For God's sake, it's an historical monument!"
But Rita was already hauling her to her feet. "Come on, Melissa. Worry about it later. Besides, there's still plenty more blowing up to do."
"He still hasn't come out, Uncle," said Jack Hayes nervously.
Squatting next to him, in the shadows, Stephen Hamilton shrugged. "His problem, not ours. The stupid bastard was told not to shit under there."
He gave his young kin a look that was as sympathetic as anything Hamilton could manage. "I'll do it for you, if you'd rather."
Jack Hayes was still peering intently at the big heavy wooden staircase that led up to the White Tower's second-floor entrance. The huge central keep of the Tower of London had been built more than six centuries earlier, and had been designed from the standpoint of early medieval warfare. Having only one entrance, and that one far above the ground, had undoubtedly made sense at the time. But once that staircase was destroyed, mos
t of the Tower of London's mercenary soldiers would be trapped inside the keep, with no way to get out except a very risky jump or using a rope or jury-rigged ladder.
No harm would come to them, of course. Not, at least, so long as they stayed there. And they didn't even need to stay for all that long. Just long enough.
"No!" Jack suddenly exclaimed, almost yelling the word. His hands made an abrupt motion. The White Tower's staircase blew out at the upper corners and, a moment later, collapsed into a pile of wooden rubble. Thankfully for the sake of Jack's nerves, there was no sign of the corpse that had to be lying at the bottom of all that now.
It was the first time the nineteen-year-old had ever killed a man. Difficult, that was. Hamilton could remember his own first killing, which he'd done at a younger age and in a considerably messier manner. It had bothered him, even.
"You go with your uncle Andrew, remember," he told Jack. "He'll be in the dungeons."
Hamilton rose and hurried toward the Lieutenant's Lodging. The adult males of the family had been in position well before dawn. Now he could see the family's women already coming out, carrying their bundles, with the children following behind. Except for the one infant Griselda, who was being carried by her mother, all the children were carrying bundles also. Even little Jack and George were each carrying one-not very big, of course-toddling on their three-year-old legs.
For the past month, Sir Francis Windebank had ordered Cromwell guarded by mercenaries instead of Yeoman Warders. That had been just another of the many insults that, one piling on another, had led Andrew Short to return to that same dungeon. Not as a guard, but as a jailbreaker.
He was glad of it, now, though. He'd have found it very hard to kill Warders.
"There's an attack on the Tower!" Andrew shouted at the two soldiers, pointing back over his shoulder with his left hand. When their eyes followed, he drew his pistol and shot them both. Twice each. Their halberds clattered to the stone. One blade was chipped; the other, cushioned by landing on its owner's corpse.
