1634: The Baltic War (assiti chards)

by Eric Flint

  All four shots had hit center mass. A bit below the ideal sniper's triangle, as Lefferts called it, but Andrew hadn't wanted to take the risk with an up-time pistol he still hadn't fired all that often. It didn't matter. The men were both dead, and it didn't take Andrew long to find the keys.

  By the time he got the outer door open and was starting to work on the door to the actual cell, his nephew Jack had arrived. "Help me with these bolts, lad. There are a damn bloody lot of them, just to hold one man."

  They got the ramp up to the great gaping hole that had been blown in the side of St. Thomas' Tower by the simple expedient of tossing up a rope. With one end of the rope attached to one end of the ramp and Tom Simpson pulling on the other end, there it was. Quick as that-all they had to do was help guide it and then anchor the bottom to the wharf with some spikes. It took longer to muscle the damn thing out of the barge in the first place.

  Melissa Mailey was the first one to appear at the top, hesitating as she looked down the very steep incline. Gutsy as she might be, she was still almost sixty years old, with the caution that had slowly seeped in over the years when it came to any sort of acrobatics. This was no shallow cruise ship ramp, either. It was more like a heavy ladder, pitched at no better than a forty-five degree angle.

  She took her first awkward, gingerly step. Then retreated hastily, when she realized she'd have to go down backwards, as if she was using an actual ladder. She took her first awkward step in that pose, feeling behind her uncertainly for the first of the boards that had been nailed across the ramp to provide footing.

  "Christ, this is gonna take forever," Harry muttered. He heard another shot from Julie's rifle, the first one since she'd killed the gun crew. That meant soldiers were starting to appear somewhere on the Outer Wall.

  Tom Simpson's huge form appeared at the top of the ramp. The man was so big it was easy to forget he'd also been a top college athlete. More gracefully than Harry could have imagined, Tom eased himself down the ramp next to Melissa, picked her up in a fireman's carry-close enough, anyway-and had her down on the wharf in less than five seconds.

  She only squawked once. Harry was impressed. Tough old bird.

  As soon as the ramp was clear, Harry raced up. Don Ohde and Sherrilyn came behind him, moving more slowly since they were carrying rifles instead of a pistol.

  "Another one," said Alex Mackay. "No, two. To your left, by the Bell Tower."

  Julie's aim shifted. Three seconds later, she fired. Three seconds later, fired again.

  Neither Anthony nor Patrick was watching any longer for inconvenient passers-by, other than a quick glance every ten seconds or so. No need to, really. In Southwark, by now, any pedestrian who'd been ambling about in the vicinity was long gone.

  But they'd probably have done the same, even if alertness had been necessary. Experienced soldiers both, they were simply too fascinated by what they were seeing. The concept of "marksmanship" was by no means unknown, in their day, to be sure. Some of Patrick's skirmishers were very good shots, with their rifled muskets.

  But that was by a definition of "good shots" that now seemed as antiquated as the pharaohs. They'd heard the tales of the young American woman's ability to use a rifle, but hadn't really quite believed them.

  They did, now. Reaching across an entire river, she was striking down any man who showed himself on the Outer Wall. Seven of them, all told, since she'd taken out the four men on the gun crew. She'd only missed once-and that was if you counted as a "miss" a man whose shoulder was shattered and was as surely out of the fray as if he'd been slain outright.

  "Now, another. All the way over by the Well Tower."

  A few more seconds passed, and the angel of death spread her wings again.

  By the time Stephen Hamilton reached the entrance to the Lodging, all the women and children of the family were out and starting to pass through the gate into the Water Lane. And by then, of course-with two deafening explosions, one coming from the White Tower and one from St. Thomas' Tower-some of the Warders were coming out also.

  Stephen stopped fifteen feet from the entrance and took out his pistol. One of the wonderful American automatic pistols, it was. Captain Lefferts had given one to him and one to Andrew, and then taken them out into the country a few weeks back to practice with the weapons.

  The three Warders who'd come out included one of the other captains of the force, Charles Hardy. With his left hand, Hamilton pulled a small packet out of his coat pocket and tossed it to him.

  "Here, you'll need this in a moment."

  Confused, Hardy looked down at the object in his hand. "What's in it?"

  "They're called sulfa drugs. I had Lady Simpson make up the packet for me. They're good for flesh wounds, keep them from getting infected. Just sprinkle the stuff on."

  Hardy stared at him.

  Hamilton made a face. "Sorry, Charles. But if you lads don't suffer any casualties at all, it'll look bad." He brought up the pistol and fired. Once, twice, thrice. All three Warders fell to the ground, yelling with shock and clutching their legs.

  "They're just flesh wounds. Nasty ones, I admit. Remember-sprinkle the stuff on. Better do it quickly, too."

  Hamilton left. Running now. He hadn't shot the three Warders in any hope that would stop the others from doing their duty. He'd simply done it out of a sense of duty of his own, as peculiar as others might think it to be.

  The Bloody Tower, next. But when he arrived, he saw that John and William had already knifed the guard and were opening the door with the keys they'd found on him. So Stephen continued on, to check the progress with loading the family on the barge.

  "Thank God I talked Windebank into letting her and the kids move into Wakefield Tower, last month, since he was hardly ever using it himself. I got no idea how we'd have gotten them out of the Lodging."

  Harry listened to Rita Simpson with only part of his mind, as he peered across the walkway. "We'd have managed, somehow," he murmured. "Damn. I don't think the bastards are going to make it easy for us."

  He'd hoped the officers quartered in Wakefield would have come to investigate the explosion right next door to them in St. Thomas' Tower, but no such luck. Cowards, sluggards, simply confused, it didn't make any difference. They'd have to blow their way in.

  No problem. Sherrilyn and Don had taken positions to deal with anyone who tried to come into the Water Lane or showed up somewhere on the Inner Wall where Julie couldn't spot them. But their rifles wouldn't have been much use for this, anyway. And, in the meantime, George Sutherland and Paul Maczka had showed up.

  Just in time, too. What seemed like a veritable flood of women and children had come up into St. Thomas' Tower and were making their way down the ramp to the wharf below. Felix and Darryl were helping them, while Matt stayed with the barge.

  "Okay, guys," he said. "It's shotgun time and you're the two designated trolls." He pointed at the heavy door across the walkway. "Don't know if it's locked or not."

  "What does it matter?" grunted Sutherland. "Just let me switch to slugs."

  That didn't take long. Two blasts at close range into the door latch and it didn't matter if it had been locked or not. George's great bulk slammed against the door, and that was that. Harry wondered if he'd be able to sweet-talk Sutherland and Simpson into having an arm-wrestling match, just to pass the time as they crossed the North Sea.

  Probably not a good idea, though. They might capsize the ship.

  "Clear!" George bellowed from inside. Paul had already passed through, continuing into the next chamber. Harry heard him fire two rounds. At whatever, probably nothing. The sound alone, inside the stone walls of Wakefield, would be enough to stun anybody for a second or two.

  "Clear!" Maczka shouted.

  "Okay, Rita, let's go."

  Once inside Wakefield, with George and Paul blasting their way ahead-they still hadn't actually shot anybody yet, since the Tower seemed to be deserted-Harry let Rita guide him.

  "Here," she said, stopping
at a door. "The poor woman's probably frightened out of her wits."

  "Good thing I'm such a charmer then, huh?"

  He rapped on the door with the butt of his fist. Not the one holding the pistol, of course.

  "Mrs. Wentworth! Lady Strafford! Whatever! We're here to take you and your husband and your kids out of the Tower."

  He thought he heard a whimpering sound. A kid, maybe. Other than that, nothing.

  "Okay, let's try it again! If you and the kids aren't out here in ten seconds I'm going to come in and shoot every one of you deader'n doornails!"

  "Harry!"

  "Look, Rita, charm works in mysterious ways."

  And so it proved. Perhaps five seconds later, the door opened and a terrified-looking young woman peered out.

  Rita took it from there, pushing her way in. "Pay no attention to him, Elizabeth! But you do need to come, right now. No, don't take time to gather up anything. Just get the kids. Hi, Nan, how's tricks?"

  A girl, maybe six or seven years old, barreled into Rita and clutched her. "Lady Simpson, I'm frightened! What's happening?"

  "Everything's fine, sweetie. Where's-oh, there she is. Now where's William?"

  "Here," came a squeaky little voice. A boy's face peeked from around a corner, staring at Harry as if he were an ogre.

  "Well, come out, now! We've got to go."

  The boy didn't budge, his eyes still fixed on Harry.

  Rita turned her head and gave Harry a smile that would have looked good on a rattlesnake, if snakes could smile. "Why don't you just get lost, Captain Lefferts? Go find an enemy somewhere you can practice your charm on. I'll handle this."

  All things considered, that seemed like a good idea. Harry went to see what George and Paul were up to.

  Blowing Wakefield Tower into pieces, it sounded like. They couldn't really manage that, of course, just with shotguns. The stonework looked downright ancient. Still, they were giving it their enthusiastic best.

  Four soldiers appeared in the Water Lane, coming around the corner from Mint Street. Sherrilyn missed her first shot, cursed herself for buck fever, and took one of them down with her second. By then, Don Ohde was shooting too. The sole unscratched survivor vanished somewhere. The one who'd been wounded was slowly crawling his way back. From the amount of blood he was leaving behind, Sherrilyn didn't think he'd make it. But there was obviously no point in wasting a bullet on him.

  Sherrilyn caught a glimpse of motion to her right. A body hurtled off the Outer Wall, just past Cradle Tower. The sharp sound of a distant rifle shot was followed by the much duller sound of the corpse landing on the stones below.

  "She really is the best, isn't she?" Ohde said admiringly.

  ***

  Cromwell wasted a few seconds snatching up one of the dead guard's halberds, then tossing it aside when he saw the badly chipped blade, in favor of the other. But Andrew didn't begrudge him the moment. If he'd been imprisoned under likely sentence of death for months, he'd probably have done the same. And his worst fear, that Cromwell wouldn't be able to move well after such a long confinement, proved to be unfounded. Darryl had told him that Cromwell was maintaining an exercise regimen, but Andrew had been skeptical.

  "Quickly, now," he said, racing toward St. Thomas' Tower.

  Tom Simpson had braced himself for the worst. Unfortunately, Windebank had left Laud under the guard of the Warders; figuring, presumably, that a short, dyspeptic and sixty-one year old archbishop posed no great threat of escaping, be the Warders still reliable or not.

  Luckily, when he entered the Salt Tower and reached the chamber where Laud was held captive, he discovered that not only was there only one Warder on duty, but he knew him quite well. Michael Dunn, whose daughter Cecily had just barely managed to survive the winter, mostly due to Rita's medical care.

  "Tom!" Dunn exclaimed. "What is the name of all that's holy is happening out there?"

  The Warder was obviously not in the least bit suspicious, even though there was no logical reason for Tom to have entered the Salt Tower. Dunn's grip on his halberd was simply that of a man keeping a heavy weapon from toppling and hurting someone.

  "Don't know, Michael. Some sort of robbery, I think."

  Dunn frowned. "Robbery? But why-"

  Tom's fist ended that. He sucker-punched the poor guy. Hit him pretty hard, too, although at least he'd been able to catch him while he fell and keep the halberd from gashing him.

  Tom felt pretty guilty about the whole thing. But nowhere nearly as guilty as he'd have felt if he'd had to kill a Warder.

  There turned out to be a positive side to the whole thing, too. When Tom entered Laud's chambers to rescue him from captivity, he was in a peevish enough mood to handle the old man properly.

  Red-faced and shrill, Laud protested and denounced him and flatly refused to go. So, Tom sucker-punched him too, and took him out over his shoulder.

  ***

  "You slugged the archbishop of Canterbury?" Rita's mouth stayed wide open for seconds after she posed the question.

  Grimacing, Tom passed Laud's still unconscious body over to Felix and Darryl, who'd get him down the ramp and into the barge.

  "Yeah, 'fraid so. But look on the bright side, hon."

  Her mouth gaped wider still. "There's a bright side to punching out the primate of your own church?"

  "Sure is. I figure my chances of getting ordained as a priest just went down the tubes. Forget bishop."

  Rita's jaw snapped shut. "Maybe you shoulda kicked him, too. Right in the nuts."

  When they reached the gate that passed by the Bloody Tower, Cromwell stopped. "One moment, gentlemen." With no further ado, he hurried through the gate.

  "What is he doing?" asked Jack.

  Gritting his teeth, Andrew went after Cromwell. He didn't give Hayes an answer because he had no idea himself what the madman was doing.

  He caught up with Cromwell just as he was going into the Bloody Tower.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily.

  Cromwell paused and looked down at Andrew. "I'm fairly certain Thomas Wentworth needs my assistance, right about now. Knowing the man as I do."

  "And what if he does?" Andrew pointed back through the gate. "We need to get through St. Thomas' Tower and into the bloody barge!"

  To his relief, he saw that Stephen Hamilton was coming through the gate.

  "What the bloody hell is taking so long with Wentworth?" he half-shouted. "The soldiers'll be rallying any moment."

  Cromwell nodded. "What I figured."

  Hamilton glared at him. "And what are you doing here?"

  "I believe I owe the man a debt, of sorts. Seeing as how I had him executed once, in another universe." And with that, Cromwell passed through the door.

  Andrew stared at Hamilton. After a moment, with a rather odd look on his face, Stephen shrugged. "It makes sense, you know. If you look at it the right way."

  "He just sits there. Won't move, won't say anything." William Short shook his head. "We haven't known what to do."

  Cromwell moved around William and his brother, leaned the halberd against the fireplace, and came to face Wentworth. The earl of Strafford was slumped in a chair by the fireplace, looking very haggard, as if he'd barely slept that night. Which was probably the case, in fact.

  "Thomas," Cromwell said gently. "Look at me."

  Wentworth's eyes came up. Cromwell extended his hand.

  "In how many worlds can you serve the same faithless king? Be it a hundred, Thomas-be it a thousand-he'll betray you in every one. Come, man. Let's try it a different way."

  After a couple of seconds, hesitantly, Wentworth extended his own hand. Cromwell took it and drew him to his feet.

  "Elizabeth," the earl of Strafford murmured. "My children."

  "They're already on the barge," said Hamilton, who'd come into the chamber. "Now, let us go."

  They had to pass through gunfire on the way. But it was just matchlocks, fired at too great a range-and fired to
o hurriedly, at that. By now, the savage marksmanship of Donald and Sherrilyn had taken its toll on the Tower's mercenaries. And they all knew that to climb onto the Outer Wall was nothing but a death sentence.

  "Okay, listen up, everybody!" Harry bellowed, once the barge cast loose and had gotten well out into the Thames. He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. "Once we get out of London, we'll be coming alongside that small boat following us that none of you should be looking at right now even though I'm pointing to it myself. Just take my word for it. We'll do the switch then. So, Gayle-you and Oliver and Darryl and Vicky and Stephen make sure you're ready to go. Four people will be switching the other way, too."

  He lowered his hand and planted it on his hip. Then, made a flourishing gesture with his other hand.

  "For the moment, ladies and gents and kiddies, just relax and enjoy your cruise on the lovely Thames. The show is about to begin. Maestro Gerd, take it away!"

  Melissa had been staring at the ruins they'd left behind of what had once been St. Thomas' Tower. Except for possibly the Bloody Tower and the White Tower, it had been the most famous part of the world-famous Tower of London. Her face seemed gaunt. Now, hearing Harry's last words, her head came snapping around.

  "What are you talk-"

  "And one!" cried Gerd gleefully, triggering the detonator. Less than a mile upstream, a goodly part of London Bridge was suddenly engulfed in smoke.

  Melissa half-rose from her seat. "My God! You blew up London Bridge!"

  "Nah," said Harry, waving his hand dismissively. "That's just the smoke bomb-"

  "Stink bomb, too!" interjected Jack Hayes eagerly.

  "-that we set off first. Make sure there's nobody around."

  Melissa was just gaping at the sight of the bridge. Her face, pale by nature, now looked as white as a sheet.

  After ten seconds or so, her head jerked, as if something had finally registered. "What do you mean-nobody around? Nobody around for what?"