Grantville Gazette Volume 25

by editor Paula Goodlett

  * * *

  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."

  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

  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 th
en 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?"