Grantville Gazette Volume 25

by editor Paula Goodlett

  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

  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.

  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 st
ank 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."