by Eric Flint
"God is prone to whimsy, as you have often said," commented Donovan.
"Funny you should mention that, since he has played another joke on us. Johan tells me that after he has laid out all the bundles in the necessary places he only has enough wire left for a short fuse."
"How short?" Donovan asked suspiciously.
"Very short. Someone has to stay to light it. There should be enough time to get away from the blast."
"Should..." mused Donovan. "I've always distrusted that word."
"Should," North reiterated firmly.
"This is not a movie, Tom, and you are not some Austrian muscleman. You have a business to run. Give the job to one of the minions; that is what they are for."
"I thought you were the one who placed a higher value on human life?"
Donovan shrugged. "None of them are my friends. Besides, they're mostly Calvinists. Predestination, you know."
"Who do we have that I can trust to do this?"
"Hastings."
"Hastings is a drunk."
"He does his best fighting when he's drunk."
"Yes, well. We ran out of liquor a hundred miles back, and he has a family back home. He has to feed them, fix seven sets of teeth. Speaking of which, you still have your own appointment with Doctor Sims, don't you?"
"Yes, took me months, and I had to reschedule around this trip. Why are you ask—"
Slam!
North gave his friend a powerful blow to the head and knocked the Irishman to the ground. It was not enough to render him unconscious, but Liam was not able to resist North pushing him into the back of the wagon with the Spanish girl they had rescued earlier. North removed Donovan's pistol and ammunition and then closed the latch.
"Take the cost of the repairs out of my share of petty cash—and take care of that girl!" North bellowed, as he ordered the teamster forward and saw his friend driven away.
"Quinn I want you to take command of the column till Liam is up and about. Drive them fast and hard. Do not stop till the horses are ready to die. I will give you as much time as I can. If the ambassador gives you much more trouble—shoot him."
"Shoot him?" Quinn asked disbelievingly.
"Diplomatically, of course. Trust Hastings, he knows what he's doing. John, I will need a squad."
"First squad!" Hastings bellowed.
"First squad has too many old married fathers," North interrupted, with a sigh.
"Third squad! Exchange weapons, fall out and form on the bridge!"
"North..." Quinn said shaken.
"You had your adventure, lad. Something to tell your grandchildren about, assuming you can find a girl to propagate with. Now get out of here, you American whelp. Brecht! Are the explosives ready?"
"Yes, Captain. Excellent, good very work, sir. Fifteen seconds, big boom." The German chuckled and headed for the demolitions wagon.
* * *
The bridge was two hundred feet across the fast-moving Inn. Autumn in the Alps was not a temperate climate. If the approaching troops attempted to ford the river around the destroyed bridge, most would die of hypothermia before reaching the other side. Assuming the bridge would be destroyed, of course. While the sticks of dynamite certainly seemed impressive enough, North was not at all enthusiastic about his chances. The bridge was made of solid and sturdy stone and the "explosives expert" did not have great experience in the field. But every once in a while all men were capable of great things, if the reigning deities gave them their extra special attention...
"I swear to God, and any others that might be listening, that if I live through this I will never, ever, make fun of Germans again," said North solemnly.
* * *
What little cover could be quickly manufactured on the bridge was, and third squad took position behind it. Already the forward scouts of the pursuing army could be seen. A few rifle shots downed a few scouts and the rest scattered. But they were harbingers of a much larger force and would return. North was checking his weaponry and experienced a moment of panic when he thought he did not have an item to light the fuse. He quickly found his Zippo in a pocket, though. Manufactured in Bradford, Pennsylvania, it was one of the few up-time devices that was easily supplied and virtually immortal.
North saw the last of the column heading away, but Salim approached the bridge. "My master wishes to know what is happening," the Indiaman said.
"I suspect he could not care a whit. But since you seem interested, I will tell you. You and your master will ride safely away. Then, a very large group of very angry men are going to come galloping down upon me. And I will stop them with ten men of my own."
Salim did not seem to doubt North's determination, nor that of his men. Already the ten riflemen were securely behind cover, removing ammunition from their bags and setting the bullets up for easy reload. Salim had fought in many wars and battles and he certainly knew what the new weapons were capable of. But he also knew what many hundreds of soldiers were capable of.
"Are all men from your island so mad?"
"It's the rain," North explained tersely.
"Captain, they come!" one of the mercenaries yelled nervously when he saw troops appearing, a fact North was already well aware of.
"Fire on targets of opportunity, conserve ammunition. When I signal, teams of two will retreat off the bridge to safety while others cover them until all are off. Remember your numbers. Take cover, and watch your arses!" North took his own advice and sheltered behind one of the commandeered wagons that had been emptied and left behind for this purpose. The wood wouldn't stop a modern rifle or a local cannon, but against matchlocks it should suffice.
"Shouldn't you be going?" said North, when he noticed Salim wasn't moving.
The Mughal pulled out an up-time pistol—North could only assume it was recovered from a dead Albernian—and unsheathed his substantial sword.
"I thought I was mad," said North with a sardonic grin.
"Someday, I will tell you of monsoon."
* * *
"Who the hell does he think he is, John Wayne?" Quinn asked angrily. "Why couldn't we just blow the bridge and book it?"
"Time," Donovan mumbled through a bruised jaw.
"What?"
"Bridge blown, they go around. But if we wait, they attack bridge, lose men. Blow bridge with them on it, many die. Maybe Steiner, with luck. Might stop them. We need time for the column to escape."
"So he's going to wait till the last possible moment, constantly under fire, and set the fuse when they're crossing? He'll be lucky to survive."
"Yes."
* * *
"Tell me something, my new friend," said North as he fired off another double shot with his 9mm.
"What would you like to hear?" The Mughal took careful aim with his own weapon and fired one of his scarce bullets.
"I should be uttering some epic epitaph at this moment, being the hero of this piece and all that. But the only thing I can think of is 'long live the king.' Normally good enough but... well, if the truth be known the current one is a useless little prat. Have any alternative?"
"Allahu Akbar," the Mughal supplied.
"Catchy. What does it mean?"
"God is great."
"If He gets us out of this, He most certainly is." North ducked for cover when he saw the enemy infantry formation on the south bank preparing for another volley. Their fire was ineffectual, most not even reaching North's position. But they were getting closer.
"Well, at least there are no windmills about," said North, glumly leaning against the wagon.
"There is one over there." Salim pointed to a structure in the distance.
"That was a rhetorical statement." North squinted to see that it was, indeed, a windmill. "But—ha!—it figures."
After several more minutes of battle the riflemen of third squad had taken a significant toll on the approaching troops. The effective firing range for the American hunting rifles was far greater than the muskets they faced. But the rate of fire was
now dwindling off along with the supply of ammunition, and the opposing mercenaries were gradually gaining ground. It was time to think about getting out.
"Begin retreat to the horse holder!" North ordered. "Two by two! First pair, move!"
Return fire briefly intensified as Albernian mercenaries ran away from the center of the bridge to the shore. They then took position and reciprocated for their fellows until there was just North and Salim located next to the fuse. With several dozen horsemen about ready to charge against them.
"Should we not detonate now?" Salim asked, expending one of the last bullets in his automatic.
"Not yet," said North, as he took out the last cigar he had found in his saddlebag and lit it. He could see the troops massing on the other side with the minute figure of Captain Steiner in the distance. North didn't have to imagine the look on his adversaries' face, he knew it well from past experiences.
"You must," said Salim, uneasily taking another glance from cover to review the increasingly deteriorating situation.
North shook his head in disagreement. "I would not be able to live with myself if he couldn't see the smirk on my face."
"You are a madman."
"That is a separate issue. This is a matter of honor."
"We are being shot at."
"You worry too much. Most of them are matchlocks, they couldn't hit an elephant at this dist—ahh!!"
North clutched his leg in pain. It was just a flesh wound through the meat of the thigh, and, fortunately, the bullet had passed through and wasn't left lodged inside of him. Still, North wouldn't be running anywhere soon. He leaned over the wagon and saw soldiers rushing onto the bridge. He fired off again and again until his automatic was empty in an effort to dissuade them.
"Get going!" North ordered Salim.
"Can you walk?"
"No," said North, after an attempt to support his weight on his leg.
"Can you swim?"
"More or less."
"Swim with current, let it carry you away. Cold water will help stop the blood flow." Salim took North's fallen cigar and lit the fifteen-second fuse. "Disgusting habit. Go with God, Thomas North."
Salim grabbed the Englishman and heaved him over the side of the bridge, following right after him.
6
Fifty-five days after departing, the contingent of the Albernian Mercenary Company returned home, after a successful mission, and twenty-eight percent casualties. Winter was upon them and the cold northern European climate was not a welcome one for the visitors from India. A fact that was made known by Baram Khan to the company on a number of occasions.
"If he had kept at that any longer, you might have had a discipline problem," said Lawrence Quinn from atop his horse.
"If he had kept at it any longer I might have allowed one," grunted Liam Donovan. "Salim?"
"Yes, Captain?"
"Your master has still not changed his mind?"
"I am sorry, Captain, no."
"Very well, then, there is still the matter of our fee. Ten thousand pounds, or its equivalent in some reasonably hard currency. I understand he likely does not have that now. So a note for that amount or the equivalent in rupees to be drawn upon in Surat will be acceptable. We can sell the note to the East India Company."
Salim took a moment to converse with his superior. The senior Mughal listened with an impassive look and then was startled, probably when the figure was mentioned.
"My master says, 'I had no idea it be that much. I won't pay it.'"
"Somehow that is what I thought he would say. Boys! Help the Subadar find his purse."
"This is a terrible affront to the dignity of my master, and an unforgivable insult," said Salim, as he calmly watched everything of value be striped from his master's body and those of his more affluent looking followers—of whom Salim was not a member. "I should also perhaps tell you that he keeps many gemstones hidden in his turban."
"Thank you," nodded Donovan.
"Quite welcome. If we do not see each other again, I would like to say, I am sorry about your friend. I waited as long as I could."
"I know, just... Just do not believe everything in that book."
"What I believe does not matter."
* * *
"Was your stay here productive, Ambassador?" Ed Piazza asked Baram Kahn.
His question was translated by Salim but no reply was forthcoming.
"Your accommodations? I must apologize. We usually don't host dignitaries of your stature."
Again, silence.
"And I must apologize for that mercenary company, but what can one expect from hired thugs? We did not at the time have the troops to send to your aid. But I can extend to you now the services of one of our Marine cavalry platoons for your further travels. The Continent is currently—"
"That will not be necessary," Salim interrupted. "Arrangements for travel have already been made."
"Yes," said Piazza dryly. "I have no doubt they have been."
"We will of course return to Grantville on our homeward journey. My master expects that with foreknowledge you will have sufficient facilities available for his use upon our return."
"And then we discuss the other issues: treaties, trade agreements, establishment of formal diplomatic relations."
"Such issues will be discussed at a later date," Salim agreed solemnly.
"Yes, I'm sure they will." Piazza nodded stiffly. "Good day to you then, Ambassador, Salim, and we eagerly await your return."
* * *
"You were right, Liam, he's been gotten to," said Piazza over a drink in the Thuringen Gardens later that evening after the Mughal expedition had left. "Of course, you didn't help matters with your bill collection."
Donovan grinned. "We pride ourselves on our subtlety."
"The only consolation I get is that any repercussions are years... maybe decades, down the line. It won't help the enemy in the here and now."
"There was no changing his mind?"
"Would you? His reaction is perfectly understandable, given what was done to his nation. On another issue: General Jackson has been on my case; the weapons he loaned you were...?"
"Lost in the chaos of battle."
"Of course," Piazza said, thereby giving his official stamp of approval on that version of events. Something told him he might have call to send for the men of the Albernian company in the future.
"There must be something that can be done," muttered Donovan.
"What? An 'accident' on the road?"
"It would solve the problem."
"We don't play that game. Word would get out; it always does." Piazza downed his beer. "I'm sorry about Tom, Liam. His death wasn't worth it."
"They never are," replied the Irishman, ignoring his own drink. "He knew the risks."
"If the outcome had been better we could have arranged a citation. He was technically working on government contract. But as it is..."
"Keep your medals. You may run out before this damn war is done."
* * *
The corporate headquarters of the Albernian Mercenary Company was beginning to look worthy of its name. Snows were on the ground, a chill was in the air, but all of the buildings were now completed. The company even had a Christmas display, a salvaged string of multicolored lights nailed around the front of the main building. After some initial misfortunes, the power lines had been extended to the farm from the Grantville power plant.
A lone man walked into the settlement from the Grantville road. He was bedraggled and unkempt, bearded and while possessing a small limp he still had a bit of a swagger about him. He approached a collection of Germans busy emptying the business end of several bottles of local beer. The men did not give the stranger a serious glance. With the winter months upon them all manner of men were trying to get recruited into a business that would house and feed them, let alone provide a nice chunk of financial security.
"Wie heist du?" the stranger asked one of the heavy drinkers.
"Han
s," the German replied, his attention focused elsewhere.
"Hans...?"
"Hans Grünwald."
"Danke. You'll fit right in here, Hans." The stranger clapped the German on the back before entering the building without asking permission to do so.
* * *
"I'm sorry, sir. He just barged in here asking where his humidor was. Then called me a haiku-writing motherfu—"
"That is all right, Mr. Geller, I know this person. Why don't you get some sleep?" Donovan ushered the recently acquired servant out the door. Entering the inner sanctum, he spied a disheveled man fumbling about the office in search. Hair tousled, beard overgrown, and with a wild look in his eyes that would have frightened lesser men. "You're a son of a bitch. You know that, Tom."
"My cigars, my movies, and my books, damn you." Thomas North sat down in the house's study with a bottle of alcohol and a glass and set his feet on the desk. Donovan would have to have the chair cleaned as North's mud-covered clothes were clearly leaving behind stains.
"You expended your entire supply on campaign and did not purchase any more from the Spaniard. The tapes are in a box in storage. And the books I plain and simply stole. The cost of doing business. I would not have done it except I had a report a few weeks back that you were in town for a few hours and then disappeared again. And without even leaving a note! It irritated me."
"I had business." North took a heavy drink, and then coughed. "Jesus! What is this?"
"Arrack, and he turned water into wine. The Indiamen did that with dates, though I would not call it a miracle. It was, um, part of our fee. They did not seem to want to leave much behind like we had asked them to."
"I have been drinking for a very long time. I was weaned on wine. In my entire life, that has to be the absolute worst drink I have ever imbibed."
"More?" Donovan asked, ready with the bottle.
"Yes, please," replied North, holding up the glass and leaning back in his chair.
"I really did miss you," said Donovan as he poured. "Since that day on the Inn it felt like a part of me was torn away."
North snorted. "You can stop prancing about the issue, Liam! I kept your precious magnum safe. Spent every bullet in it on my way out, but the pistol is in my kit in the corner." North pointed with his glass.
