1634 The Baltic War

by Eric Flint

  Mike was about to say something—nothing practical, just something that would hopefully further lower the admiral's blood pressure. But, seeing the glance exchanged between Eddie and Tom Simpson, he kept his mouth shut. Say what you would about Eddie Cantrell's often rambunctious and sometimes downright reckless habits, the youngster had a very good brain. So did Tom, even if his thick skull, absence of a neck worth talking about, and football lineman physique often gave people the impression he was a dimwit.

  "Well, not exactly, sir," said Eddie. "The thing is—me and Tom talked it over, with Prince Ulrik and his tech whiz Baldur Norddahl—the thing is, ah, well—"

  Tom picked it up, seeing that Eddie was faltering. "The ironclads can't be used. But that's not the same thing as using the guns themselves."

  Simpson's head came up. "Explain."

  Tom lowered his own head a bit, like a football lineman expecting the ball to be snapped. "Well... you aren't going to like this, Dad. But the fact is, you're about the only person left who thinks the Monitor can really be salvaged and made fit for duty again. The damage that—ah—"

  It was his turn to falter. But his father just smiled. There was even a bit of humor in the smile.

  "The damage that your new friends and cronies Prince Ulrik and Baldur Norddahl did to my fine ship, I believe you mean to say. Less than two months ago."

  "Ah... well, yeah. And even if you're right and everybody else is wrong, not even you think the Monitor can be rebuilt in less than a year."

  "More like eighteen months," growled the admiral. "And you needn't remind me that everyone thinks I'm nuts."

  But there was no heat in the growl, and Simpson sat up erect. "I see your point, though. If we're willing to inflict still more damage on the hull, we could extract the guns."

  "We just need the ten-inch guns for now," said Eddie. "Ah, sir. There's no point in removing the carronades for this."

  Simpson nodded, his eyes now a little unfocussed as he pondered the suggestion. "No, no, you're right. The carronades are simply anti-ship weapons. Not designed to reduce fortifications the way the ten-inch..."

  He planted his hands on the armrests of his chair and swiveled to face Mike, who was sitting on a divan nearby. "Are you willing to authorize this, Mik—Prime Minister?"

  "Sure—and I don't doubt Gustav Adolf will too. Maximilian of Bavaria might not be right at the bottom of the emperor's shit list, but he's awfully damn close. But is it really a practical idea?" Mike raised his hands. "I'm not arguing the point. I simply don't know. I presume what you have in mind is taking the ten-inch guns out of the Monitor and somehow—"

  "We already figured that out, Mike," said Eddie eagerly.

  "Lt. Cantrell," growled Simpson—there was heat in this growl—"you will desist from interrupting the Prime Minister."

  Mike had to fight to keep from smiling again. But Eddie was suitably abashed.

  "As I was saying," he went on, "somehow you'll try to get the guns down to Bavaria. It'll have to be done overland, of course. Which means—I don't doubt Eddie and Tom have figured out how to do it; I don't even doubt that whatever they've figured out, as cockamamie as it may seem, would even work. But how long would it take?"

  Eddie and Tom exchanged glances again.

  "Several weeks, Prime Minister," replied Tom. "Not less than a month, maybe six weeks."

  His father snorted. "Junior officers and their eternal optimism—and they have the nerve to tell me I've got my head in the clouds." To Mike, he said: "Here's the basic rule, Prime Minister. If a junior officer tells you he can have something done in X number of days, or weeks, or months, add one or two more Xes to the equation."

  He turned his gaze back to his son and Eddie. "So. Two months. Maybe ten weeks. Which is what my own estimate would be, now that I've started thinking about it. I think you two youngsters—so quick to point out my own over-optimism when it comes to salvaging the Monitor—are drastically underestimating how hard it will be to haul several enormous cannons from Denmark all the way down to southern Germany, given the conditions of seventeenth-century roads and rivers."

  Eddie and Tom looked suitably respectful. "Well, you certainly have more military experience than we do, Admiral," said Eddie.

  Simpson chuckled. "Will wonders never cease? A public admission from Lt. Cantrell that an old fart admiral might know more than he does. But it's not actually my military experience at work here, Lt. Cantrell. Mostly, it's my industrial experience. Moving really heavy pieces of machinery—even in a factory or refinery, with good surfaces to work on and plenty of modern equipment—is hard as all hell. Trust me. Still..."

  He looked back at Mike. "How does eight to ten weeks look to you, Prime Minister?"

  Mike shrugged. "I'm hoping to have a diplomatic resolution of the problem long before then, Admiral. But it certainly won't hurt my negotiating position to let that arrogant Bavarian duke know that the same guns that turned good parts of Hamburg and Copenhagen into rubble are headed his way."

  All four of the officers in the room grinned at that.

  Mike was thinking it through, still. "In fact..."

  He looked back and forth between the Simpson, père et fils. "How about we put Tom in charge of the expedition? I think that might drive the message through Maximilian's thick hide even better. Ten-inch guns sent by Mary's husband, to be delivered—the shells from them, rather—by her son."

  Both men looked pleased by the idea. After a moment, though, Admiral Simpson frowned. "Tom's only a captain, Prime Minister. An expedition like this amounts to a heavy artillery battery, operating as an independent command under special conditions. We really should have a major in charge, at least. A colonel would be better."

  "No sweat," said Frank Jackson. The army colonel, who served as General Torstensson's special aide for anything involving up-time military tech, had been silent thus far in the meeting. "I'll have Lennart promote the fine lad."

  But before he finished, Tom was shaking his head. "I'd just as soon avoid that, sir, if you don't mind. It'll look like special favors being applied, especially if you jump me up to colonel. Major would probably be okay—but my father's right. An independent command like this really should have a colonel in charge. What I'd suggest is that you give Heinrich Schmidt a promotion to colonel. He's way overdue, if you ask me. If he hadn't had to basically sit out the war guarding Becky in Amsterdam, he'd have gotten it by now."

  "True enough," said Frank.

  "He's a top-notch field officer," Tom continued. "He and I have worked together before and we get along really well. And the truth is, Heinrich has a lot more experience than I do commanding the size force this would take. So that's my recommendation, Colonel Jackson. Promote Major Schmidt to colonel, put him in charge of the expedition, and then you could promote me to the major who serves as his staff officer. Nobody would squawk at that."

  Tom gave Eddie another glance. "And—ah, if this wouldn't interfere with the Lieutenant's marital plans—"

  "Hell with that," said the admiral. "Lt. Cantrell is still on active duty. He's engaged to King Christian's daughter, that's all, with no wedding date having been set yet—and I can tell you the king is in no hurry to set it, either, as young as she is. So, yes, I agree it's a good idea. The Navy can send Lt. Commander Cantrell along as the special advisor for the big guns."

  He grinned, for the first time Mike could remember since news came of Mary's captivity in Bavaria. "Sure, why not? May as well hand out promotions all around, while we're at it. Shove that up Maximilian's ass, too. Which"—the grin widened and grew positively evil—"if he doesn't come to his senses, will soon measure ten inches in diameter."

  Naturally, Eddie being Eddie, he couldn't resist the temptation. "Well... the diameter of the shells isn't actually quite that—"

  "Shut up, Eddie," hissed Tom. His own eyes grew a little unfocussed. "I can tell you to do that, I think."

  "Actually, you can't," grunted his father. "The army rank of major is roughl
y equivalent to the naval rank of lieutenant commander, so your relationship is that of peers, not commander and subordinate." He gave Eddie a very fish-eyed look. "On the other hand, I can demote the impertinent fellow as quickly as I can promote him. So that problem could be remedied."

  At least, this time, Eddie had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

  * * * *

  After Eddie and Tom left, to start working on a detailed plan of action, Frank Jackson turned to Mike. "I hope I can make good my boast. But I'm pretty sure I'm right, that General Torstensson will approve the plan. It's his call, of course."

  * * * *

  As it turned out, Torstensson was delighted with the idea—but for reasons that hadn't even occurred to anyone else.

  "Oh, splendid. On the way there, you can make a short detour and bring those guns before the walls of Ingolstadt. That ought to solve that problem, for sure."

  Admiral Simpson did not look pleased at the idea. "General, that 'short detour' will take at least three weeks."

  Torstensson waved his hand airily. "Nonsense. It won't take so much as a minute." He had a very evil sort of grin himself, when he wanted to put it on. "You don't know General Johan Banér like I do, John. The moment I let him know that we're sending the world's best siege guns down to help him reduce Ingolstadt, he'll move heaven and earth to make sure he seizes the city before the guns can even get there. Lest he have to share any of the credit with miserable fucking up-time artillery shitheads."

  Mike chuckled. "Heinrich Schmidt's a down-timer, actually."

  "Not the way Banér looks at these things, Michael," said Torstensson, shaking his head. "That man is to bigotry what the ocean is to wet. Practically its definition. Schmidt has supped with the devil, so he's a devil himself. And he'll be irate to begin with, once I let him know I'm sending some of my regiments down to lend him a hand."

  Again, he made that airy hand-waving gesture. "So have no fear, Admiral. Your expedition won't have to deviate from its route so much as an inch. Banér will figure out a way to take Ingolstadt, be sure of it. He's an asshole, sure enough, but he's also quite a good general." He chuckled himself. "And a good thing that is for him, too. Or I think our blessed king and emperor might take Johan's own advice and remove yet another Swedish nobleman's head. His. Gustav Adolf finds him every bit as annoying as I do. But Johan's good at his trade, he surely is."

  Chapter 36

  Audacter Calumniare

  Neuburg

  Marc Cavriani was seriously disillusioned by his first introduction to serious intelligence gathering. It seemed a bit deflating that instead of indulging in elaborate skullduggery, intrigue, and derring-do, they could have found out where Frau Simpson and Frau Dreeson were just by staying right here and reading this week's newspaper when it was delivered from Nürnberg.

  His father just smiled. "I will point out that by being in Neuburg, we had at least gotten the news two days before the paper came out, since the observer sent to Freising by Egli had gone to the expense of a special messenger. This allowed me to send another courier across the Danube to Duke Ernst. It also allows us two additional days of time to use for planning the best way to utilize the resources of Cavriani Frères de Genève in arranging a rescue."

  The word "rescue" perked Marc right up. Leopold's smile broadened, almost became a grin. He could still remember the vigorous approach of youth to these things; even if, at his current age, he was firmly determined that the operative verb would not be "to rescue" but "to arrange."

  Beyond that, Leopold said—life was frequently like that and the firm's other lines of work only rarely involved more gallantry and romance than did counting spools of drawn wire for Jacob Durre in Nürnberg or estimating the cost of pumps for hammer mill operations in the Upper Palatinate. Marc should not in any way expect occasions for gallantry and romance to arise in the course of his duties.

  * * * *

  Amberg, the Upper Palatinate

  Julius Wilhelm Zincgref contemplated his latest assignment with some disbelief. Not that he hadn't expected Duke Ernst to order some propaganda about villains who kidnap intrepid ladies. He was, after all, the regent's paid publicity agent and public relations "spin doctor." He loved that up-time description. He just hadn't quite expected the items that he would need to include to be so complex.

  There was, for example, the question of just whom to use for the villain. There were quite a few possibilities, none of them really good. Von Wenzin, the bailiff in Grafenwöhr, had continued tracking down the evidence of Kilian Richter's various activities over the past fourteen years with the tenacity of a little bulldog. Once that man got his teeth into something, he just didn't let go. A report arrived at Duke Ernst's office every morning. Böcler duly copied them and sent them on to Zincgref. Elias Brechbuhl, who figured that even with Veronica out of the picture, his children and sisters-in-law still had valid claims, kept working on Richter's various endeavors in the field of property misappropriation and sending the reports to Hieronymus Rastetter, who also provided them to the regent. Eric Haakansson Hand had people examining Richter's ties to Arndt and the crooked trail of Arndt's legal practice.

  Brechbuhl also reported that according to his sister-in-law Clara's husband, Nicholas Moser and Dorothea Richter had appeared in Nürnberg. The two idiots (that was Matthias Schreiner's description, not Brechbuhl's) were eloping and had appealed to Dorothea's relatives there for a loan of money to travel the rest of the way to Grantville. Young lovers fleeing from a dastardly father; always an appealing motif. Fleeing the possibility that the girl might be Immured in a Convent by her villainous father; even better as Protestant propaganda.

  Zincgref sighed. All of this still did not make Kilian Richter into a usable political villain.

  Oh, he could have made him into a wonderful villain if he had been writing about the Richter family. He might yet, some day; he wasn't sure. A neo-Latin epic? A tragic play on the model of the ancients, with the protagonist finally destroyed by his own hubris? Possible, very possible. Except, of course, that Böcler said that his friend Harsdörffer in Munich was already beginning a neo-Latin epic on the subject of the abduction. That left a play. Oh, well. Not as prestigious in the literary world, but probably more profitable in the long run. Perhaps a Latin original text with translations made available for popular productions.

  Unfortunately, if one were not writing a play, the truth appeared to be that Richter was just a greedy man. He had not collaborated with the Bavarians, as far as anyone could find out, for any motive more complicated than his desire to collect all of his father's properties in his own hands and then accumulate more wealth. He certainly had not collaborated with the Bavarians because he was politically opposed to the United States of Europe or to the up-timers, because neither had existed when he began his evil deeds.

  And, above all, there was no motive, anywhere in all of it, for Richter to have included Mary Simpson in his devious machinations. For a good, rousing, denunciation, it was really not feasible to end with the sentence, "And by the way, the villains accidentally attacked Admiral Simpson's wife as well."

  Not to mention that Duke Ernst and Hand said that the real lurking political villain whom Zincgref was to denounce was John George of Saxony, who was a Protestant and had no known connections to Kilian Richter at all.

  Arrrgh. He had a very short draft.

  Three days later, his mood brightened minimally. The regent and Hand had changed their minds as to the proper villain. He was to go through the draft of his pamphlet and change the name of John George, wherever it appeared, to Duke Maximilian. That made a little more sense. Kilian Richter as the tool of the venomous Bavarian. Zincgref started to write a longer pamphlet.

  Eric Haakansson Hand kept gathering every morsel of information he could find on the attorney Arndt. There was quite a bit in it concerning his activities on behalf of the landgrave of Leuchtenberg.

  In Grafenwöhr, von Wenzin followed up Wilhelm Bastl's passing comment and ti
ed the two bargemen to families in Pfreimd. They were Leuchtenberger, both of them. The bailiff in Pfreimd sent information about the family of the one named Forst. It was large, he said. Moreover, one of the men who were of interest to the regent had a cousin who was working in Amberg, right in the Schloss. They might well wish to question her.

  Except that, upon investigation, she had died in the epidemic. Hand closed the file.

  Böcler, to provide raw material for his friend Harsdörffer's projected epic, sat down and read through everything in order. He saw the name of the cousin. Riffled through the accounts. Identified her with the chambermaid who had been assigned to clean the rooms of Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Dreeson. Ha!

  He dashed down the corridor, just in time to prevent Zincgref's eloquent but mistaken blast against Duke Maximilian from being taken to the printer. The day after that, the radio and newspaper reports in regard to the bargemen, the Landgravine Mechthilde, and the dumping of Mrs. Simpson and Mrs. Dreeson into her presence in Freising started to arrive.

  Zincgref was rather relieved by these reports, since he had already spent several hours going through his manuscript substituting Leuchtenberg for Maximilian in all the appropriate places, and pointing out wherever possible, because he didn't want to waste the excellent diatribes against the duke of Bavaria that he had already written, that the landgrave was a client of Maximilian living in exile in Bavaria.

  Eric Haakansson Hand, in a few spare minutes, read through the draft, grabbed a few intelligence reports, and pointed out that the landgrave had not been mentally or physically capable of villainy for quite some time. With a sigh, Zincgref, noting that the landgrave's sister was married to the villainous Maximilian's brother, went through the manuscript once more, substituting Mechthilde's name for that of her brother.

  In that form, the propaganda pamphlet finally went out, a full week past the deadline that Duke Ernst had originally set him. Zincgref's final hypothesis that Mechthilde and Albrecht were, as the employers of the two bargemen, the immediate villains in the kidnapping and that they had been acting upon the instigation of Duke Maximilian, the malignant general of the Catholic League, would remain unkillable ever more because it was now in print. Certainly, this version of the events suited Gustav Adolf and Oxenstierna splendidly.