The Baltic War(238)

"But not you," said Patricia, eyeing her brother-in-law.



"No, not me," said Stephen Hamilton. "Jane and I had no children of our own. So there's really no reason I can't do a bit of the gadding about. And the captain asked me to. He's a bit concerned that the party which will be heading into the Fens and Scotland lacks a sufficient number of . . . ah, people."



That was the diplomatic way of putting it. What Harry Lefferts had actually said was: "Stephen, there ain't no better rifle shot in the world than Julie, and her husband and my man Darryl are both solid guys. So's Gayle Mason, for that matter, even if she ain't a guy. And I got no reason to think otherwise of Cromwell. But the fact remains that they could really use a shooter. If you know what I mean. Not long-range, not stout-hearted, not any of that bullshit. Put a pistol in a man's face and blow his head off right now and not blink. That kind of shooter. I think they're going into a world of hurt and they'll need it."



He smiled a little, at the memory. Stephen Hamilton was coming to like Harry Lefferts, and he was a man who liked very few people. Perhaps that was because Harry reminded him of a younger version of himself.



He coughed, disguising the smile with his fist. "Well . . . I should have said those are their official duties so long as Michael Stearns is the prime minister. It's quite unclear, actually, what will happen if Stearns loses that position. Knowing Captain Lefferts as I do now, I suspect the real allegiance is to the man, not the post."



"Oh, yes," murmured Andrew Short. He was smiling faintly also. Both men had come to the conclusion early on that they'd willingly exchange the formal security of their posts as Yeoman Warders for the considerably less stable positions of being—as the Americans might put it—"one of Harry's guys."



They were quite medieval themselves, in many ways, Stephen Hamilton and Andrew Short. Harry Lefferts commanded loyalty and trust from his people as naturally as he breathed, and one could only conclude that the same was true of the man he considered his own liege lord, Michael Stearns.



Stephen and Andrew had had their fill of overlords like King Charles and the earl of Cork and Sir Francis Windebank. They'd gladly trade them in for a very different sort, and leave the rest to Providence.



"So there it is," Hamilton concluded. "I'll go with them, the rest of you go across to the Continent. We'll see each other, soon enough."





The only clear memory Mike Stearns thought he'd ever retain of the Achates' voyage across the North Sea was that he was seasick the whole time. Whatever its other qualities, the shallow-draft, paddle-wheeled timberclad was a tub on the open sea.



No, he'd have two clear memories. The other was of Captain C.H. Baumgartner's lugubrious commentary.



"Blind luck the weather's holding up," he pointed out. "Sheer happenstance. This time of the year, a good channel gale would capsize us in a minute."



He made that statement on at least ten occasions, that Mike could recall. The first time, before they'd even finished casting off from the pier at Ritsenbuttel.



And that was among his cheerier comments. Some others were:



This thing was never designed for the open sea, you know. He's a fine man, the admiral, and a splendid commander. But an incorrigible optimist, all the same.



Very rough weather it has, the North Sea. Even seaworthy craft negotiate its waters at their peril.



Don't believe anyone who tells you drowning's a good way to die. Sheer nonsense. Your mind ruptures even before your lungs do. By the time life flees your body, your sanity's already gone.



Not too many sharks in these waters. But it hardly matters, with all the scavengers. Nothing but your bones will settle on the seafloor, you can be certain of that.



In between bouts of puking over the side and trying not to get pitched overboard in the process, Mike wondered where and when and how—most of all, why?—John Chandler Simpson had selected Baumgartner to be one of his ship captains. The miserable bastard could cast a pall of gloom over a wedding. Invite him to a christening, and all he'd talk about would be the baby's inevitable death. Of old age, if he was lucky—that would be accompanied by a long recitation of the ailments visited upon the elderly, in grisly detail—but more likely of some horrid childhood disease. Or an accident, as a teenager. Or syphilis, if he made it to his thirties.



If he'd had the strength, Mike would have strangled the captain and taken his chances in a court of law. Could you convict a nation's chief executive officer of mutiny for killing one of his own subordinates? He didn't think so. And a straightforward charge of homicide would fall flat on its face. Be laughed out of court, in fact, if he finagled himself a jury trial. Had history ever witnessed a clearer case of justifiable homicide? The jurors would carry him out of the courtroom on their shoulders.