The first thing Harry Lefferts said after Mike clambered aboard Hamers' ship and explained they were headed for Amsterdam was, "Jeez, boss, you're making major decisions of state just to get laid?"
Mike ignored that. The first thing Melissa Mailey said—pointing a rigid finger at Harry—was, "Does the United States of Europe have firm laws on the books prohibiting the destruction of historic monuments; and if not, why not?"
Mike decided to ignore that, too. The first thing his sister said—pointing a rigid finger at her husband Tom—was, "Dammit, Mike, you're his commander-in-chief. Tell him he can't do it!"
Hard to ignore your own sister. "Do what?"
"Become a goddam priest! Or maybe even a bishop!"
Mike now looked at his brother-in-law. Tom had a sheepish expression on his face, and was rubbing his jaw with a hand that looked almost the size of a dinner plate.
"Well . . . It's like this, Mike." He glanced at a small, elderly, red-faced man standing in the stern of the ship and engrossed in conversation with a tall younger fellow. From descriptions he'd gotten and their apparel, Mike assumed that was the archbishop of Canterbury and Thomas Wentworth.
"Rita's ticked off," Tom continued, "because she figured—so did I—that after I coldcocked Laud while rescuing him that my chances of getting ordained were about zero. But it turns out the archbishop doesn't remember any of that. I guess I slugged him harder than I thought. The only thing he seems to remember—vaguely—is that I'm the guy who got him out of captivity. And his mood's improving by the minute."
"Do something, Mike!" shrilled Rita.
Chapter 64
Düsseldorf
Duchy of Berg
"A complete, total, unmitigated disaster," concluded Francois Lefebvre, the cavalry officer who also served Turenne's small army as its de facto intelligence officer. He tossed the Düsseldorf newspaper onto the big table at the center of the tavern's main room. "That's assuming this account is reasonably accurate, but I'm pretty sure it is. Every item in it that we've been able to check against what few French reports we've gotten has proven to be so."
"And what exactly are those reports, Francois?" asked Jean de Gassion.
Lefebvre made a face. His lips, curled into a sarcastic sneer; his brows, wrinkled with exasperation. "Not much, Jean—and with only one exception, they're all reports coming from officers or soldiers passing through here in what they call a 'retreat.' Passing very quickly through, in a tearing hurry to get back to France."
"Deserters, in other words," snorted Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt.
Marshal Turenne waved his hand. "We should be a bit charitable here. If the reports are even halfway accurate, our army was shattered outside Luebeck. At—"
He leaned over in his chair and reached for the newspaper. "What are they calling it?"
"The Battle of Ahrensbök," Lefebvre supplied. "At least, that's what the Germans and Swedes are calling it."
Turenne picked up the newspaper and scanned the front page. "Well, they won it, so they get to pick the name."
"Just as well," said de la Mothe-Houdancourt, his tone of voice every bit as sarcastic as his snort had been. "If we named it, we'd have no choice but to call it the Battle of the duc d'Angoulême's Rear End."
That brought a laugh from most of the officers at the table or standing near it. Even Turenne couldn't help but smile.
"My point, Philippe," he continued, "is that any great defeat produces a flood of men—officers, too, don't ever think otherwise—racing to get out of the disaster. That's not quite the same thing as desertion, I don't think."
The marshal's tone of voice was very mild, as it had been throughout the discussion since it began. De Gassion cocked his head and gave his commander a long and considering look.
"Why so diplomatic?" he asked suddenly. "If you'll pardon me for asking, sir. Whatever else this terrible defeat produces, it'll lift your name in Paris. No need, any longer, to soothe the thin skins of men who've just demonstrated their complete incompetence."
Turenne smiled and laid the newspaper down. "So naïve, Jean! You're a good cavalry officer, but you've still got a lot to learn about the way factional battles are fought. Yes, it's certainly true that the results of Ahrensbök make the French army's top officers look like fumblers, at best. And it's also true that our raid on Wietze spares us from the same accusation. But if you think that will result in a calm and deliberate consideration of the reasons for the disaster, you are living in a fantastical world of your own. What it will actually do is fuel the factional disputes. What's that incomprehensible American expression? The one about the muscular poison?"