He pointed to the message still in Rita's hand. "The reason it gets complicated is because none of the national churches in the Anglican Polity—that's what we called all right-thinking Episcopalians all over the world, back where we came from—actually had any authority over each other. But they all recognized the archbishop of Canterbury as sort of the first among equals, so it makes sense to see if he'd be willing to get the ball rolling."
He looked over at Melissa, still grinning. "Maybe I should just ask Laud for an appointment? Talk to him about it? What could it hurt?"
"What could it hurt?" Rita's fists were clenched. "I could end up chairing Ladies' Aid meetings at a church I don't even belong to!"
Gayle and Tom started laughing. Even Melissa was smiling, now. "I agree, Rita. Fate worse than death—and I've chaired a lot of godawful meetings in my day."
Eventually, Rita's glare stifled her husband's laughter. "Look, sweetheart, I've actually got no intention of proposing myself. I have no idea why Mrs. Riddle came up with the idea. But if you strip that aside, she does have a point. We've got some Episcopalians in Grantville, with no structure—and no clear idea how to set one up with legitimate authority. Like she says, we'd be bending the rules—so would Laud, although he doesn't know the rules have been set up yet—but I'm pretty sure she's right. If I could get the archbishop of Canterbury to ordain somebody—or send somebody himself—we'd be off and running."
Tom shook his head. "It wouldn't have to be me, or anybody in Grantville. Maybe the archbishop could find someone else to send, from England. Someone who wants to be a missionary in foreign parts, or just someone he'd like to get rid of."
"He'd like to get rid of us, I expect," Darryl McCarthy interjected.
"Yes, he would," said Melissa. She looked at the message. "Especially after I pass this along."
Chapter 12
The English Channel
"Well, that's a pisser," said Harry Lefferts, lowering his eyeglass.
Standing next to him at the small ship's rail, Donald Ohde scowled at the vessel in the distance. "Doesn't anybody have any imagination? They tried this once before, and it didn't work."
"The Channel is notorious for pirates," Harry pointed out mildly. "I really don't think we got spotted making our way through France. Especially as fast as we moved."
Paul Maczka was standing at the same rail, to Harry's left. "No ambush, you're saying."
"Can't see it, Paul. I mean, why would the French bother with a complicated ambush? They had to do it with Becky's ship, because she was a diplomat and they couldn't let their hand show. Us? We were just thugs sitting in a tavern in Dieppe, dickering to buy a boat. The guy who sold it to us probably figured we wanted it to turn pirates ourselves. Send in a platoon of infantry, that's all."
Both Paul and Donald were scowling now. Harry smiled. "Yeah, well, so that platoon gets shot up. They send in a whole company. We're still fried, guys, before we even set foot on our new boat."
He looked back at the ship pursuing them. "No, this is just garden-variety piracy. We still got to deal with it, though."
Donald shrugged. "Easy enough."
Harry shook his head. "Not so easy as all that. Oh, sure, ole Jeff could just send them packing with a few grenades. But he didn't care if there were any witnesses left. We can't afford that."
He'd said "ole Jeff" with that certain note of approbation that one righteous hillbilly refers to another member of the clan. A few years back, he'd have done no such thing, of course. Harry had never been one of those high school jocks who harassed geeks, but that was simply because such behavior was beneath his dignity. Does a lion harass mice? Still, his attitude toward geeks like Jeff Higgins hadn't been any different, really.
However, that was then, and this was now. Jeff still wasn't a hillbilly, properly speaking, and never would be, but Harry was quite willing to extend him honorary membership. He'd landed one of the best-looking girls around and blown close to a dozen Croat cavalrymen into pieces, hadn't he? What more could you ask for?
"No . . ." Harry mused. "We can't do it Jeff's way."
He glanced to the northeast, checking to see that they weren't too close yet to entering the Strait of Dover. Then he turned his head and looked at the helmsman. That was Matija Grabnar. Like many of the commandos in Lefferts' unit, his ethnic background was a mix; in his case, German, Slovene and Lithuanian. For whatever reason, Harry seemed to attract hybrids. He claimed it was because his charismatic personality and proven leadership qualities just naturally drew the cream of the crop from every nation.