Darryl muttered something under his breath. Melissa wasn't positive, but she thought it was "Oh, sure-Black Tom Tyrant!"
For a moment, her exasperation with the whole situation flared up. "For God's sake! Darryl-just once-can you stop thinking in clichйs? Thomas Wentworth, the earl of Strafford, is not a villain out of a comic book. The truth is, I think he's basically a rather decent sort of man. Just one who takes his responsibilities and duties seriously, according to his own lights. He'll do what he thinks he has to do, in the interests of his king and country-as he sees it-but he's not going to start pulling wings off of flies."
Darryl's face settled into mulish stubbornness. It was an expression Melissa well remembered, from the days he had been one of her students. I knows what I knows; don't confuse me with the facts.
The memory lightened her mood, oddly enough. Her next words came with a chuckle. "Oh, never mind. Hopeless! But I wonder, sometimes, how you and Harry Lefferts managed to rebuild so many cars. I'm sure the manual sometimes disagreed with your preconceptions."
A bit guiltily, Melissa remembered that one of those cars had been her own. On a teacher's salary, she hadn't been able to afford a new car, and the repair bill estimate the garage had given her had caused her to blanch. Until the next day, much to her surprise, the two most obstreperous and unruly students in her class had offered to do it for her. Free of charge, as long as she paid for the parts.
And… the jalopy had run as smooth as silk, afterward.
"It's not the same thing," Darryl protested. "Engines ain't people. They don't have bad hair days and they're never on the rag." Gayle smacked him. "Uh, sorry 'bout that last. No offense intended."
Gayle was smiling; so was Melissa, for that matter. No offense intended-and, the truth was, he meant it. Darryl could no more help being uncouth than a leopard could change its spots. And, now that she thought about it, Melissa was just as glad. The day might come when her own life depended on an uncouth young leopard's ability to deal with suave and aristocratic lions. Looking at him, Melissa suspected that she'd picked the right sort of champion for the fray.
Yeah, it was a jalopy-but it did run smooth as silk after Darryl and Harry were done.
"We'll wait," she announced, returning to the subject at hand. "Whatever else, we can't afford to have them spot the antenna. That's the one thing that might make Strafford change his mind about inspecting our quarters."
"Wait, for how long?" asked Gayle.
"As long as we have to. We're in for the long haul, now, so the one thing we can't afford is to arouse anyone's suspicions." Melissa glanced out the window. "Still too much of a moon, unless it gets overcast, which it doesn't look like it's going to do tonight."
Decisively, she planted her hands on knees and levered herself upright. "Tomorrow night, or the next day, whatever. In the meantime, we'd better figure we're going to be wintering over in the Tower this year. That means we can't fool around with the risk of disease." She glanced at a different trunk, which held their medical and preventive supplies. "Good thing we brought that stuff, I guess."
She heard Tom chuckle, and couldn't help smiling ruefully herself. "That stuff" referred to several pounds of the DDT which the fledgling American chemical industry was starting to produce. Mike Stearns had insisted the diplomatic delegations take what was available-over Melissa's objections, needless to say.
Firmly, however, Melissa squelched all feelings of self-doubt. She was going to need her well-honed Schoolmarm Authority to enforce her next command.
"And we'll set Operation Ironsides under way," she pronounced.
Immediately, Darryl scowled. "The guy's a monster, Melissa! Let him rot in hell for eternity!"
"You will obey orders, soldier," growled Tom.
Darryl looked mulish and stubborn. " 'Orders' got nothin' to do with it. I didn't say I wouldn't do it. I just think it's nuts. Really really nuts."
He looked to Melissa, and spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. "Come on, Melissa. I'm begging you! Just consider-just think about it!-that maybe you're making a big mistake here."
Melissa burst into laughter. So did Tom-who, like Melissa herself, had spent the months leading up to the departure of the diplomatic mission studying everything he could find on the history of 17 th -century England. And Tom, furthermore-being a soldier himself-with a particular concentration on all of the famous military figures of the day.
"What's so damn funny?" demanded Darryl.
"You are," came Tom's immediate reply. "You don't know it, of course, but you just quoted the monster himself."
"Huh?"
" 'I beseech you in the bowels of Christ-think it possible you may be mistaken.' " Melissa grinned. "It's a rather famous little saying. Made by Oliver Cromwell addressing the Church of Scotland."
That same night, in Paris, a young French general named Turenne examined the eight officers assembled in the salon of the house which Richelieu had provided for him. Most of the officers were as young as Turenne himself, and all were known to him personally. He had handpicked them to be the staff of the new army the cardinal had ordered him to create. An army which, in private and to himself, Turenne had given the whimsical title New Model Army.
Turenne gestured toward a long sidetable positioned next to a wall. There were eight little manuscripts resting atop the piece of furniture.
"One for each of you. The cardinal had some monks copy the books he obtained. I have been through them all and summarized what seemed to me the key points." There was another and larger manuscript atop a small table in the corner. But Turenne did not mention it. That was for later, and only for one of them.
"I will expect you to have the manuscript studied thoroughly within a week, at which time we will have another staff meeting. For the moment, just read it. In the months to come, I have no doubt we'll all be arguing the fine points." The smile he gave them was both friendly and… self-confident. Already, Turenne had begun to establish what he thought was a good rapport with his immediate lieutenants. He did not want slavish obedience. At the same time, he would insist that his leadership be respected. From what he could determine thus far, he seemed to be maintaining that needed balance.
One of the officers, Henri Laporte, cocked his head. "Is there any point in particular which seems to you of special importance?"
Turenne shrugged. "Hard to say, of course, without some experience. But I suspect the most useful-immediately, at least-will be my summary account of the American Civil War. Pay particular attention to the depiction of cavalry tactics used by such officers as"-he fumbled a bit over the pronunciation of the names; Turenne's English was not fluent-"Forrest, Morgan, Sheridan… a number of others." Again, he shrugged. "You will understand that I was forced to interpret a great deal. The histories which Richelieu obtained were more often than not rather vague on precise matters of tactics… when they addressed them at all. Still, one thing seems clear enough."
Most of the officers assembled in the room were cavalrymen. Turenne gave them a long, sweeping-and very cold-stare. "Whatever romantic medieval notions of cavalry warfare you may still possess, I strongly urge you to abandon them now. Or I will have you dismissed, soon enough. This war we are entering now will be a war like no other. The cardinal-"