"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-"
He hesitated. Turenne owed his unexpected elevation and influence entirely to Richelieu's favor. He was hardly inclined to criticize the man openly. Still, he was convinced that success would depend, as much as anything else, on the extent to which his newly formed officer staff could absorb the lessons of the future.
He cleared his throat. "Cardinal Richelieu, as you all know, is an extremely astute and wise leader. But he is not a soldier-"
Again, he broke off. That wasn't quite fair, after all. The cardinal had overseen several military campaigns, and from a close distance.
"Even if he were," he added a bit hastily, "he'd be likely to misgauge the situation." Again, he gestured toward the manuscripts. "You'll find a pithy little saying somewhere in those pages, which I was so taken by that I adopted it for my own. 'Generals always plan to fight the last war.' " A soft little chuckle went up from several of the officers.
"In any event, it is my belief that the cardinal is underestimating the effect which the new technology of the Americans is going to have on the tactics and methods used by Gustavus Adolphus." Harshly: "For certain, judging from my one brief meeting with him, Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar will make that mistake."
Most of the officers were now either scowling or wincing, or both. Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar led the mercenary army which controlled Alsace, on the payroll of the French crown. His reputation for arrogance and rudeness had become something of a byword among the officers of the French army, especially the ones who were young or not of noble birth.
"Bernhard, full of vainglory, will go straight at the Swede," predicted Turenne. "And-have no doubt of it-the Swede will crush him. And would crush us as well, did we make the same mistake." Again, the little gesture toward the manuscripts. "The weakness in the Swede will be his logistics. And that is where we will strike, gentlemen. So forget any fancies you might have about dramatic cavalry charges. Dragoons, we'll be, more often than not. Raiding, where we can, not fighting; and, when we must fight, doing so on the defensive as much as possible. If any of you finds that beneath your dignity, best you let me know at once. There will be no dramatic wheeling caracoles in our tactics, and precious few if any thundering charges."
He paused, waiting. Not to his surprise, none of the officers indicated any discomfort at his words. Turenne had handpicked them carefully.
"Good," he said, nodding. "Robert, would you be so kind as to remain behind?"