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.
His novel theories of jurisprudence would never be put to the test, however. Mike doubted if he could have strangled a mouse. Any good-sized rat would take him down, three falls out of three.
Baumgartner was a fountain of wisdom on that subject, too.
Oh, yes, the filthy creatures positively thrive here. God help a man who gets pitched on his head-which is easy to do, on this lubberly craft. If he lies unnoticed for more than five minutes, the rats will strip his flesh clean.
Mike would have been a lot better off if he'd accepted Captain Juan Hamers' offer to travel on his ship, one of the two merchant sailing vessels that were accompanying the paddle wheeler. Those vessels that would carry off the people rescued from England. The timberclad's sole function was to serve as their bodyguard. Or bank robber, if might be better to say, with the merchant ships being the getaway vehicles.
But Mike had decided that would be unwise. Everyone knew that the real risk in crossing the North Sea, given the decent weather they were having, would be borne by the shallow-draft paddle wheeler alone. Since he was the commander of the whole expedition, it would be bad for morale if he didn't go on the warship.
No, three clear memories. He'd also remember spending a fair amount of time, while puking over the side and trying not to get pitched overboard in the process, pondering a heretofore-unexamined philosophical problem.
Why was it that the expression "maintaining morale" was never applied to the commander of a military force?
Maybe he'd ask Gustav Adolf and John Chandler Simpson. If he survived the seasickness. He wasn't in the least bit worried about the other dangers of the expedition.
Then again, maybe he wouldn't. He had a dark suspicion-very dark; seasick heave your guts out dark-that they'd both just laugh at him.
Thomas Wentworth read the note one more time. Which was pointless, really, since by now he had it memorized. Perhaps some still-childlike part of his soul thought there might be some magic in the paper and ink itself, that would provide the answer for him.
From Samuel I, chapter 29, verse 10, this one:
Wherefore now rise up early in the morning with thy master's servants that are come with thee: and as soon as ye be up early in the morning, and have light, depart.
He couldn't possibly be misreading it. So, finally, it was time to decide. Until this moment, he'd not had to do so. Not really. Thomas had been entirely a passive observer in the process, whose acquiescence had been simply a matter of silence rather than outright consent.
He still had no idea what the Americans were planning specifically. But he didn't have much doubt that, whatever their scheme, it had a good chance of succeeding. For all its formidable reputation, the Tower of London was by no means impossible to escape from. Several people had done so, over the centuries.
All of those escapes had had one feature in common-they'd had help both from inside and outside the fortress. They'd never been feats carried out by a prisoner on his own.
The help on the inside was now established. Somehow, the Americans had managed to suborn at least part of the Yeoman Warders. By what means, Thomas didn't know. It could be anything, from an offer of riches to simple personal allegiance, or any combination thereof.
That still left the help needed from the outside, but Thomas didn't have any doubt that would be there on the morrow. The people whom the crown of England had kept prisoner in St. Thomas' Tower were not friendless outlaws or despised heretics, after all. They were the embassy of a foreign power, and one which had great resources to draw upon. Whatever was going to happen tomorrow morning, he was quite sure it had been months in the planning.
So, finally, there was nothing left but the heart and soul of Thomas Wentworth, now the earl of Strafford. Was he prepared to go into exile? He'd be labeled a traitor, for a certainty-and this time, the charge would be very hard to deny. Given that his escape would involve colluding with a foreign and hostile nation.