"He's planning an escape, Stephen. That's why he's afraid to get Victoria pregnant."
Hamilton shook his head. "Not exactly. Yes to the second, no to the first. Yes, that why he's restrained himself. But, no, he's not planning an escape. He's expecting one."
Andrew's head turned, in the direction of St. Thomas' Tower. Hamilton had no difficulty following his thoughts. Who knew what devices the Americans had with them? Wentworth had never ordered a search of their quarters. Who knew if they'd been able to stay in touch with their people back on the continent? And if they had, who knew what might be coming to the Tower? Stephen and Andrew had not only heard the accounts, they'd spoken to veterans returned from the continent. Yes, it was true that Wallenstein had been struck down from a range that was not known for certain-but it was certainly longer than the Thames was wide.
"What do you want to want to do?" asked Andrew. He gave his older kin a look that was quite hard itself.
"Can't see where it's any of our business, any longer," said Hamilton. "Seeing as how our superiors have not seen fit to trust us."
Andrew nodded. "The way I see it too." His gaze went back to the wall of the kitchen that faced St. Thomas' Tower and, after a moment, softened a great deal.
"This speaks well of my future brother-in-law, I'm thinking."
Hamilton could feel the latch closing, and knew that he'd come to his decision. Somewhere in that bleak and savage wasteland within the Warder captain that other men would call a soul, a young American had just completed a journey. He'd passed over from one of them to one of mine.
"Oh, yes," said Hamilton softly. "It speaks very well of him indeed."
Chapter 27
Amiens Picardy, France March 1634
After stomping into the office that Robert du Barry and Yves Thibault maintained for their new arms manufactory, shrugging out of his winter coat and hanging it on a peg, Henri de la Tour d'Auvergne glared at his two subordinates. Or glared in their direction, at least.
"The Vicomte de Turenne seems in a foul mood today," said du Barry. The French cavalry office's tone of voice was mild.
His civilian gunsmith partner looked up from the sketches on the table. "Must be the local Picards pissed him off again, the way they butcher the French language. Or maybe he just doesn't like every building made out of dark red brick."
"Including ours."
"Very witty," growled the twenty-two-year-old French marshal, brushing a bit of snow from his trousers and wiping his boots on a mat. "I wasn't actually thinking of you at all-though if you maintain this stupid badinage, I may yet."
"God forbid." Du Barry pointed to the sketch. "Well, come here, then. This should cheer you up, Henri."
His expression lightening, Turenne came over to the table. "Do you really think you can get it to work?"
Thibault laughed. Du Barry grinned. "Better yet." He jerked a thumb at the gunmaker. "Yves has one already made. And, yes, it certainly does work."
Hearing that, Turenne simply glanced at the sketch. "Show me the gun itself, then. I'm a soldier, blast it, not an artist-of which the French army has sufficient as it is." His scowl returned. "All of them loudly assuring Cardinal Richelieu that they are about to unveil a military masterpiece, in two months."
Du Barry lifted an eyebrow but asked for no clarification. It was a mark of his young commander's anger that Turenne had said anything at all on the subject of his clashes with the French military establishment, in the presence of a civilian. He'd give Robert the details later, in private.
Thibault was already heading for the door into the workshops. "This way. Since I knew you'd be arriving today or tomorrow, I have it set up in the firing range."
Five minutes later, after handling the new gun without firing it, Turenne shook his head.
"I owe you an apology, Yves. I take back every sarcastic remark I ever made on the subject of breechloaders and gunsmiths who can't control their obsession with the things."
Thibault smiled, then shook his own head. "You would probably have been right, if Servien's spies in Grantville hadn't found enough of a diagram of this mechanism for me to work from. I confess I was thinking only in terms of those wonderful modern American breechloaders. That would have been… not impossible, no, to make in small numbers. But-"
He hurried forward to cut off Turenne's certain interruption. "Yes, yes, Henri, I know! You told me once, you told me a thousand times. Better to have weapons that are good enough in numbers an army can use, than to have a few splendid ones that will only wind up hanging on the wall for a general to admire."
Turenne grinned at him, his mood obviously lightening. "My motto, indeed." He hefted the rifle. "And…"
Thibault wiggled his hand back and forth. "I can't possibly make enough of these-not in time for this spring's campaign, certainly-to arm every soldier of France. But I can have enough ready by the end of May to equip your force for what you need."
"Not soon enough, Yves. Things are getting darker by the day. How many can you have ready by… let's say, the end of April."
The gunmaker scratched his chin. Then he took a few steps to the entrance of the firing range and looked out at the big workshop beyond, in which dozens of workmen were plying their trade.
"Let's see…" he murmured. "If I take Francois off…"
Turenne turned away. From experience, he knew that Thibault would take several minutes in his muttering cogitations before he'd provide him with an answer. Might as well take the time to test the gun himself, while he waited.
He held up the rifle again, looking at du Barry. "Have you fired it, Robert?"
"Oh, yes. It's not complicated at all." He extended his hands and Turenne gave him the weapon.
"This lever here. It looks like a large trigger guard-which it is also-but it's actually what works the mechanism." He lowered the trigger guard and pulled it forward. "See how this block slides, opening the breech for loading? It's called the drop block."
Turenne leaned forward. "And the block is solid enough to withstand the powder charge?"
"More than solid enough." He closed the lever, showing how the block moved back into position, then reopened it. "There's some leakage, you understand? No way to eliminate all the backflash. The breech will wear and leak more over time, too, but it is adjustable with this screw here. That's the only adjustment on the whole rifle, so the shooters shouldn't be able to fuck it up too badly. Still, the soldiers will complain about it, so be prepared."
Turenne grunted. "Troops always complain. But they'll be so delighted at the prospect of being able to reload without standing-or reload in the saddle without dropping everything half the time-that I don't imagine the complaints will be more than what's needed to maintain soldierly self-respect."
"What I figure also. And there's this added advantage." He pointed to the face of the breechblock. "The rifle is a single-shot, you understand. Still needs to be reloaded each time it's fired. But we can used prepared cartridges-no need for messy and clumsy powder flasks-and you see this edged blade here? It will cut the linen cartridge and expose the powder, all at the same time, which makes everything very quick. All you have to do-"
He broke off while he demonstrated the steps by which the rifle was to be loaded, ending with: "And now you simply place the percussion cap on the nipple-like… so-and all that's left is to cock the hammer and pull the trigger."
He extended the weapon to his superior. "Go on, try it."
Turenne fit the stock against his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took aim at the post some twenty yards down the range. "Anything I should know?"
"Prepare to have a bruised shoulder, if you fire it enough."
Turenne frowned. "I thought it was only a half-inch bore."
"It is. What the Americans would call a.50 caliber. But it's a.50 caliber carbine, Henri. You wanted a light gun, short enough for cavalrymen to handle easily. There isn't much weight there to absorb the recoil."