“Gustav Adolf left a garrison in Erfurt—after stripping the town clean of all its hard currency—and marched straight south. He passed through Arnstadt on the seventh. Yesterday. He did not stop, however. According to reports from some of the hunters, he was driving his army very hard. By now they must be south of the Thuringenwald.”
Rebecca’s face was creased with worry. “The Swedes have stripped the entire central province of the bulk of its stored food. They paid for it, mind you. There was no looting.” She laughed harshly. “Except for the archbishop’s gold in Erfurt, of course, which is what they used to buy their provisions.”
Willie Ray Hudson snorted. “Great! So everybody in central Thuringia’s got a pocket full of money and no food. Except us, and Badenburg. We were apparently too far east for the Swedish quartermasters to reach in the time available.”
“And winter’s a-coming,” muttered Nat Davis.
Mike held up his hand. “Later for that. I want to get filled in on the political situation first. Who did Gustav leave in charge of Thuringia?”
“Well, most of it officially belongs to the Saxe-Weimar brothers,” said Rebecca. “But Bernard, according to reports, is staying with the Swedish army.” Again, that harsh laugh. “It seems he has developed a bit of a military reputation and finds that profession more interesting than taking care of the people he supposedly rules.”
“What a surprise,” sneered Underwood. “Goddam noblemen!”
Mike grinned at him. “Hey, Quentin—it’s okay by me. The fewer noblemen hanging around here the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
Rebecca cleared her throat. “Wilhelm, on the other hand—he is the oldest—stayed behind. He has set up his headquarters in Weimar. But the word is that he will not be staying long. He is supposed to recruit eleven thousand men. Field Marshall Banér is to raise an equivalent number in Erfurt. Added to the forces Banér already has, the Swedes think that should be enough to go after Pappenheim while the king himself continues south after Tilly. Pappenheim is apparently running an independent operation now.”
Mike did not press Rebecca for an explanation as to the sources of her information. He didn’t need to. Her father and uncle were both experienced spies, and by now they had created a network throughout central Germany. The network was broader than that, actually. Working through the Jews scattered all over Europe, the two brothers had informants penetrating large parts of the entire Holy Roman Empire.
He tapped his fingers on the table. “It sounds as if Wilhelm will be leaving soon also.”
Rebecca nodded. Mike’s finger tapping turned into a decisive little rap. “So. The long and the short of it is this.”
His eyes slowly scanned the room, while he held up his fingers one at a time.
“
One.
The war has now moved south of Thuringia, over to the other side of the Thuringenwald.
Two.
Official ’order’ has been restored in Thuringia—and is about to be removed again.
Three.
Most noblemen in the area—the ones active in political life, anyway—are either gone or going. The Catholic ones will have fled and the Protestants are seeking fame and glory with the Swedes.
Four.
The economic situation in the province is going to be desperate in a few weeks.
Five.
On the other hand, the area is flush with hard currency.”
He turned to Rebecca. “That about sums it up, I think.” Again, she nodded.
Now, Mike slapped the table top with his palm. The hard, cracking sound matched his voice.
“Wonderful! Couldn’t have asked for anything better!”
Everyone was staring at him. Mike laughed gaily. “And will you look at you?” he demanded. “Problems, problems—that’s all you see.”
He clenched his fist and held it half-raised. “Now’s the time,” he stated firmly. “While the cat’s away, the mice will play. The war’s come and gone until next spring, at the earliest. Probably next summer. The only thing that’s going to matter between now and then—six to eight months—is who can keep this province’s people alive. Alive—and
by God
well!”
Quentin Underwood was the first to see Mike’s point. That was not surprising. As often as he and Underwood clashed in the committee meetings, Mike had found that his former mine manager usually had a better grasp of economic realities than anyone. Moreover, unlike most of the Americans, Quentin’s hardheadedness did not lead him to flights of fancy concerning American military supremacy. As a young man serving aboard an aircraft carrier in the South China Sea, he had gotten a good lesson in the limits of hardware. The technological disparity between the aircraft which flew off that carrier and the men they bombed in the forests below had not been substantially different from that between Grantville’s Americans and seventeenth-century Germans. Once before, in another universe, Quentin Underwood had seen machinery defeated by men. He intended to be on the other side of that equation, in this new world.
“You’re right!” he exclaimed excitedly. “And the timing couldn’t be better, from our point of view. We’re
set.
”
Underwood began counting on his own fingers. “First,
we’re out of the woods on the power plant. The coal’s been coming in for the last week.”
Bill Porter nodded. “Enough of it for the time being, anyway. Once that steam locomotive gets finished, we’ll be flush. We should be free and clear until next summer, when critical parts might start going. And by then the new power plant should be ready to go on line.”
Underwood continued. “Second, we’ve got more food coming in than we’ll need ourselves.” He chuckled dryly. “It’s kind of amazing how many little farms there were tucked away all through these hills and woods. Every one of which is now eager to sell their produce, since we’ve brought some security and stability back into southeast Thuringia.”
Willie Ray snorted. “What’s so surprising about that? Think farmers are stupid?”
Quentin ignored the quip. “Three, the machine shops are roaring full blast. Three shifts, round the clock—seven days a week.”
Nat David grinned. “Had to start hiring lots of German help. Take me awhile, training them to be modern machinists. But I’m only hiring men with metal-working experience and there’s a lot of them in this area. Biggest problem I’ve got is a shortage of metal.”
Ed Piazza picked up the thread. “Not much longer, Nat. Uriel Abrabanel just told me there’s at least four suppliers ready and willing to start shipping in raw material—as soon as we can come up with the hard currency.” He laughed dryly. “Credit’s not real big in Germany, this time of the millennium.”
“We’ll fix that,” growled Underwood. He glanced at Mike questioningly.
Mike smiled and turned a lazy eye on Rebecca. She straightened a little in her chair and said softly:
“To sum up, the economic situation looks very promising. With electrical power guaranteed and the town’s production facilities in full operation, our only problem is the shortage of hard currency and the primitive state of banking and credit in Europe at this time. As to that—”
She sat up very straight. “My family has been discussing the matter—my very
extended
family—and has come to a decision. My uncle Uriel will stay in Badenburg, since he is well situated there. But several of my relatives will be arriving here soon, including three of my distant cousins. Their names are Samuel, Moses and Francisco. Samuel’s father is a prominent banker in Italy. Moses’ father is a financial adviser to Emperor Ferdinand in Vienna. And Francisco’s grandfather is Don Joseph Nasi, who was formerly—”
Mike laughed. “The Ottoman Empire’s effective foreign minister! And the nephew of Doña Gracia Mendes, who transferred her business—Europe’s largest banking and gem-trade concern—from Portugal to Turkey after the expulsion of the marranos. Did quite well, I understand.”
Everyone except Rebecca was goggling at Mike. He shrugged. “I listen to my National Security Adviser, folks. That’s why I spend so much time with her.”
Rebecca clasped her hands demurely. “He is a good student, too.” She smiled. “Very attentive.”
A little chuckle went up. Rebecca’s smile became wintry. “When the Spanish expelled the Jews, most of them went to Istanbul. The Ottomans welcomed them, you see, especially since many of the Jews who came were experts in science and technology. Gun manufacturing, among other things. Sultan Bayazid is reported to have said: ’You call Ferdinand a wise king, he who impoverishes his country and enriches our own?’ ”
“There’s a lesson here,” murmured Piazza.
Rebecca turned her eyes toward him. “There is, you understand, a condition.”
Piazza snorted. “I should hope so! Citizenship, rights, liberties, the works.”
“More,”
said Rebecca firmly. “We Jews must be allowed to break out of the economic ghetto in which Europe has forced us. Moneylenders can get rich, but they live on the sufferance of princes.”
“Not a problem,” growled Underwood. “Matter of fact, if any of your relatives has got some capital to put up—for which they’ll get stock and a working partnership if they want it, me and Ollie Reardon and Greg Ferrara have been thinking about—”
Bill Porter looked alarmed. “Quentin, we need the coal—”
“Relax!” snapped Underwood. “I wouldn’t be doing much of it myself. I’ve got relatives too, you know. My son-in-law’s—”
Ferrara chimed in. “I wouldn’t be doing much either, except giving some technical advice. But we really
do
need to start building a chemical plant. Sulfuric acid is about as basic for modern industry as steel”—for a moment, his face looked aggrieved—“even though most people don’t realize it, and—”
Mike rapped the table with his knuckles, in first-class schoolmaster form. Melissa grinned. “Later!” he said. “Enough!”
The hubbub settled. “Christ, let you eager beavers get started on all your pet business schemes and we’ll never get anywhere!” His smile took the sting out of the words. In truth, Mike favored most of those schemes. But he was also a firm believer in the old saw:
First things first.
“The
first
thing—in fact, the
key
thing,” he said forcefully, “is to resolve the political issue. I think it’s time to call the constitutional convention—and then have another election. This ’temporary emergency committee’ has gone as far as it can.”
Silence fell on the room. Nat Davis puffed out his cheeks. “Are we ready for that?” he asked uncertainly. “I haven’t really given it much thought, to be honest.”
Melissa snorted. But the sarcastic remark about to issue from her lips was cut short by James Nichols.
“We’re ready, Nat.” James glanced at Melissa, Ed and Willie Ray. “Actually, the subcommittee finished drafting our proposal last week. Everything got put on hold because of the crisis in Jena. But—yeah, we’re ready.”
Hudson nodded. Piazza reached into his briefcase and began hauling out stapled sheets of paper. He gave Mike a questioning glance.
“Pass ’em around, Ed. It’s time.”
The ruckus started long before anyone got through the material. Mike was not surprised—talk about mixed blessings!—to see that Underwood led the charge.
“I don’t like this crap!” snapped Quentin. “Not one damned bit! Why’d you waste your time on this silly shit about at-large elections? Why the hell aren’t we—”
As always, Melissa charged into the fray as eagerly as Underwood, and just as bluntly. “Screw you, too! At-large elections are way better than geographic representation—in the lower house, at least.”
Mike intervened before the usual Melissa–Quentin fracas could reach thermonuclear proportions. “Cut it out!
Both
of you!”
Sullen silence fell over the two disputants. Mike suppressed a sigh. Each in their own way, Quentin and Melissa were invaluable, but there were times . . .
He decided to start with Melissa, since even though he basically agreed with her it would help to keep the issue focused. Concrete, not abstract.
“Whether or not at-large as opposed to residential representation is better or worse in the general scheme of things is neither here nor there. This isn’t a constitution for thirteen colonies scattered across half a continent. It’s a constitution for one geographically small colony, about as concentrated and packed with people as Holland. Or Calcutta. And we’re not in the same situation as the Founding Fathers were in 1789. We’re still back in 1776.
Our
revolution’s just starting.”
So much for generalities. Now he shifted his attention to the real problem, which was Underwood. “Quentin, you’re letting sentiment get in the way of practicality. I had pretty much the same reaction, when I first heard about this idea. But the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. We’re in a completely fluid situation here. People move constantly from one place to the next. You know that as well as I do. How can you register somebody to vote in a refugee center? When—hopefully—they’ll be living somewhere else in a few weeks. The big advantage to at-large elections—”
No good.
Nat Davis and Greg Ferrara were barging in now, hollering on the side of what Mike called “sentiment.” Mike’s attempt to remain Washingtonian lasted about three minutes. Thereafter he was bellowing with the rest of them.
All except Rebecca, of course. She adopted what might be called a Shakespearean stance. Or Oxfordian. Such, at least, seemed the best interpretation of her occasional muttered remarks:
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . . last syllable of recorded time . . . sound and fury, signifying nothing . . .
