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?” choked Torstensson. He rotated the barrel back and forth, staring at the matching lines. “How can you make something this precise?”
    “We can’t,” replied Rebecca. “Not easily, at least—although our experts think we could, over time, make something equivalent.”
    Now it was her turn to grope for words. “To do so would require machines which we do not have. And machines to make those machines—which we also do not have. The Ring of Fire brought only what was available in the town of Grantville. Sooner or later, many of our machines and instruments will wear out. They cannot be replaced, not directly. The computers, for instance, presuppose an entire electronics industry—”
    She broke off, realizing that she was using meaningless terms, and went directly to the point. “We call it
gearing down
.” She pointed to the micrometer in Torstenson’s hands. “With that—which will last a very long time, if it is not abused—we can make simple cannons which are far more precise and accurate than guns made anywhere else. And there are other items we can make.”
    Tom Simpson interrupted. His German, though not up to Rebecca’s fluent standards, was much better than Piazza’s. “Rifled muskets, for instance, using Minié balls. Possibly some simple breechloaders.” He chuckled. “There’s quite a wrangle going on, among the gun buffs. Some want a Ferguson, some a—”
    He broke off, seeing the renewed looks of incomprehension. Those terms, also, were meaningless. “Never mind,” he said. “The gist of it is this. We can’t recreate the world we left behind. But we
can
make things which are far in advance of anything here and now.”
    Smoothly, Rebecca took over. “That’s part of it, Your Majesty.” Half-apologetically: “Not to speak ill of your own munitions industry in Sweden, of course, but we can provide you with a much closer supply of good ordnance. Better ordnance, in all truth.”
    All traces of apology vanished.
“And money.”
    Those words—truly magic!—brought dead silence to the room. Money was the essential blood of warfare, far more than pikes, horses, guns and powder—or even soldiers. For the Swedes, especially, the perennial shortage of cash was their biggest handicap.
    “How?” demanded the king. He cocked his head skeptically. “I assume you are not offering a direct subsidy?”
    Rebecca laughed softly. “Please, Your Majesty! Do I look like Richelieu?”
    “Not in the least,” muttered Torstensson. The young artillery officer was having a harder time than his monarch keeping his attention focused on Rebecca’s mind.
    Rebecca ignored the admiring remark. She pressed on: “A subsidy, no. But we can serve you in two other ways. First, southern Thuringia is rapidly becoming an economic center for Germany. Very rapidly, given the chaos in most of the Holy Roman Empire. Construction, manufacturing, commerce—all these are growing by leaps and bounds. The end result, among other things, is that we can provide your army with most of the supplies you need—”
    “Food, too?” asked Torstensson. “And what about horses and oxen?” The professional soldier’s mind had come back in focus.
    Rebecca nodded. “Both. I might mention that American seed and livestock is better than the German, and they have begun a careful breeding program to preserve the strains. And we can offer you much better prices than you could get anywhere else—especially for the ordnance.”
    She gestured at the micrometer, still in Torstenson’s hand. “Our metal-working methods are not simply more precise, they are also much faster and more efficient than anything you could find anywhere else in Europe. Or anywhere in the world, for that matter.”
    She hesitated for an instant, thinking. Then: “Gunpowder itself, for the moment, we cannot supply directly. Nor textiles, in any quantity. But because of the stability we have brought to the area”—she gave a quick, half-stubborn/half-apologetic glance at Wilhelm—“merchants and traders are pouring in. We cannot supply gunpowder or textiles, but we can definitely serve as a conduit for them. And, again, at a better price than you would find elsewhere.”
    Gustav rubbed his nose. “What you are proposing, in essence, is that Thuringia—your part of it, at least—can become my supply center and depot. Sweden’s arsenal in central Germany.”
    “Yes,” stated Rebecca firmly. The king gave her a shrewd look. She shrugged. “We understand that this will probably bring the wrath of the Habsburgs down on our heads.”
    Tom Simpson chuckled. “They’ll be in for a surprise, if they try to hammer
us
under.”
    Mackay frowned. “It’s not that simple, Tom. A cavalry raid can do a lot of destruction, even if it does no more than pass through the area. And it’s a lot harder to stop.”
    The huge American got a mulish look on his face. Mackay tightened his jaws a bit. “Listen to me, Tom! If I were your opponent, I assure you I would be a lot harder to counter than one of Tilly’s clumsy tercios.”
    Rebecca interrupted the developing quarrel with a sharp gesture. Gustav, watching, was impressed at the instant obedience the gesture produced. There was more to the woman’s authority, he realized, than simply the fact she was the wife of the American commandant. Much more, he judged.
    The king spoke again. “You mentioned a second form of financial assistance.”
    Rebecca’s head swiveled back to him. For a moment, she stared with dark eyes. Gustav realized that the woman was judging
him
now.
    When she spoke, her words were clipped, abrupt. “Are you familiar with the Abrabanel family?”
    Gustav nodded. “Quite familiar. My assistant, Sir James Spens, has had any number of dealings with them in the past.”
    “Sir James?” exclaimed Rebecca. “I know him! Not well, myself. But my father thinks quite highly of him.”
    Gustav’s eyes widened. “Your father?” Belatedly, he realized that he had not inquired as to the woman’s
maiden
name.
    “Abrabanel. My father is Balthazar Abrabanel.”
    The king laughed and clapped his thick hands. “Well—no wonder you’re such a marvel! Balthazar for a father, and Uriel for an uncle.” He grinned at her. “What was it like, being raised in such an atmosphere of cunning and intrigue?”
    She grinned back. “Very nice, actually, Your Majesty. You know my father and uncle?”
    Gustav shook his head. “Not personally. Only by reputation.” He eyed her with renewed respect—and understanding.
    “Am I to understand that the
entire
Abrabanel family has decided to throw its lot in with the Americans?”
    Rebecca nodded. “Even the Turks.
Especially
the Turks, actually. Don Francisco Nasi has been residing in Grantville—our capital—for a number of weeks now. He has announced he plans to stay permanently.”
    Again, silence filled the farmhouse, while that news was absorbed. The Europeans in the room—Swede, German and Scot alike—understood the implications immediately. They were not peasants, for all that they might share some of the general prejudice against Jews. Those men, especially the king, were familiar enough with banking to know what Abrabanel allegiance to the United States provided. Put bluntly, the finest financial network in the world.
    “Loans,” mused Gustav. His gaze sharpened. “Interest?”
    Rebecca’s response came with a smile so broad it was almost a grin. “Five percent, annual interest. For a war loan. Four percent for anything else.”
    The king almost choked.
“Five percent?”
His pale blue eyes were practically bulging.
“Annually?”
    Rebecca shrugged. “The Americans—” She broke off; then, with a little laugh: “
We
Americans, I should say, have convinced the Abrabanels that a large and steady business is preferable to the occasional windfall.” She repeated, very firmly: “Five percent. For you, that is. For Gustav II Adolf. Others will find the rate higher.”
    She looked away, brushing her thick hair with light fingers. Demurely: “Quite a bit higher, I imagine.”
    Suddenly, the king was roaring with laughter. “Five percent!” he hallooed, rising, almost lunging, to his feet; shaking his great fist at the heavens.
    “
That
for Richelieu!”
    Gustav lowered his fist. His own grin was matched by Torstensson’s and Mackay’s. Even Wilhelm, he saw, was smiling widely. The king of Sweden took a moment to admire the man’s spirit as well as his brains. For all intents and purposes, the duke of Saxe-Weimar had just heard a death sentence passed on his hereditary claim to Thuringia—and he was quite intelligent enough to realize it. Once let a Thuringian republic establish its financial and commercial dominance, and the province’s nobility would be lucky if they managed to maintain as much power as the Dutch. Even the mighty Spanish Habsburgs had broken on that rock, for well-nigh a century. Yet the man was spirited enough not to quail at the prospect.
    And why should he? Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar was also sworn to the service of the king of Sweden. A monarch who was not known to be miserly toward his trusted subordinates—and a monarch whose prospects had just received a mighty boost.
    Gustav swiveled his head toward Torstensson, as if to bring the artillery commander under a gun himself.
    
“Corpus Evangelicorum,”
the king stated boldly. “What say you now, skeptic Lennart?”

Chapter 48

    Rebecca and Ed Piazza remained in the farmhouse the next day, while Gustav Adolf prepared to move against Tilly. They would spend the entire day, and the next, working with the king’s quartermasters to organize the new Swedish logistical base.
    The rest of the delegation went with the Swedish army. Tom and Rita and Heinrich, who had spent the previous weeks working with the machine shops to get the cannons ready, went with Torstensson. Insofar as the new United States had anything resembling an “artillery officer corps,” those three were it. Mike and Frank had urged them to take whatever opportunity they might find to get acquainted with the artillery practices of the current day—the best of which, by universal acknowledgment, was embodied in Torstensson’s Swedes.
    “The key is the hostlers as much as the artillerymen,” Torstensson informed them, as they watched the Swedish guns being brought into position. “My horses and wagons are owned by the artillery stable.”
    The information meant nothing to Tom and Julie, but Heinrich started. Unlike the two Americans, he was quite familiar with the practices of the day. “You mean—?” He pointed to the hostlers guiding the horses forward and unhitching the cannons.
    Torstensson nodded. “Army men. Mine—all of them, to a man.” His lip curled in a magnificent sneer. “Not a single one of them is a misbegotten wretched coin-counting—” The rest trailed off into muttered obscenities.
    Heinrich chuckled. He turned to Tom and Julie and explained.
    “Every other army I know uses civilian contractors to handle the horses and wagons in the artillery train.”
    Tom’s eyes widened. “That’s crazy!” he grunted.
    As always in the field, whenever possible, Tom spoke in German. Torstensson, hearing the words, grinned. But his humor vanished at once, seeing the American guns being brought up to the earthworks. A moment later, he was bellowing new orders, seeing to it that the new cannons were properly placed. Right in the center of the line, under his watchful eye.
    Torstensson intended to test those guns today. He had had his men selecting cannonballs since daybreak. He wanted to take advantage of those perfect bores by using the best cannonballs in his arsenal, the ones which were the roundest and made the best fit.
    “Half again the range, I’ll wager,” he said softly, staring at the enemy entrenchments across the river.

    Gustav Adolf was studying the same entrenchments, from a position further up the river. Trying to, at least. His myopia made the exercise a bit pointless.

 

    His bodyguard, Anders Jönsson, was standing to his right. One of Anders’ unofficial jobs was to serve as his king’s eyes. He leaned over and whispered: “Tilly’s got all his men in those woods beyond the marsh, just as you expected. I can’t see a one by the riverbank itself.”

 

    Gustav nodded. The gesture was more one of frustration than agreement, however. He wished he could see for
himself.

 

    He heard a feminine sound. The American girl—Julie Sims—was clearing her throat.

 

    “Uh, sir—uh, I mean, Your Majesty—uh—”

 

    He turned and peered down at her. She and Mackay were standing to his left. The girl herself was right at his elbow.

 

    “Yes?”

 

    Again, she cleared her throat. Then, in halting German: “Why don’t you wear spectacles, sir? I mean, Your Majesty?”

 

    Anders hissed. A few feet behind, the Scottish bodyguards stiffened.

 

    
There was going to be a royal explosion!

 

    For an instant, the king felt his hot vanity surging to the fore. But there was something about the innocent, open, pretty face which disarmed the fury. Gustav restrained himself.

 

    “Impossible!” he barked. “I tried, once. The spectacles flew off my nose at the first clash of the sabers.”

 

    Julie tried to speak again. But she had apparently reached the limit of her German. She whispered hurriedly to her fiancé. His face a bit pale—like all of Gustav’s soldiers, Mackay was well aware of the king’s sensitivity on this subject—the Scotsman translated.

 

    “She says that she didn’t mean normal spectacles, Your Majesty. She was referring to the kind of sports spectacles that—” Here, Mackay stumbled himself.
How to explain a basketball game?

 

    He managed, more or less, and in the process described to the king of Sweden the special goggle-style spectacles which young American athletes wore.

 

    Gustav’s eyes widened. “Impossible!” he repeated. “Absurd!”

 

    His temper was rising, now. He glared at the impudent girl. The glare transferred itself to the peculiar firearm in her hands—then, to the telescope mounted upon it. Despite his irritation, the king recognized the superb craftsmanship embodied in both the firearm and the optical piece.

 

    The girl seemed quite properly abashed by now. Perhaps in an attempt to mollify the royal outrage, she held up the weapon. “Would you like to look?” she asked.

 

    Scowling, Gustav took the weapon and held it up for inspection. Despite the peculiarities of the thing, its use was clear enough. A moment later, he had the butt nestled against his shoulder and was peering through the telescope.