Fa la la la, fa la la la
"Fight on! said the lady,
The portion is too small!
Hold your hand, said the old man,|
And you shall have it all.
Then he took them right straight home
And he called them son and dear
Not because he loved them,
But only through fear.
Fa la la la, fa la la la!"
The "Bold Soldier" had carried North to his corporate headquarters and the sound of his approach drew little attention. It being Friday night in Grantville, one or both of the proprietors of the Albernian Mercenary Company usually arrived half in the bag. North gave his horse to the night groom. Then he walked over to unceremoniously push his colleague off his horse before giving the reins of Donovan's mare to the groom as well.
Still tonguing the gap in his only recently repaired teeth, North had no inclination to drag Donovan into his bed and was quite content to let him sleep in the stable. He was halfway to the house passing the scattered campfires of his men, when he noticed an unusual sight in the doorway.
North considered himself a man of the world. He had traveled extensively, and seen many things and many peoples. Never before though had he laid eyes on the manner of man in front of him. Even in the poorly lit evening it was apparent he wasn't European. Nor was he dark enough to be a Numidian.
His apparel was also extremely foreign. It was in stark contrast to the heavy northern European cloths. It provided scant protection from the chills of autumn, though the man didn't seem to mind. Judging from the stern look on his face and the easy manner he rested his hand on his sword, North doubted the man would mind taking on all the armies of hell and all the angels of heaven besides. Immediately North placed the stranger in his carefully selected group of people he had no intention of aggravating. Despite his occasional brawling, he was really quite conservative when mortal peril was evident.
That peril was even more evident by the presence of Captain Harry Lefferts. Not so much the man himself. North knew him well enough not to be afraid of the good captain on general principles, like a number of other down-timers were. What did worry him was the presence of a very wicked grin on Harry's face.
"I am Salim," said the stranger in exotically accented English, when North approached. "Personal servant and sowar to the Subadar, Baram Khan, Ambassador-at-large from Shah Jahan."
"But of course you are," said North, taking in the long title along with the exotic guest.
"I would speak with Donovan. This one told he is one I arrange mercenary contacts with. Men here told us he would come soon."
"Mr. Donovan is... unavailable at the moment. My name is Captain Thomas North. I am his partner and I lead the company's operations. Please—step into my office." North waved graciously toward the door.
3
It began long ago and far away. But the story was not really that strange to North for its beginning. A little under two years ago the town of Grantville flashed upon the world stage, literally. It took months for this news to filter to the major population centers of Europe, but filter it did. And soon enough, representatives, diplomats, scientists, theologians, and—especially—adventurers of every kind came rushing to the future town of Americans. But while Europe might have considered itself the center of the world, it was not the world. Indeed no empire in Europe could claim the title of greatest, not even Spain or France.
It was the Muslim Mughal Empire of northern India that probably held that title, although the Ottoman Turks and Ming Chinese might have disputed the point. At times the Mughal emperor in Agra had more cavalrymen under arms than the entire population of some European principalities. India's culture was illustrious and ancient. The Mughal military was a mighty force, possessing gunpowder in most cases much before Europeans. Indeed, at times, most of Europe's supply of saltpeter needed to be imported from Mughal territory.
There was great wealth there, also, in specie and jewelry—but much more importantly, there was trade. The Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs, they all came. India had always known traders from the west, and paid them little mind. And then the Portuguese arrived in 1498, and this time it was different. India now became a much more integral part of the world economy and entire regions depended upon the export and import of goods to Europe for their survival. For a hundred years the Portuguese held a monopoly on Indian trade and fabulous wealth flooded into the coffers of Lisbon. Soon enough, though, the other powers of Europe were not content to let Portugal enjoy her monopoly. The Dutch and English among others began sending trading missions to treat with Mughal ports.
To maintain their trading monopoly, the Portuguese fought the other Europeans wherever encountered. And in typical Portuguese fashion, attacked Mughal shipping and installations as well, in a blundering attempt to force the Mughals to expel the other European trading companies. The Mughal emperors were understandably displeased with the Portuguese arrogance, and they flung open their ports to their enemy's enemies. Soon enough, the Portuguese were out-competed by the shifty northern European merchants and facing unfriendly Mughals in India, Portuguese trade subsequently dwindled to a pittance.
This by no means precluded further infighting between the English and Dutch merchants, coreligionists though they may have been. Whole fleets were lost to "privateers" or even flagged vessels in combat with each other. Trade was money and money was power, a commodity that all wished to hold a monopoly on. And they tried any and all means to curry favor with the Mughal rulers.
One of those means was to tell tales of the astounding new occurrence in central Germany and to provide a thumbnail sketch of its wonders.
Shah Jahan was no fool. Already wary of the European interlopers' maritime superiority, he was not content to allow them unilateral access to sciences from the future. And especially not to allow them to feed his people that information on their terms, and to their benefit. So, eight months earlier, he had dispatched one of his myriad relations on an expedition west in order to establish contact with Grantville on his own terms. Salim had been posted to the expedition as he had had dealings with the English factory at Surat and was one of the few Mughals who spoke their language. Under the guise of the hajj, Baram Khan and his throng of servants had ventured to Mecca. But instead of returning home, he had gone forward to Cairo. A Venetian galley had then been hired to carry them across the Mediterranean to the European mainland.
All through the expedition, the emperor's gold and reputation had smoothed the way. Hiring local interpreters, guides and transportation was easy. Gold was always a universal language and there were local potentates aplenty willing to show the emperor's representative hospitality.
Shortly after entering the Alps, however, the hospitality had turned excessive. In an isolated manor near the city of Innsbruck, every attempt to leave the hospitality of their Austrian hosts had been shuffled aside. There was always another social event they insisted Baram Khan needed to attend. Then the horses went lame, the provisions sour.
Soon enough, Baram Khan attempted to force the issue and found that he was under virtual house arrest. The eighty men in the expedition made too large a force to slip away during the night—but one man might, and Salim was chosen. A veteran of several wars in the Deccan, he knew how to take care of himself.
His German was nonexistent, and his English practically useless in that region. After a week of effort all he had accomplished was to send a message to a Mughal agent in Cairo informing him of the situation, which had a slim chance of actually arriving and slimmer still of traveling all the way to the emperor. His only option was to continue on with his master's assignment as best as possible, and bring whatever he could back home. He attached himself to a merchant's caravan and after many days of travel arrived in Grantville.
His arrival in Grantville was a surprising situation, to say the least. He was welcomed, of course, but his problem was not something that could be solved with a flick of up-time technology like oth
ers could. No... this was something that required old fashioned down-time skullduggery, which had led him to the Albernian Mercenary Company.
* * *
"So. Let me sum up the situation, if I may," said North, sipping some imported Ottoman coffee in his office. "You want me to take my company, an extremely small one by the measure of our day, across more than two hundred miles of war-torn Europe. Some of it torn up by a side who doesn't like my side very much, nor apparently yours either. To rescue an Indiaman from forces unknown. You do not know how many soldiers the enemy has, what type of incarceration your master is held by—indeed, you do not even know if he is held at all by this point. He might well be rotting in a grave. And if this rescue is done, I have no more assurance that I will be paid my quite substantial payment, aside from the word of a servant."
"Yes," Salim replied blandly.
"That's not strictly true," Lefferts interjected. "In the interests of diplomacy, Mike has agreed to underwrite this expedition at cost. So anything you get out of the Mughals at the end, Tom, will be pure gravy. He wants to talk to you guys about it in the morning."
"Well, that's a little bit better. Still... basically, the mission is: storm the castle; save the king."
"He is not king," said Salim. "But the rest, yes."
"Riiiiight..." North hesitated for a moment while he contemplated. He contemplated only long enough to appraise the cash value of the expensive adornments the Mughal wore like so many glass beads.
"I like this one," he said cheerfully, thumping his hand on the desk. "We are going to have so much fun."
* * *
"Ten thousand—all in advance," said North the next morning, in Stearns' office. Ed Piazza and Frank Jackson were present in the room also.
"Did you expect me to say, 'Ten thousand! We can almost buy our own ship for that!'" The President grinned, fully understanding the reference.
"Well, I had to try. Fine then, make me an offer I can't refuse."
"Spend whatever you need on whatever you need—within reason—to provision yourselves. Supply receipts to the Department of State along with appropriate wage slips. It should be recouped if this is successful. Salim told me the Mughal expedition was more than adequately financed. As far as profit goes, you can present a separate bill to the ambassador once he is safely in Grantville."
"More paperwork." North shook his head, sighing.
Stearns chuckled. "I didn't peg you as the corporate executive type. More of a hands-on kind of guy."
"Which reminds me, I shall require guns. Up-time ones, and as much ammunition as you can spare. We, ah, have had a bit of trouble acquiring enough on our own. This bold endeavor has a much better chance of success if we have a few force multipliers."
Stearns turned to Jackson. "Frank?"
"Do your guys know how to use them?" asked General Jackson.
"I said we had difficulty obtaining enough, not any. I have seen to it that enough of my men are fully crosstrained on all the ones we have acquired. And many served in your army at one time."
"I can probably scrounge up enough for a platoon. Presupposing, of course, that we get them back."
"Of course you will!" replied North indignantly. "Do I look like a scoundrel?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Yes."
* * *
"Tom, have I mentioned today that you seem to be dafter than usual," said Donovan, as the two made preparations later that day.
"Once or twice a minute since you woke up this morning."
"I..."
"Time enough for ranting later, old friend," North interrupted. "Now we need to be about preparations, we need to leave as soon as possible. Winter is coming, as you constantly remind me. How many men do we have for assignment leaving aside those new 'recruits'?"
"We still have most of the fool Von Fellenburg's finest," Liam replied, not happy at the thought.
When the two had established their mercenary company they had ample funds but that alone was not enough to draw enough men to their flag. They had something of a name in the mercenary community, and a few came to the service of the Albernian Mercenary Company. But the bulk of the initial forces were from the fool Von Fellenburg's Finest. A rather pretentious nickname the two had given a Swiss mercenary company whose captain was killed several weeks after the two began recruitment. Whether his death was due to malice or a "training accident" had yet to be proven conclusively. He had not been an officer who was well liked by his men. Regardless of that, though, the stout Swiss mercenaries had reorganized themselves and required a new one likeable or not. But they were soldiers all, not officers, and were quite willing to let others make key decisions for them so long as the pay came on time. So North had folded about seventy of them into the company much to Donovan's derision at the inclusion of so many Calvinists.
"We have fully cross trained them on the new weapons haven't we?" asked North trying vainly to find the appropriate file in his cabinet.
"Yes," said Donovan handing it over.
"Fine, then." North grabbed it. "We will take the first five squads. If fifty men cannot handle this, the entire company couldn't. Do we have enough horses?"
"Barely. They are rather scarce lately."
"Well, it's the war you know. Ammunition?"
"Powder and two-hundred shot for each musket. The special ammunition is what presents difficulty."
"We'll take all they gave us. We'll need all the firepower we can acquire. But you are right, it doesn't seem to be enough. What about alternative supplies?"
"I am working on that, the usual channels along with all the usual unusual ones. But it doesn't look good, certainly not before we leave."
"Well it can't be helped... or can it? Ha! Look what is coming our way." North pointing out the office window into the courtyard.
"Mother Mary, not him again," said Donovan in disgust as he turned to see out the window.
"Him" was the duo's watcher, the "military liaison" that had been saddled upon them when their operations began, as the necessary prerequisite of operating in the CPE. Private armed forces were something the government was concerned about. Lieutenant Lawrence Quinn, veteran of the West Virginia National Guard, was a nice enough human being when he wasn't on the job. But judging from his face he was not here on a social call.
The American curtly nodded to them both as he came in the door. "Hello, North, Donovan."
"Lieutenant Larry! Just the man we have been waiting to see." North got up to shake the American's hand furiously before directing him to a comfortable leather chair across the desk from him.
"Another two solders have reported their up-time weapons and ammunition stolen," said Quinn, cutting right to business.
"Those German brutes will sell their soul for another mug of beer." North shook his head sadly. "It's terrible."
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about those black-market guns would you, Tom? General Jackson mentioned to me today that you had acquired some."
"Not a thing, sorry to say. But it's fortunate that you came here, it turns out we need a significant supply of .308 caliber bullets."
"Would those bullets be for the rifles I see that pair of troopers are practicing with over there?" said the American, with a wave toward the firing range. "Oddly enough, the same make of rifles reported stolen."
"Of course not!"
"Do we look like black marketers to you," asked Donovan, scowling.
"I won't tell you what you look like to me, officers and gentlemen and all that." Quinn got up from his chair. "Don't go anywhere."
"Where would we go? We love it here!" protested North, as he watched the lieutenant leave the room. "You filed off the serial numbers I hope?" North asked quietly, leaning close to Donovan.
"I cannot recall. My memory has been rather spotty today... for some reason."
"That's a pity."
The bulk of the company's gunpowder weaponry was the newly manufactured flintlock muskets, which was alrea
dy a significant jump ahead of any other contemporary weaponry the mercenaries might face. But North and Donovan had also engaged, thorough a variety of means, to acquire some up-time weaponry.
Quinn shouldn't have been on their case quite so much, since the sum total of up-time weaponry the pair had pilfered wouldn't have filled a Grantville native's gun cabinet. But ever since losing half a month's pay to North one Friday night, the Lieutenant had been not too figuratively grinding his teeth at the two.
* * *
Keeping in character after several minutes' inspection, the American returned with an unpleasant look on his face. "You know, I can probably dig up the original up-timer owners to identify the stolen merchandise," Quinn announced.
"And what if you could? We did not know we were dealing in stolen goods. We purchased them from a reputable dealer. What was his name, Liam?"
"Um... Hans."
"A reputable dealer named Umhans. Sadly, I believe he has since left for Magdeburg."
"If you run quickly you can catch him," Donovan offered.
"I'm not going anywhere," said Quinn firmly. "I see you're loading up the wagons. It looks to be a big deployment."
"We are going to Innsbruck, rescue mission."
"Hapsburg territory, behind enemy lines," Quinn elaborated.
"Which is why we need those bullets so badly, my friend," said North. "You are our military liaison, so liaise."
"The Mughal thing? Every reputable mercenary company in the area would have turned that contract down. I'm not at all surprised you took it. Oh, hell, I'll see if I can dig up a case here or there."
"Bless you, lad," said Donovan.
Quinn shrugged. "I have to go with you on this one. Lefferts and later Jackson both had me under the grill most of the morning. Ordered me to liaise a little more personally. You two could get into all sorts of messes without supervision. And we do not need an international incident right now."
North leaned back and eyed his partner. "Does not his concern for us lowly down-timers give you a warm feeling in the chest, Liam?"