Grantville Gazette 38

this ship's master. Its satin pillows would be the perfect place to hide his up-time manufactured shotgun pistol, the deadly Snake Charmer. Pam's son, Walt, had given it to him with orders to protect his mother with it, according to Gerbald. She and her son were not exactly on good terms, and she suspected this was a polite fiction, but she was still glad to have the thing along. In any case, Pam hoped that today its services would not be required.

Pam and Dore hurriedly added the finishing touches to the costumes. Soon, they stood facing a mysterious envoy from what Pam thought of as the Far-Out East.

'I would not recognize them if I didn't know them so well! Dore exclaimed 'Even that foolish husband of mine!' She was well pleased by their handiwork, cleaning her hands on her apron in a gesture of job well done.

'Gosh almighty, don't you fellas look a picture!' Pam gushed, lapsing into West Virginia hillbilly-ese for a moment as a rush of excitement coursed through her. I can't believe we're really doing this; it's all like something out of some crazy old movie! Her giddy grin turned serious as she thought of poor, badly injured Pers lying in a coma below, and what might happen to these men, her friends, in the coming hours.

'All right, we all know what to do. Good luck, my friends!' she regarded them with an intense pride for a moment then shouted, 'Battle stations!'

Pam and Dore kept a low profile on the castle deck. They were both wearing white linens draped over their clothes, with their hair tied up under makeshift turbans. They had decided against dying their own faces and hands since they were going to be far enough back from the action and, truth to tell, couldn't bring themselves to do it out of simple vanity, although they would never admit it, even to each other. Pam felt the heavy weight of her .38 at her belt, the very one she had used so effectively in the capture of her ship. It both terrified and comforted her.

On the foredeck, Sten, one of the older sailors and experienced in firing cannons, waited for the bosun beside the formidable carronade deck gun salvaged from Redbird. It was currently hidden beneath a tarp and Pam hoped that they wouldn't have to unleash its deadly force. If all went well, little blood would be shed this day. The marines and sailors not immediately needed to sail Second Chance Bird in to the harbor’s wide dock stood in attendance of the Great Khan Gerbald, who sat in his palanquin regally fanning himself with a bored expression. Every man had a sword and several had pistols, all carefully concealed within the folds and sashes of their outlandish garb. Around them were placed brightly lacquered boxes and barrels of rice wine, the 'gifts' they had prepared to lure out the renegade French officers. Pam shook her head and frowned in a moment of doubt. Yes, it was a variation of the old Trojan Horse trick, hopefully these guys had never read Virgil. Beware orange-skinned strangers bearing gifts. Pam knew they were taking a completely desperate gamble. but no better choices had presented themselves. It was completely nuts, and it had to work.

The bosun brought the junk in slowly, giving everyone on shore a nice long look at it. The captive Swedes paused in their work for a moment, while their captors gaped at the brightly painted boat approaching . The captors had set up a grass-roofed rest area in the middle of the long dock; several sailors loafing there began making their way out to the T-shaped end they were pulling up to, pointing their bow to the left, with their right side facing the shore. This position gave the deck gun a range sweeping the entire dock as well as most of the anchored warship's side. Pam saw that Annalise and Ide were still anchored out, well away from easy reach by any would-be escapees. The bosun, silently guiding the crew manning the sheets with gestures alone, skillfully piloted Second Chance Bird up against the dock with a light groan of timber.

He had wisely chosen their position, lateral to the shore. This move gave them a big tactical advantage, their hidden deck gun as well as their Chinese cannons had a clear sweep of the entire dock and shoreline, including the warship tied up stern out to their right some twenty yards inland. At last they could read its name, the Effrayant. Tied up just past its bow, the much smaller and badly damaged Muskijl floated, mostly hidden behind Effrayant's massive bulk. Hopefully, if cannon fire started, her crew was imprisoned aboard that vessel rather than the enemy's. Down the left side of the dock the slave-master's menacingly graceful lateen-rigged crafts were tied up in a line, looking like a scene from out of the Arabian Nights. All their guns would have a lovely, clean shot at them, Pam smiled to herself.

Five sailors, who Pam noted were armed with what looked like flintlock side arms, had arrived at the end of the dock and were shouting at them. Pam was pretty sure they were ordering them to leave and smiled to herself again, because that was not going to happen. Several of the African slave-masters began to venture towards them from the beach but the sailors waved at them to stay back. The Africans were obviously very curious about the newcomers, and did so reluctantly. It was now completely clear as to who was running this operation, and the guilt fell on the renegades.

Not for the first time, Pam felt sickened by the horrors mankind could inflict on each other for a profit. She knew there had been slave-owners in her own ancestry, amongst the Virginians on her mother's side; the very idea disgusted her, but she still tried not to think of these men as monsters. These were terrible times she had been thrust into. She knew that she would likely have to do things on this day and in the days to come that would have utterly appalled the old mild-mannered Pam Miller; there was nothing for it but to accept that, and act as she thought best. She would try to minimize loss of life on all sides, but deep down in her gut she laughed at her own naivete. You're a killer now, Pam Miller, and you're gonna do it again! Admit you like it, you love the power! an inner voice teased her. She shook her head sharply , almost dislodging the ridiculous turban nesting there. Exercising another new trait, a surprisingly strong force of will-power, she made herself concentrate on the events unfolding in front of her. There would be plenty of time for probing self-analysis of the demons she had let loose in herself later; right now she was too damn busy leading a hostage rescue mission, thank you very much! I'm one of the good guys damn it, just let me work!

The men of the Second Chance Bird remained stoically silent as the sailors noisily gesticulated at them. It was agreed that Gerbald would do all the talking and that time hadn't come yet. Completely disregarding the protests of the lowly dock crew, Gerbald waved his hand lazily, signaling the disguised Swedes to throw lines at the surprised sailors, who now found themselves tying the junk up to the dock despite themselves. Now, Gerbald regally motioned that he was ready to disembark. Two of their strongest men climbed over the rail and waited on the dock, ignoring the confused and increasingly nervous sailors gesturing frantically at them to stay on-board their vessel. The palanquin was lowered gently into their care, passed down by two more men stationed on the junk's narrow step-ledge halfway between the rail and the rough-hewn, uneven planks below.

Watching the scene unfold as scheduled, Pam fingered her pistol in the leather holster Gerbald had made for it, hidden under a sash at her hip, awaiting the worst. She had tried to make Gerbald give it to one of the men going onto the dock, but he had insisted, saying that she was a better shot than most of them and it was best she have it just in case things went badly. She prayed fervently that it would not prove necessary. That new and rather disturbing part of her that had appeared in recent days was darn glad to have it. Pam rolled her eyes to the heavens, thinking that it was bad enough to be going into a conflict without being conflicted about it to boot.

Now, the disguised Swedes had begun passing the various prepared offerings down to the dock. This caused the sailors to cease their frantic fussing and become very interested in the arriving packages accompanying their bizarre visitors. They whispered amongst themselves loudly, pointing at the brightly-colored wooden boxes. They were especially interested in the barrels and casks, perhaps they had run out of whatever rotgut a sea-dog prefers?

Once the entire shore party was assembled on the dock, Gerbald harrumphed loudly for attention. He pointed at the sailors and commanded in a deep, resonant voice, 'Sous Capitan!' The sailors just stood there staring at him, wondering what they should do, and not even quite sure that they had just heard the leader of these strange folk say something in French. Gerbald repeated the order forcefully and added a jabbing pointing finger. 'SOUS CAPITAN!' Then, with a sweep of his arms to their 'gifts' he said 'Sous Capitan!' in a cordial tone, while smiling graciously. Acting as if everyone had understood him perfectly he clapped his hands twice and folded them across his chest, waiting expectantly for the men to get moving.

A brief discussion followed, after which the fellow who was apparently the highest-ranking of the group shook his head in resignation, and sent one of his men to go find their captain. Seeing this, Gerbald let out a loud grunt