sourly, 'we'll wind up doing all the fighting.' He stroked the sleek shotgun in his hands, finding solace in that wondrous rate of fire.
Heinrich, examining the same horsemen, sucked his teeth. 'Maybe,' he grunted. He lowered the binoculars and looked up the ridge. He spotted Frank almost at once. Two women-girls, in truth-were standing next to him. One of those girls, Heinrich knew, was Frank's own niece. He and Frank had become very friendly, over the past few months, and Heinrich knew full well that Frank shared his own reservations. On the other hand…
'I admit the damn girl can shoot,' Frank had told him once. Grudgingly, true. But given Frank's definition of 'shooting,' Heinrich understood just how much praise was contained in that sullen admission.
He looked away. 'Maybe,' he repeated. A slight smile came to his face. 'Then again-maybe not.'
At that very moment, as it happens, Jeff and Larry were heaping their own praise onto Mike and Frank. And there was nothing grudging or sullen about it. The two young men had just realized what Mike intended, by positioning most of his American troops on the reverse slope of the ridge, just below the crest. They would be invisible to the enemy there, until he summoned them forth.
'Man, that's slick, Mike!' exclaimed Larry.
Mike jerked a thumb at Frank. 'Tell him, not me. He's the pro-I'm just following his advice.'
The adulation was transferred to Jackson. 'Just like Wellington at Salamanca,' intoned Jeff.
'And Le Haye Sainte,' agreed Larry sagely.
Frank scowled. 'Common fucking sense, is what it is. I learned this trick from a sergeant in Nam. I think he learned it from the NVA. So who the hell is Wellington?'
Jeff and Larry goggled at him for a moment. Then, in a small voice, Jeff said: 'He's the guy they named your favorite boots after.'
And, at that very moment, Gretchen struck the first blow against a different enemy. A much less concrete foe, in her case-and a much harder one to vanquish.
'All right,' said Mathilde, one of the women in the shack. Her voice was hesitant, uncertain. She glanced quickly at the four other women huddled on pallets against the walls. Two of them were Mathilde's sisters; the other two, cousins. Both her cousins and one of her sisters were nursing babies.
Mathilde's own fears and doubts were mirrored in their faces.
'I do not ask you to take great risks,' Gretchen said immediately. 'Nothing you are too scared to do. But I think you will find everything much easier by tomorrow. After the battle is won, Jena's high and mighty notables will not be so quick to accuse anyone of witchcraft.'
The women in the shack stared at her. They were still frightened, Gretchen saw. They had been frightened and nervous since the moment Gretchen approach Mathilde and one of her cousins. The two young women had been part of the crowd watching the American army march past. Gretchen had singled them out within a minute of Jeff's flamboyant departure. She had been guided less by instinct than by her own hard experience. She knew how to recognize desperate women-and, what was more important, women who still retained their backbones.
Frightened, yes; nervous, yes. But Gretchen knew her choice had been well-aimed. The women had still listened, as she spoke, with neither protest nor any attempt to drive her out of their miserable dwelling in Jena's worst slum.
Mathilde and her extended family were part of the great mass of poor women whom the war had driven into dire straits. All of them were refugees from the Palatinate, who had found a sanctuary in Jena. The adult men in the family were all dead or gone, except for Mathilde's crippled uncle. He was sleeping quietly in the next-door shack.
Mathilde and the prettiest of her cousins supported the family by prostitution. Jena was a good town for the trade, what with its large population of young male students, most of whom were from Germany's nobility and prosperous burgher class. But if Jena was a sanctuary, it was a precarious one. Women of their kind were only tolerated so long as they kept their place. For almost a century, since the witch-hunting craze began, it was wretched creatures such as they who were the first to be accused of witchcraft. The accusation was almost impossible to disprove, even if the area's notables were willing to listen to protestations of innocence-which, more often than not, they weren't in the least.
'Trust me,' Gretchen stated. 'After today, the notables will be much less full of themselves.'
'You are so sure?' asked one of the cousins. Her voice, for all the meekness of its tone, held a trace of hope.
Gretchen gave no answer beyond a level gaze. But that was enough. For all their fears, the women in the shack were quite dazzled by her. They could tell she was one of their own kind. Yet the woman seemed so-so
'All right,' said Mathilde again. This time, the words were spoken firmly. 'We will do as you say, Gretchen. We will start here, with us. There are some others we can talk to, also.' Mathilde glanced at her sisters and cousins. 'Hannelore, I think. And Maria.'
One of her sisters nodded. Mathilde's cousin Inga, the other prostitute, smiled. As if a dam had burst, she began to speak quickly and eagerly:
'And the students will be easy. There are at least three I can think of at once! Joachim, Fritz and Kurt-especially Joachim. He's very nice, and always wants to talk to me afterward. He thinks a lot about politics, I know that, even if I can't follow half of what he says. I wish he wasn't so short of money all the time so he could come more often.'
Mathilde laughed, a bit coarsely. 'He comes often enough, girl! What kind of idiot whore lets her customer owe her money?'
Inga flushed. 'I like him,' she replied stubbornly. 'So what if he can't always pay at the time? He never cheats me. He always gives me what he owes whenever his parents send him money.'
Mathilde didn't press it. She rather liked Joachim herself, actually. But mention of his name brought up another concern.
'For the students it will be easy, this-what did you call it?'
'Committees of Correspondence,' said Gretchen.
'Yes. For them, easy. But for us? Inga is the only one who can even sign her name.'
Gretchen scanned the women in the room. 'You are all illiterate?' Five nods came in reply.
Gretchen sat up straight. Since she had the only chair in the shack, she practically towered over the others. The height, and her own size and posture, made her seem like a hearth goddess.
'Then that is the first thing we will change.' Her eyes fell on the youngest woman in the shack. A girl, really. Her name was Gertrude, and she was Mathilde's youngest sister. She had just turned fifteen, and already showed signs of becoming as attractive as Mathilde. Under normal circumstances, she would become a prostitute before she saw another birthday.
But circumstances had changed. The family had been adopted by a hearth goddess, and she made her first decree.
'Gertrude will accompany me back to Grantville. We will put her to school.'
There was no protest. The first Committee of Correspondence was still fearful, still uncertain, still groping for clarity and understanding. But their timid fingertips could feel the first touch of hope. And, besides, women of their class did not argue with a goddess. Not even a goddess who spoke in their own tongue.
Mathilde cleared her throat.
'You will speak to the students, then, after we-' She fumbled at the unfamiliar terms: '
Gretchen smiled. 'Me? Nonsense! Well, not alone, at least.' She snorted. 'Stupid boys. They'll think of nothing but what I look like naked.'
Soft laughter filled the shack. Gretchen's smile returned, wider than ever-and more than a little wintry. 'No, no. I will come. But I will bring my husband with me. Better that way. He's an intellectual himself, which I most certainly am not. The students will understand him better.'
Inga's eyes were very wide. 'I saw him, when you came into town. Oh!' She snickered. 'They'll be so
Gretchen's heart warmed, for a moment. She would be sure to mention that comment to Jeff. He would be pleased, very. She liked pleasing her husband, even if the whole matter was male foolishness.
But she let none of that show. Her eyes were cold and grim.
'Yes, they will.
Chapter 39
Mike knelt down next to Julie Sims. Frank's niece was sitting cross-legged next to a small tree at the crest of the ridge, just a few yards from its highest point. Mike didn't recognize the tree. Some kind of elm, he thought. The leaves had not yet been touched by autumn color.
Julie's rifle was propped against her shoulder, the butt nestled against her inner calf. The rifle was a Remington Model 700, firing.308 rounds, with an ART-2 scope. The gun was a larger caliber than was used in biathlon competition in the modern era, but it was the rifle Julie preferred for hunting. Her father had bought it for her three years earlier.
Next to her was Karen Tyler, the girl who would serve as her observer. Karen was raised up on her knees. A pair of binoculars were slung around her neck, but at the moment she was studying the oncoming mercenaries through an M49 spotting scope. The expensive optical piece had been Frank Jackson's contribution to Julie's fledgling biathlon ambitions, along with her skis. For all Frank's crabbing, Mike knew, he adored his niece as much as any of his own sons.
'You're sure about this?' asked Mike. He spoke very softly, so only Julie could hear.
Julie's lips twitched, but her eyes never left the landscape below the ridge. 'What? Are you going to lecture me too?'
Solemnly, Mike shook his head. 'Look at me, Julie.' For all the softness of his tone, the words were full of command. Julie turned to face him. As always, Mike was struck by her classically 'all-American country girl' features. Peaches-and-cream complexion, light brown hair, blue eyes, open face, snub nose. No one except a man in love with her would ever call Julie Sims 'beautiful.' Just-good-looking.
Mike nodded at Karen, now exchanging the scope for the binoculars-just as James Nichols had trained her. Use the binoculars for scanning the area, the scope for pinpointing target locations. He could see the little notebook by her knee in which Karen had scrawled key target areas and wind direction. The target area page was full.
