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General Tott grunted. 'They'll make Tilly's men look like gentle lambs.'

The king nodded. 'When that army moves, they will ravage everything in their path. But they will not move for weeks yet. I propose to deal with Tilly first.'

He began issuing orders, facing each man in turn.

'Axel. I want you to return to Alsatia. We've got enough of a force there to keep the Spanish Habsburgs from getting ambitious. And take Bernard with you.' He chuckled, seeing Oxenstierna's grimace of distaste. 'Please! He is a very capable military commander, after all. And I'd much rather have him there than stirring up trouble about his precious Thuringia.'

'Which he hasn't even bothered to visit in years,' muttered Torstensson.

As if his low voice were a cue, the king turned to Torstensson next. 'Lennart, you'll be staying with me in this campaign. Tilly will be using the tributaries to block my advance up the Main. I expect we'll see a lot of gun work, to clear the fords.'

The young artillery general frowned. 'My guns are getting pretty badly worn, Your Majesty.' Scowling: 'The ordnance facilities in these blessed Rhenish archbishoprics are a joke.'

Spens cleared his throat. The king seemed to ignore the sound, except that his next words came in a bit of a rush. 'Don't worry about that. I think I've found a new supplier. I expect to have new guns arriving within a month or two. The ones you have should last that long.'

Torstensson nodded. The king turned to General Tott next.

'Return to the Weser. Keep an eye on Pappenheim. Our Saxon allies will help you readily enough with that.' Another nod. Then, Banйr:

'And you, Johann, I want back on the Elbe. That'll keep our Prussian friends half-honest, if nothing else. But I also need you there in case the Poles get ambitious or Wallenstein decides to move directly on Saxony.'

The immediate measures taken, the king went back to rubbing his hands. 'That's it, then.' To Spens: 'Stay behind a moment, would you, James?'

The signal was clear enough. Within seconds, the Swedish officers had all left, hurrying to set their new orders into motion.

Gustav examined Sir James Spens silently. The Scotsman occupied a peculiar position in the king's forces. He was, simultaneously, the Swedish ambassador to England as well as the English ambassador to Sweden-and one of Gustav's top military commanders in the bargain. The multiplicity of functions indicated the king's high regard for the man, but of those functions it was Spens' military position which was paramount. In truth, there was not much in the way of diplomatic exchange between Sweden and England. The island, for all its official Protestantism, had maintained an aloof and standoffish attitude toward the war raging on the Continent.

When all was said and done, Sir James Spens was Gustav Adolf's man. Like most of the Scotsmen who figured so prominently in the Swedish service, Spens' allegiance was highly personal. Unlike the Swedish officers, Spens had no ties of family or class to dilute his loyalty to the Swedish crown. For that reason, Gustav often used him in matters which were of a delicate political nature.

'I am concerned about the continuing allegations of witchcraft,' stated Gustav forcefully. He waved his hand. 'Yes, yes, James, I realize that the reports come from tainted sources. For the most part. But I am still concerned. There are so many reports.'

Sir James shrugged. 'What would you, Highness? Do you expect Catholic mercenaries thrashed by a handful of Scots and their American allies to praise the military prowess of their opponents? Witchcraft is the easiest thing in the world to shout from the rooftops. And the hardest to disprove.'

Gustav stroked his massive nose, thinking. 'I'm well aware of that, James. Nevertheless, the thing is odd.'

The Scottish general chuckled. 'Odd? Say better-fantastic. A colony of Englishmen from a future America find themselves planted in the middle of Thuringia? It's a thing of fable! The tales of Rabelais and Sir Thomas More come to life.'

Still stroking his nose, Gustav muttered: 'You believe Mackay still, then?'

Spens nodded firmly. 'Absolutely. I've known him since he was a lad of five. I took him into my service more from my own high opinion than from the fact his father is an old friend.'

He studied the king intently for a moment. Then: 'You were there when he gave his report at Wьrzburg, Your Majesty. Not three months ago. Did he strike you as a liar-or a witling?'

'Neither,' came the instant reply. ''A most promising young officer,' I called him last year. Axel was quite sarcastic about it, given my unfamiliarity with the young man. But that was my impression then, and certainly nothing since has predisposed me otherwise.'

He sighed heavily. 'But I am concerned, James. I have more than enough problems as it is. Treating with mysterious colonists from the future-a fable, as you say!-is a bit much to add to the brew.' His voice trailed off into an inaudible mutter.

The Scotsman said nothing. From long experience in Gustav's service, he knew the king was talking to himself now. Gustav II Adolf was no more immune to hesitation and uncertainty than any man. He was simply much better at dealing with it than anyone Spens had ever met.

As always, the process was brief. Within a minute, the king had stopped stroking his nose and was standing erect.

'So be it. God's will, clear enough. Is Satan so powerful he could transplant a colony from the future? I think not!' He went back to rubbing his hands. 'Besides, one cannot fixate on the problems. There is also the opportunity.'

Spens took the moment to fortify the king's resolve. 'Corpus Evangelicorum,' he murmured.

Gustav smiled faintly. 'You are the only man I know besides myself, James, who manages to say that phrase without lifted eyebrows.'

Spens returned the smile with a grin. 'And why not? I think a north European Protestant confederation under the leadership of Sweden would be a splendid solution to the war. And much else. Sweden gets its long-sought Baltic supremacy, the Holy Roman Empire gets its peace, and the north Germans-finally-get a chance to build a real nation instead of a princes' playground.'

The king cocked a quizzical eye. 'You do not share the general presumption that the result would be a Swedish tyranny?'

'What nonsense! Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but there is simply no way in the Lord's green earth that a million and a half Swedes could maintain a genuine tyranny over ten times that many Germans. Not for long, in any event.'

He shook his head. 'I've lived in Sweden. You're a practical lot, comes to it. I imagine a Swedish-led north European confederation would soon enough resemble Sweden itself. Which is the best-run kingdom in the world, in my humble opinion.'

'Mine also!' exclaimed Gustav cheerily. 'And not such a humble opinion, either.'

He clapped Spens on the shoulder. 'Good enough, James. We'll stay the course. Who knows? Thuringia may well be destined to play a role in all this. But send another courier to Mackay immediately. You heard Lennart. We're going to need those new guns more quickly than I'd thought. It'll be interesting to see if Mackay's boasts about the manufacturing talents of his new friends are justified.'

Spens nodded. The king continued. 'Also make sure to pass along my congratulations to him. The Dutch money is rolling through very nicely. Yet another reason to leave Thuringia in peace, eh?'

'Is it not?' agreed Spens lightly. He cleared his throat. 'If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, I think a promotion is in order as well as congratulations. Mackay now has a full thousand cavalrymen under his command, wearing your colors.'

'So many?' Gustav shook his head with bemusement. 'Well, then-of course. Colonel Mackay, from this moment forth! Nothing less!'

He and Spens shared a small laugh. As they began walking away from the palace, the king added: 'And also tell him to escort the new guns to me as soon as possible. In person. I want to talk to him.' Gustav hesitated, then shook his head firmly-almost vehemently. 'No! I want more.' He reached out with his hands, as if groping in the dark. 'I want something more tangible than simply a personal report. I want-'

Grope, grope.

'An American?'

'The very thing!' exclaimed the king. 'I want to see one of these fabled folk!'

Chapter 46

Ollie Reardon, the owner of the machine shop, wasn't sure if he was amused or aggravated. Both, he decided.

'Why is he wasting time cutting the outside of the barrel?' demanded Mackay. The Scots officer was practically dancing with impatience. 'We don't have time for cosmetic adornment!'

Studying the work being done at the lathe, Ollie pursed his lips. The lathe operator, Jack Little, had been a machinist for longer than Alexander Mackay had been alive.

Guess which one of them knows what they're doing? But for all the irritation in the thought, Ollie decided to explain. Politely.

He pointed to the large casting. The butt end of the future cannon was held in the lathe's jaws; the front, already center-drilled, was held steady by a live center projecting from the tailstock. The two trunnions were rotating so rapidly they formed nothing more than a blur. Soft bronze could be machined at a much higher RPM than steel. Jack was making a very shallow cut a few inches long near the end of the barrel-a skin cut, as it was called.

'There's nothing cosmetic at all about what he's doing. He needs a machined surface for the steady rest. Unless the end of the barrel is held steady, it'd take forever to drill out the internal diameter. Just holding the casting at one end, the chatter would be ferocious.'

Mackay frowned. 'What's a steady rest?'

Ollie suppressed a sigh. He pointed to a fixture sitting in a rack at the end of the lathe's ways. The fixture, which could be swung apart on a hinge, formed an open circle some ten inches in diameter. Three adjustable columns ending in ball bearings projected into the center at 120-degree intervals. Two of them would cradle the piece from below; the third, from directly above.

'That is,' he growled. 'You set it on the ways, clamp it down, and then bring the bearings to ride on the machined surface which Jack's cutting right now. Steadies the piece and holds it true for the next operation, which, on these three-pounder barrels, is drilling out the bore.' The precisionist soul of a machinist surfaced. Frowning: 'We really ought to be reaming it, for the finish cut-we'll use a boring bar for the six-pounders-but those cast iron cannonballs are so sloppy and uneven there's no point. We'd be trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.'

Mackay flushed. 'I see.' With obvious embarrassment, he tugged at his short beard. 'I see,' he repeated.

Next to him, Julie grinned. 'Any more questions, big shot?' She turned to Ollie and shrugged. 'You got to make allowances. He's still trying to adjust to his magnificent new status.'

The grin widened. 'Colonel Mackay, no less. And he only just turned twenty-three!'

'Stop it, girl,' grumbled Alex. 'I was only-'