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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 Jцnsson, 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 fiancй. 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.

His annoyance vanished at once. 'Marvelous!' he exclaimed. The clarity of the image was far better than anything he had ever seen through a telescope. He spent perhaps a minute, gaily swinging the rifle back and forth, before settling to serious business.

The next few minutes were devoted to a careful inspection of his opponent's position. The Swedish and the Bavarian armies were located on opposite banks of the Lech, just south of the small river's confluence with the Danube. Here, the river passed through a low, marshy plain, flanked by higher land on either side. Tilly had marshaled his forces in the elevated woods beyond the marsh. Clearly enough, the old Catholic general was confident that the boggy terrain on the river banks would impede any Swedish advance badly enough to prevent a crossing. His flanks were well anchored by fortifications, and he had his own batteries drawn up in the center. It was, to all appearances, a well-nigh impregnable position.

But The king smiled grimly, as he studied a particular stretch of the river through the telescope. Directly opposite the high ground where Torstensson was positioning his seventy-two guns, the Lech made a wide loop. The river's meandering course had left a spit of land projecting toward the Swedes on the opposite bank. If a strong force could be moved across the water, onto that spit, under the cover of the Swedish guns, the king would have his bridgehead.

The king lowered the rifle. 'Just as the Finns reported,' he murmured to Anders with satisfaction. He turned to Julie and handed back the weapon.

'Splendid telescope,' he said. 'Though I found that peculiar flaw a bit distracting.'

Mackay translated. Julie frowned-insult her scope!-and demanded an explanation. Mackay translated. The king explained:

Those two black lines meeting right in the center of the eyepiece.

Mackay translated. Julie-royal temper be damned-growled her response. Mackay translated.

The king erupted anew. 'Nonsense!' he bellowed. Waving a great hand angrily: 'That's five hundred yards!'

Imperiously, he pointed to Mackay and spoke to Julie. 'Give this braggart that gun!' To Mackay: 'Now-sir. Make good your boast!'

Mackay swallowed. Then, explained. The king's eyes bulged. Her?

Mackay nodded. The stare was transferred to-to-this-this impudent female!

Julie had had enough. She hefted the rifle. 'Tell that fathead to pick his target,' she snarled.

Mackay translated, more or less. He did not include the term 'fathead.' Gustav II Adolf glared at the enemy across the river, selecting his target. He couldn't see well enough, alas, so the king was forced to rely on Jцnsson.

'There's a very fine-looking officer near that one grove, Your Majesty. Dramatic fellow, judging from his posture.'

Mackay began to translate, but Julie's German was good enough to understand the gist. The rifle was into her shoulder, her eye at the scope.

The king, watching, began to hiss. For all his indignation, Gustav was far too experienced a soldier not to recognize the casual expertise with which the girl Crack! The flat, unfamiliar sound startled the king. His head swiveled to Anders. The bodyguard's face seemed a bit pale.

'Well?' demanded Gustav.

'Dead on, Your Majesty. Right through the heart, I think. Hard to tell, at that distance. But he's down for good, that's certain.'

'Nonsense! Luck! Another!'

Anders called out another target. A few seconds went by. Crack.

'Another!'

Crack.

'Another!'

Crack.

'Ano-' Gustav fell silent. The silence lasted for well over a minute. At the end, he heaved a sigh. Then, suddenly, he broke into a smile.

'Ah, Mackay-' The Scotsman, face very pale, stared at his sovereign. The king, for his part, was staring at Julie. Still smiling.

Julie was not smiling. She was glaring at Gustav with grotesque disregard for all proper etiquette in the presence of royalty.

'I believe I have offended your fiancйe,' he said. 'Under the circumstances, it might be best if you explained to her the provisions of the dueling code. Can't challenge a ruling monarch. Simply isn't done. Besides-'

He chuckled. 'Explain to her that as the challenged party I would have the choice of weapons. Sabers, for a certainty!'

When Mackay translated, Julie's ill humor evaporated instantly. For a moment, she and the king of Sweden exchanged grins. Watching, Anders thought of a chipmunk and a bear beaming in mutual approval.

But he kept the thought to himself. He even managed not to smile at his king's next muttered words.

'Witchcraft-nonsense! What woman needs to be a witch, when she can shoot like that?'

A moment later, Torstensson's guns began to fire, and his amusement vanished. Anders knew the king's plan for the coming battle. No one had asked his opinion, of course-he was merely a bodyguard-but the veteran had a firm one nonetheless.

Gustav II Adolf proposed to force a river in the face of a powerful fortified enemy, in defiance of all established military wisdom of the day.

Madman!

***

'Too high!' bellowed Torstensson. 'Still too high, damn you!'

The gunners at the American cannons swore angrily. Again, they fumbled at the-cursed newfangled!-things which the Americans called elevating screws. They were accustomed to adjusting the tangent elevation by simply levering up the breech and inserting quoins. Admittedly, the new system was quicker, and certainly much easier. Probably more accurate, too. But the gunners did not have the hang of it yet, and they kept overshooting. Some of that inaccuracy, of course, was due to the simple fact that the American guns, with their tight-fitting balls in perfect bores, had a greater range than they were accustomed to. As was the custom of the day, 'aiming' was simply a matter of gauging the distance and the angle of the barrel.

Tom turned to Heinrich and whispered, 'Remember, when we get back, to talk to Ollie about setting up some kind of sights and elevation lines.'

Heinrich nodded. He did not need an explanation of the terms. The German mercenary-former mercenary; like Tom, he now held the rank