Between the energy with which they set to themselves to the work and the simple fact that there was only so much that could be done anyway, they were finished within a few minutes. Then, brandishing pistols-Denise Beasley, the trusty.45 with which her father Buster had gone down to everlasting fame and glory during the Dreeson Incident; Minnie Hugelmair, an expensive-looking cap-and-ball revolver that she'd sweet-talked her employer Nasi into buying for her-the two teenage girls stood stalwart guard, ready to slaughter whatever Swedish hordes might force their way in. Minnie had a nasty-looking dagger in her left hand, too.
Noelle cleared her throat. 'You know, girls, if they can't hold the walls, I really think we'd do better to try to find a hiding place in the root cellar.'
Uncertainly, torn between romance and reason, the girls looked back and forth from the door leading outside to the considerably smaller and less ornate door that led to the root cellar.
'It's nasty down there,' said Denise.
After a moment, Minnie shrugged. 'Not so nasty as it'd be up here, when they break in. Which they will, if they get into the city. We just can't hold off all of them. Come on, let's see what we can do.' She headed for the root cellar.
Denise, always the more rambunctious of the two, was still scowling. 'There's probably rats down there.'
Minnie unlatched the door. 'Probably. On the other hand, not once in the history of the world have women been gang-raped by rats. It's always important to keep a perspective on these things.'
She had a point, and not even Denise was that stubborn. On their way down the steep stairs-more like a heavy ladder, really-she consoled herself by saying: 'Well, I guess we can always have our last shoot-out down here too.'
Noelle was bound and determined to see it didn't come to that. She started moving sacks of onions and turnips, wondering if there were enough to pile over them.
'Hey, look at this,' said Minnie. She was crouched in a corner of the small basement, holding up the lantern Noelle had brought down.
The two other women went over. When they got next to her, they saw that Minnie had scraped aside some straw and exposed what looked like a small trapdoor. Denise reached down, seized the little loop of rope that seemed to serve as a latch, and lifted the door.
It came up fairly easily, given that it was obvious no one had moved the thing for years. Minnie held the lamp over it. Looking down, they saw a very small empty room below. More in the way of an alcove, really. The walls weren't dirt, though. They'd been lined with wood, as had the floor. It was like a small, rather well-built closet that you entered from the top instead of the side.
Denise frowned. 'What…?'
Minnie chuckled. 'Whoever built this house was a pessimist, obviously. We don't have to create a hideout, Noelle-there's one already here.'
Noelle had reached the same conclusion herself. The safe room was superb, actually. Once the trapdoor was lowered on whoever hid inside, it could be covered with straw, some dirt-plenty of that, in a root cellar-and piled high with sacks of vegetables. Not quite enough to prevent the people inside from eventually forcing the door back open, but enough to discourage any searchers. Mercenaries looking for loot and women wouldn't spend much time down here anyway. Especially if they were drunk, which they almost certainly would be. The biggest danger was that they'd set the whole house on fire. Arson was often a feature of a city being sacked.
Still, it was safer than anything else.
Denise peered more closely into the hideout. 'I'm not sure we can all fit in there.'
Noelle had already come to that conclusion also. It didn't really matter, though. The trapdoor wasn't that well-concealed on its own. Minnie had spotted it easily, once she looked in this corner. Someone else could do the same. To make the hideout work, someone had to stay above and cover the trapdoor after it was closed.
'Give me your guns,' she said, extending her hands.
The two teenagers stared at her. 'You've already got one,' said Minnie.
'And you can't shoot anyway,' added Denise.
'I'm not going to argue about this, girls. A formality it might be, most of the time, but the fact is that you're minors under my care. You won't need those guns if you have to squeeze yourself down into that hole, and I need to stay up here to cover the trapdoor so it won't be spotted.'
Noelle shrugged. 'And my marksmanship is a moot point. If I have to use the guns-all three of them, and don't think I won't be blasting away like a maniac-it'll be at point blank range anyway.' She looked around, squinting in the dim light. 'I figure I'll make Stull's Last Stand down here, not upstairs. Less chance they could take me alive-and, either way, there'd be enough gore and stuff that they won't stick around down here afterward to look for anybody else.'
Denise's eyes were wide. So was Minnie's one good eye.
Noelle shook her head. 'I am not going to argue about this,' she repeated. 'Give. Me. Your. Guns. Now.'
In the end, they settled on a compromise. Denise and Minnie would keep the guns until and unless it became clear that the walls had been breached, the city was being sacked, and all was lost. Then-only then-would the girls do as they were told.
As compromises went, Noelle figured it wasn't a bad one. Given those two.
Then, they went back upstairs. Minnie and Denise settled down for a card game in the kitchen. Noelle went upstairs to watch the street from a window.
'She's pretty cool,' observed Denise, as she dealt out the first hand.
'We already knew that,' said Minnie. 'But it's nice to see these things confirmed.'
Jozef Wojtowicz tried to cheer himself up. At least they wouldn't be hauling any rocks for a while.
And there was this, too-he was learning how to use one of these fascinating volley guns in actual combat, always the best way to really become familiar with a weapon.
The design was quite interesting. Ingenious, even. Lt. Krenz had told him it was modeled on an ancient up- time weapon called the Billinghurst-Requa battery gun. 'Ancient,' of course, as up-timers reckoned these things. Apparently the Americans had had a civil war of their own, back in the dawn of time, and the gun had first seen action then.
Best of all, it was a design that was well within the capability of Poland's artisans to make. The only tricky part of the design was the percussion cap, from what Jozef could see. But you didn't need that anyway-all of the volley guns in his bastion were being fired by simple powder trains. Percussion caps would certainly improve the rate of fire, but Jozef thought it would be possible to buy them from the French. The things weren't bulky, so shipping wouldn't be a big problem.
Still, it was an awkward situation. If Jozef's history ever got exposed, how was he going to explain to Polish hussars that his only real combat experience had been fighting on behalf of the USE? His friends wouldn't care, of course, and Grand Hetman Koniecpolski was a man of broad and wide experience, who'd take the thing in stride.
Alas, the average hussar was about as broad-minded as a rooster. Jozef would never live it down. The ridicule would follow him into the grave. Which might be an early one, if any of the hussars took it in mind to be outraged and offended.
Alas, the average hussar got outraged and offended about as readily as a rooster too.
Maybe he could argue that since he'd actually been fighting on the side of the rebels in the affair-
But that wouldn't do him any good if the rebels won the civil war, in which case they would become the USE themselves and he was right back in the soup, as far as hussars were concerned. Yet if the rebels lost the civil war-starting right here in Dresden, this being the only place there was any serious fighting-then hussars would be the least of Jozef's problems. Outraged and offended Swedish mercenaries would have done for him already.
Outraged and offended, indeed. They were suffering horrible casualties out there on the ice. The volley guns really were quite murderous.
When Ernst reached the command center, he found Tata there, along with Joachim Kappel. But Gretchen was gone.
'She's out walking the lines,' Tata explained.
The responsibility of command. Wettin would have been doing the same, had he still been in charge. So would the best kings and queens, down through the years.
