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'Me,' continued Harry, 'I think Darryl's full of shit. I bet I can blow your brains right out of the back of your head without getting worse than maybe a split thumb. 'Course, I admit, Darryl's bound to claim the experiment was no good-on account of you got no brains to begin with-but I can't say I really give a damn. I'd like to do it anyway, just 'cause I despise your sorry ass.'

For a moment, Nasi thought Freddie might faint. Then, seeing the man's eyes rolling wildly at him, Nasi patted Lefferts on the shoulder.

'I think he's seen the light of day, Harry.'

Harry withdrew the gunbarrel, tilted it away, and lowered the hammer. Then, made a face at it and stepped over to the dining table. He plucked a rag of some kind from the debris-a towel, perhaps; it was hard to tell-and started hurriedly wiping off the barrel. 'Damn,' Harry muttered. 'Your saliva's worse than acid. My favorite piece, too.'

Harry lifted his eyes from the task and gave Freddie a look of sheer menace. 'You will take orders from your boss, shithead-that's Mister Nasi, to you-or you won't have to worry about a German jury. I'll just kill you myself. Save the taxpayers some money.'

'Okay,' croaked Freddie.

When they returned to Stoner's place, where Mike had waited for them, Harry made an announcement. 'I think I've got the knack for this Double-O-Seven stuff. All I gotta do now is learn that fancy game. Whazzit called? Shummin-de-fur, or something. Y'know, what they play in Monaco.'

Nasi seemed to choke a little. Mike shook his head firmly.

'Not a chance, Harry. You'd have to give up your boilermakers and learn to drink dry martinis. Shaken, not stirred.'

Harry scowled. 'Well, forget it then. I guess I'll just have to learn to be a country-boy roughneck instead.'

Part III

Those mackerel-crowded seas

Chapter 18

The English Channel was brisker than usual, even for September. Despite the bright sunlight, the temperature hovered around no more than fifty degrees, and the wind blowing out of the northeast had teeth to it. It put a lively chop on the Channel's blue water and whined in the rigging, and Maarten Harpentzoon van Tromp, lieutenant-admiral of Holland, drew its freshness deep into his lungs as he stood on the quarterdeck of his flagship and gazed astern at the other ships of his fleet.

'They make a goodly sight,' the man standing beside him said, and Tromp glanced at him. At thirty-four, Vice-Admiral Cornelisz Witte de With was two years younger than Tromp, which made both of them very young indeed for the posts they held. But there seemed to be a lot of that going around lately, Tromp told himself with a small, crooked smile.

'That they do,' he agreed, turning his eyes back to the weather-stained canvas of the ships forging along in Amelia's wake. Their formation keeping was indifferent, to say the very least. But that was typical of a Dutch fleet, and even from here he could almost taste the confidence, born of forty years of victory at sea, which filled their crews. 'I'd like it better if more of them were regular Navy ships,' he added after a moment, and de With chuckled.

'Wouldn't any of us?' he responded. 'But the States General is doing well to keep forty ships in commission. There's not much left, even with the French subsidy, after they pay for the Army and the border fortresses' upkeep. And it isn't as if we're not used to it!'

'No. No, it isn't.' Tromp shook his head and thought about the purloined pages he'd been shown by Constantjin Huygens, Prince Frederik Hendrik's secretary. They'd been frustratingly vague, not to mention fragmentary and incomplete, but they'd also been fascinating, especially with their hints of how countries of the future would maintain their fleets. Still, he wasn't sure he approved of the notion of a nation which maintained hundreds of state-owned naval vessels. The expense must be staggering, if nothing else. Besides, the long-standing practice of hiring and impressing armed merchant ships in time of war favored a nation like the United Provinces. The Dutch bred the finest seamen in the world, which turned the Republic's enormous merchant marine into one vast naval reserve. His present command boasted only twenty-seven regular warships, but they were supported by eleven more vessels of the East India Company's fleet and another thirty-six well-armed, well-found merchantmen.

Most of them were smaller than his own Amelia's fifty-six guns, and all of them were built for the shallow waters of the North Sea and the Baltic. Other countries-like Spain-might build larger, more heavily armed ships. There were rumors that Charles Stuart had recently decided to lay down a ship which would mount over a hundred guns, although the current restiveness in England might disorder his plans. But no one built handier ones than the Dutch. Or put finer crews aboard them. And the Dutch Navy had the first officer corps of professional seamen in European history, as well.

Seventy-four ships. Cornelisz was right; they did make a goodly sight, and he allowed himself a moment of unalloyed pleasure as he surveyed it. But the moment was brief, and he turned back to de With with a frown.

'Tell me honestly, Cornelisz,' he said, his voice half-buried in the sound of wind and wave. 'What do you think?'

'About what?' The taller de With looked down his proud prow of a nose with an expression of artful innocence, and Tromp grimaced.

'You know perfectly well what,' he growled, and waved a hand at the ships trailing along behind Amelia, including de With's own flagship, the Brederode. 'This-all of this. You and I, Richelieu and Oquendo. And these 'Americans'!'

'I think we live in wondrous times,' de With replied after a moment. 'Beyond that, I don't begin to understand… and God hasn't gotten around to explaining it to me yet.'

Tromp barked a laugh and reached out to slap de With on the biceps.

'Perhaps He's decided explaining doesn't do much good, given the way the lot of us have been squabbling over the things He specifically told us about in Holy Scripture,' he suggested. 'Maybe He thinks he can distract us from killing one another in His name if He gives us something so obscure we spend all our time puzzling about it instead of fighting about doctrine!'

De With considered the proposition, then shook his head.

'You could be right. And if that's what He's thinking, I suppose we have no choice but to accept it. For myself, I could wish He'd chosen to be just a bit less mysterious. Or confusing, at any rate.'

'I can't argue with you there,' Tromp murmured, and scratched the tip of his own equally proud but sharper nose while he frowned pensively. 'Still, I suppose He expects us to do the best we can. So tell me what you think about the 'Americans.' '

'I think they're dangerous,' de With said quietly, and there was no more humor in his voice. 'I think they're probably the most dangerous thing to be introduced into the world since Jan Huss first twisted the pope's nose. The only thing I haven't been able to decide is who they're most dangerous to.'

'You don't think the fact that they're a republic makes them our natural allies?' Tromp asked, and de With snorted.

'I don't believe in 'natural allies,' ' he said. 'If there were any such thing, Catholic France wouldn't have to bribe Protestant England into siding with us against Catholic Spain!'

'And Protestant Holland wouldn't be worried over the threat posed by its 'natural ally' Protestant Sweden, either,' Tromp agreed. 'Even so, wouldn't you say two republics have a certain… commonality of interest with one another? Especially when they're both surrounded by monarchies?'

'Not when the other one seems to be a true republic,' de With said bluntly. Tromp looked around quickly, but no one else was in earshot, and de With smiled thinly at him. 'From all I've been able to discover-which isn't much, granted-these 'Americans' seem to have very little use for jonkers. Or for princes. And this 'Congress' of theirs seems to be far more accountable to their citizens. Not to mention their bizarre notion of a 'universal franchise' and enough religious toleration to make a Remonstrant dizzy!' He shook his head. 'I have a feeling our own government would find notions like that far more threatening than any monarchy.'

'That sort of blunt spokenness can be risky,' Tromp cautioned.

'Of course it can. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong, does it?' de With chuckled harshly. 'Or was there another reason you were about to resign before they offered you this command?'

Tromp grimaced, but he didn't disagree. He couldn't. He and De With had known one another too long, and de With knew all about his own long-standing feud with Filips van Dorp.

Dorp was an imbecile. He was also more venal than most, and inept to the point of total ineffectualness. He'd demonstrated that convincingly enough to be dismissed from his post as lieutenant-admiral of Zeeland, but he was also the son of jonker Frederik van Dorp, one of the Sea-Beggar captains who'd won his own barony serving William the Silent. Which meant that even though Zeeland had gotten rid of Filips, the States of Holland had seen fit to make him Holland's lieutenant-admiral. It was a decision which had inevitably brought him and Tromp into bitter conflict. The Navy was too important to allow an idiot to ruin it through mismanagement, and the man's total inability to deal with the Dunkirker privateers only underscored his basic incompetence. Unfortunately, the States-and Prince Frederik Hendrik-had believed a nobleman would somehow exercise more natural authority than a man of humbler origins… like Maarten Tromp.

To be honest, things had always been that way. Personal alliances and patronage were the way of the world everywhere, Tromp supposed. Even in the Dutch republic, those noble families known collectively as the ridderschap dominated the top military and naval posts. And the situation had become even worse in the fifteen years since Prince Mauritz organized the downfall of Johan van Oldenbarnevelt to break the primacy of the States of Holland and reassert the House of Orange's control of the Republic.

'I still hadn't actually made up my mind to resign,' he said after a moment, and de With snorted in splendid derision. 'All right-all right!' Tromp admitted. 'I was going to. There. Are you satisfied?'

'That you didn't? Of course I am. But, you know, it's all the Americans' fault that you changed your mind. Or, rather, that the stadtholder changed his mind about Dorp.'

'It wasn't just the Americans,' Tromp said a bit somberly. 'Richelieu had a little something to do with it, too.'

'I know. And that does tend to make one wonder where the advantage lies for him in getting rid of Dorp, doesn't it?'

Tromp made a wordless sound of agreement and folded his hands behind himself. He rocked up and down on the balls of his feet, eyes distant as he gazed once again-this time unseeingly-at the sails of his fleet. The fact that Richelieu had intervened so directly was, as Cornelisz had just intimated, enough to make anyone nervous. The only thing more certain about Richelieu than his brilliance was his deviousness. He always had at least three different motives for anything he did, and Tromp was far from happy knowing that it was he who had delivered the pages, stolen from one of the Americans' history books, that had prompted Frederik Hendrik to summarily demand Dorp's dismissal and Tromp's own appointment in his place.

The mere fact that those pages had described a 'history' which hadn't happened yet-and which never would, now-was enough to make any good Calvinist uneasy. In his own thinking, Tromp was much closer to Arminianism's toleration of individual conscience than he ever allowed most people to realize. He found Simon Episcopius'