1633

Silent had been assassinated in 1584. He had used that power to entrench the forces of hardcore Calvinism throughout the country. By the time of his death, however, the rigidities of the Counter-Remonstrants had produced a great deal of unrest, and under his successor Frederik Hendrik the balance had begun swinging the other way. Mauritz's half brother, if he lacked some of the martial glamour of other members of the illustrious House of Orange, possessed in full measure the political adroitness and skill of their great father William the Silent. So, steadily but surely, he had worked toward a more even balance of power between the various factions of Dutch society.

And, just as steadily, toward achieving a long-lasting settlement with Spain. Frederik Hendrik had used the prestige of his victorious siege of 's-Hertogenbosch in 1629-which had caused a sensation; the first really major defeat for Spanish arms in Europe since the Great Armada of 1588-to launch an effort to reach out and achieve an acceptable compromise with the Spanish Habsburgs.

As she reviewed this history in her mind, Rebecca had to control her own anger. There were times, she thought, when the history of Europe in her era could be summed up with a phrase from her father's beloved Shakespeare: sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Nothing beyond death and destruction, that is, tearing a continent apart and leaving millions slaughtered in its wake. And for no reason beyond the narrow and petty interests of the various factions in European society which ruled the lands-just as petty, on the part of Holland's merchants, as any princeling of Germany.

For months now, since December of 1632, Dutch and Spanish representatives had been negotiating a new peace. By the spring of 1633, it had appeared that a settlement was in the making-and a very good one, all things considered, from the long-term interests of both the independent and Spanish portions of the Low Countries. If anything, even more favorable to the United Provinces than to the Habsburg provinces in the south.

But the Counter-Remonstrants dug in their heels, and by the time Rebecca and the U.S. delegation arrived in Holland the talks had already collapsed. The hardcore Calvinists had been certain that, backed by France, the Dutch had no need to make any settlement with the Spanish, and so Spain had withdrawn from the talks and turned to its fleet and Don Antonio de Oquendo. And still the hardcore had been confident, for Richelieu's France, as always, had stood ready to support them against its traditional Habsburg enemies.

Now, it seemed, their little world was being turned upside down. The Mantuan War between France and Spain had ended two years earlier, freeing up the still-great strength of the Spanish empire to be brought to bear once again on the Low Countries. And if the rumors sweeping The Hague were true, and the French had set aside their long quarrel with Spain and turned against their Dutch allies…

Jeff said it for her: 'Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind, huh?'

'Yes,' she said, almost biting the word off. 'Damnation! Just when I'd finally managed to cut my way through all the obstacles to get my first meeting with the prince of Orange himself!'

Exasperation drove her to her feet. 'Enough. What is done is done. Until the situation settles down, there will be no way for us to meet with Frederik Hendrik. Nor do I see the point in any further 'discussions' '-the word was almost sneered-'with bigoted officials whose fine theological phrases are no more than a cover for greed. So-what should we do next?'

For a moment, there was silence. Then Heinrich, pushing himself away from the door, said forcefully: 'Get out of The Hague, for a beginning. I do not share your confidence that there will be any 'settling down' of the situation, Rebecca. If the French have really switched allegiance and the English are in it also-which makes sense, given the message we just got from Melissa last night-then I think the Dutch are facing disaster.'

'They've held out for over fifty years,' protested Jeff.

But it was something of a feeble protest. Not even his wife agreed with him. 'Don't be foolish, Jeff,' said Gretchen. 'Without France to back them up, the Dutch survival depends on their fleet alone.'

'Best fleet in-'

'Not that much better,' she growled. 'And if the fleet is defeated, the Spanish will be able to get behind the line of fortifications at the frontier.'

'And don't think for a minute,' Heinrich added, 'that the Spanish army isn't still the best in Europe. Their infantry, at least. For fifty years, everything has favored the Dutch-the political terrain even more than the physical. Change the French factor in the equation…'

For a moment, Rebecca was distracted by the expression. She could remember a time-not so long ago, really-when Heinrich Schmidt would not have used the language of mathematics in his metaphors. That, too, was one of the multitude of little ways that a few thousand Americans had begun a transformation in central Europe.

She took courage from the thought, and remembered her husband's oft-repeated little mantra: Buying time, Becky, that's what we're doing. Buying time, until all the little changes we're making start merging into a river that can't be stopped.

'I do not disagree, Heinrich,' she said firmly. 'So-yes. There is no point remaining here. If the war goes badly for the Dutch, The Hague will be too exposed. Amsterdam is where they will fall back. Best we get there quickly, before the roads become flooded with refugees. But relay Melissa's message to Julie and Alex in Scotland first. Hopefully, it will get through to them. They should be in Edinburgh by now.'

Heinrich nodded, glanced at two of his soldiers standing against the far wall, and nodded again. Immediately, understanding the gesture, they headed for the door. Those were the two members of their party who spoke fluent Dutch, and the ones they'd come to rely upon to make whatever practical arrangements were needed. They would see to the task of hiring the necessary carriages for the journey to Amsterdam.

'We should leave someone behind,' said Gretchen. 'Two of us, with a radio-not Jimmy, we'll need him to set up the big radio again in Amsterdam-so we can keep informed of what's happening.'

'Me,' said Jeff immediately. 'And either Franz or Jakob.'

Gretchen froze for a minute, staring at her husband. Her face seemed to pale a bit.

Jeff shrugged. 'With only two of us here, one of us has to speak the language well enough. I can't speak it hardly at all. And I've got to stay because, like you said, Jimmy has to go with the rest of you to Amsterdam. That leaves me. The only-' He broke off, for an instant. Then, harshly: 'That leaves me.'

Rebecca understood the meaning of that hard, clipped statement. Jeff was skirting around an issue which ran deep beneath the surface in the new society emerging in what was called the United States. Would the 'old Americans'-the real Americans, as some thought of it-share in the risks and dangers of what they were forging? Or would they simply guide others in the doing? Rear echelon motherfuckers, in their own crude phrase, whose skills and knowledge were too valuable to risk on the front lines.

It was an old and long-running argument, both of whose sides Rebecca could understand. The fact was that almost any of the people who had been transplanted from the West Virginia of the future-any of them, at least, who were in their late teens-had a level of knowledge and skill which made them almost invaluable. Even with no more than a high school education, someone like Jeff Higgins understood more about science and technology than any European of the day. He could debate Galileo on astronomy-and win; Harvey on medicine-and win. Absurd to place such knowledge at the risk of being destroyed by a stray bullet or the diseases of a war zone.

And yet…

Perhaps-in the winning itself-lose everything. Saddle the world coming into being with an aristocracy of the robe which was no better, in the end, than any aristocracy of the sword. Create a world where, insidiously, American blood came to count for as much as the precious limpieza of the haughty Spanish hidalgos.

She hesitated, torn. As much as anything, because she had come to feel a deep love for the young American who had once saved her life-just as he had saved the lives of his German wife and her family.

The wife herself settled the issue. 'Yes, you must,' said Gretchen softly. Her hand slid into Jeff's and gave it a tight squeeze. Her eyes were moist. 'You must.'

***

The U.S. delegation set off for Amsterdam very early the next morning. Gretchen was the last to board, hugging Jeff fiercely until the last moment. Then, with a final kiss, climbed into the second one.

Jimmy leaned out of the window. 'You sure you don't want the incendiaries too?'

Jeff shrugged. 'What for? They're anti-shipping.' His head jerked a little, indicating the surroundings. 'The Hague's an inland town, in case you hadn't noticed. Besides…'

He bestowed on Jimmy a grin which he hoped had an aura of bravado about it. Instead of reflecting the fear which seemed to be coiling in his belly. 'Besides, who's to say you won't be the ones catching all the grief? Hell, Jimmy, before too long you might find yourself on the docks of Amsterdam firing those incendiary grenades at the Spanish fleet. You'll be glad you have them, then.'

His friend grinned back. Like Jeff's own, the expression was one of pure bravado. Jeff suspected Jimmy was probably as nervous as he was himself. But, dammit, he'd keep up the front.

'So long, buddy,' Jeff said softly, as the carriage lurched into motion. 'See you soon. I hope.'

He watched until the carriage rounded the corner and vanished from sight. Then, with a little shrug, turned to face the other U.S. soldier who had volunteered to stay behind.

'I guess we might as well spend the rest of the day cruising the town, Jakob. Hell, who knows? We might even hear a piece of actual news mixed in with all the rumors.'

'Not likely,' grunted Jakob. 'But we have nothing else to do, so why not? I need to buy us some more food, anyway. We may be on short rations, soon.'

Julie burst into the room where Alex's father lay in his bed, recuperating from his injuries. Her face was flushed with anger. 'I don't believe this sh-'

She broke off abruptly, remembering that she had just met her father-in-law a few days before. The trip to Scotland had been a long one, and while Alex's family had welcomed her readily enough, she was not exactly on comfortable Appalachian-cussing terms with them.

Not yet, at least. She had hopes for her father-in-law, if not the solemn woman he had married after his youthful escapades. (One of which, of course, had produced Alex himself.) Robert Mackay, even tortured by constant pain as he was, seemed like a rather cheerful soul.

Still-

'Must be the English, eh?' said Robert Mackay slyly, glancing at Alex. He winced as his son helped him rise up a bit from the pillows. 'Nothing else, in my experience, produces quite such a sudden rush of fury. If I mistake me not, your lovely wife was about to utter a most indelicate term.'

Julie flushed. Her father-in-law chuckled, glancing now at the corner where his bedpan was kept discreetly tucked away in a small cabinet. 'Especially