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gut Thomas!—
stood in the front line, in the center, where he belonged. His comrades took strength and courage, seeing his huge form standing there.

 

    Because
that
was what won battles, in the end. Not firepower and fancy marksmanship. Strength and courage.

 

    So, needless to say, no one ogled his wife. But once the other women were gone, scampering up the ridge, some gave vent to their true sentiments.

 

    “The Americans are
crazy
,” grumbled Ferdinand, one of Heinrich’s lieutenants. “You watch—those silly bitches’ll start screaming as soon as the first gun goes off.”

 

    Glumly, Ferdinand stared up the slope. The bulk of the American soldiers, he knew, were positioned just over the crest of the ridge. “Then those soft-headed American men will drop their own guns and spend all their time trying to calm the women down.”

 

    He shifted his gaze, now staring up the road. Perhaps half a mile away, Ferdinand could spot the first enemy horsemen coming into sight. “You watch,” he concluded sourly, “we’ll wind up doing all the fighting.” He stroked the sleek shotgun in his hands, finding solace in that wondrous rate of fire.

 

    Heinrich, examining the same horsemen, sucked his teeth. “Maybe,” he grunted. He lowered the binoculars and looked up the ridge. He spotted Frank almost at once. Two women—girls, in truth—were standing next to him. One of those girls, Heinrich knew, was Frank’s own niece. He and Frank had become very friendly, over the past few months, and Heinrich knew full well that Frank shared his own reservations. On the other hand . . . 

 

    “I admit the damn girl can shoot,” Frank had told him once. Grudgingly, true. But given Frank’s definition of “shooting,” Heinrich understood just how much praise was contained in that sullen admission.

 

    He looked away. “Maybe,” he repeated. A slight smile came to his face. “Then again—maybe not.”

 

    At that very moment, as it happens, Jeff and Larry were heaping their own praise onto Mike and Frank. And there was nothing grudging or sullen about it. The two young men had just realized what Mike intended, by positioning most of his American troops on the reverse slope of the ridge, just below the crest. They would be invisible to the enemy there, until he summoned them forth.

 

    “Man, that’s slick, Mike!” exclaimed Larry.

 

    Mike jerked a thumb at Frank. “Tell him, not me. He’s the pro—I’m just following his advice.”

 

    The adulation was transferred to Jackson. “Just like Wellington at Salamanca,” intoned Jeff.

 

    “And Le Haye Sainte,” agreed Larry sagely.

 

    Frank scowled. “Common fucking sense, is what it is. I learned this trick from a sergeant in Nam. I think he learned it from the NVA. So who the hell is Wellington?”

 

    Jeff and Larry goggled at him for a moment. Then, in a small voice, Jeff said: “He’s the guy they named your favorite boots after.”

 

    
Now
, Frank was impressed. “Oh,” he said. “
Him.
Good man! Whoever he was.”

 

    And, at that very moment, Gretchen struck the first blow against a different enemy. A much less concrete foe, in her case—and a much harder one to vanquish.

 

    “All right,” said Mathilde, one of the women in the shack. Her voice was hesitant, uncertain. She glanced quickly at the four other women huddled on pallets against the walls. Two of them were Mathilde’s sisters; the other two, cousins. Both her cousins and one of her sisters were nursing babies.

 

    Mathilde’s own fears and doubts were mirrored in their faces.

 

    “I do not ask you to take great risks,” Gretchen said immediately. “Nothing you are too scared to do. But I think you will find everything much easier by tomorrow. After the battle is won, Jena’s high and mighty notables will not be so quick to accuse anyone of witchcraft.”

 

    The women in the shack stared at her. They were still frightened, Gretchen saw. They had been frightened and nervous since the moment Gretchen approach Mathilde and one of her cousins. The two young women had been part of the crowd watching the American army march past. Gretchen had singled them out within a minute of Jeff’s flamboyant departure. She had been guided less by instinct than by her own hard experience. She knew how to recognize desperate women—and, what was more important, women who still retained their backbones.

 

    Frightened, yes; nervous, yes. But Gretchen knew her choice had been well-aimed. The women had still listened, as she spoke, with neither protest nor any attempt to drive her out of their miserable dwelling in Jena’s worst slum.

 

    Mathilde and her extended family were part of the great mass of poor women whom the war had driven into dire straits. All of them were refugees from the Palatinate, who had found a sanctuary in Jena. The adult men in the family were all dead or gone, except for Mathilde’s crippled uncle. He was sleeping quietly in the next-door shack.

 

    Mathilde and the prettiest of her cousins supported the family by prostitution. Jena was a good town for the trade, what with its large population of young male students, most of whom were from Germany’s nobility and prosperous burgher class. But if Jena was a sanctuary, it was a precarious one. Women of their kind were only tolerated so long as they kept their place. For almost a century, since the witch-hunting craze began, it was wretched creatures such as they who were the first to be accused of witchcraft. The accusation was almost impossible to disprove, even if the area’s notables were willing to listen to protestations of innocence—which, more often than not, they weren’t in the least.

 

    “Trust me,” Gretchen stated. “After today, the notables will be much less full of themselves.”

 

    “You are so sure?” asked one of the cousins. Her voice, for all the meekness of its tone, held a trace of hope.

 

    Gretchen gave no answer beyond a level gaze. But that was enough. For all their fears, the women in the shack were quite dazzled by her. They could tell she was one of their own kind. Yet the woman seemed so—so—

 

    
Sure.
Confident. Poised.

 

    
Powerful.
They had never seen a woman like that. Not once. Not from their own class . . . 

 

    “All right,” said Mathilde again. This time, the words were spoken firmly. “We will do as you say, Gretchen. We will start here, with us. There are some others we can talk to, also.” Mathilde glanced at her sisters and cousins. “Hannelore, I think. And Maria.”

 

    One of her sisters nodded. Mathilde’s cousin Inga, the other prostitute, smiled. As if a dam had burst, she began to speak quickly and eagerly:

 

    “And the students will be easy. There are at least three I can think of at once! Joachim, Fritz and Kurt—especially Joachim. He’s very nice, and always wants to talk to me afterward. He thinks a lot about politics, I know that, even if I can’t follow half of what he says. I wish he wasn’t so short of money all the time so he could come more often.”

 

    Mathilde laughed, a bit coarsely. “He comes often enough, girl! What kind of idiot whore lets her customer owe her money?”

 

    Inga flushed. “I like him,” she replied stubbornly. “So what if he can’t always pay at the time? He never cheats me. He always gives me what he owes whenever his parents send him money.”

 

    Mathilde didn’t press it. She rather liked Joachim herself, actually. But mention of his name brought up another concern.

 

    “For the students it will be easy, this—what did you call it?”

 

    “Committees of Correspondence,” said Gretchen.

 

    “Yes. For them, easy. But for us? Inga is the only one who can even sign her name.”

 

    Gretchen scanned the women in the room. “You are all illiterate?” Five nods came in reply.

 

    Gretchen sat up straight. Since she had the only chair in the shack, she practically towered over the others. The height, and her own size and posture, made her seem like a hearth goddess.

 

    “Then that is the first thing we will change.” Her eyes fell on the youngest woman in the shack. A girl, really. Her name was Gertrude, and she was Mathilde’s youngest sister. She had just turned fifteen, and already showed signs of becoming as attractive as Mathilde. Under normal circumstances, she would become a prostitute before she saw another birthday.

 

    But circumstances had changed. The family had been adopted by a hearth goddess, and she made her first decree.

 

    “Gertrude will accompany me back to Grantville. We will put her to school.”

 

    There was no protest. The first Committee of Correspondence was still fearful, still uncertain, still groping for clarity and understanding. But their timid fingertips could feel the first touch of hope. And, besides, women of their class did not argue with a goddess. Not even a goddess who spoke in their own tongue.
Especially
not such a goddess.

 

    Mathilde cleared her throat.

 

    “You will speak to the students, then, after we—” She fumbled at the unfamiliar terms: “
organize a meeting?
”

 

    Gretchen smiled. “Me? Nonsense! Well, not alone, at least.” She snorted. “Stupid boys. They’ll think of nothing but what I look like naked.”

 

    Soft laughter filled the shack. Gretchen’s smile returned, wider than ever—and more than a little wintry. “No, no. I will come. But I will bring my husband with me. Better that way. He’s an intellectual himself, which I most certainly am not. The students will understand him better.”

 

    Inga’s eyes were very wide. “I saw him, when you came into town. Oh!” She snickered. “They’ll be so
scared
of him, too.”

 

    Gretchen’s heart warmed, for a moment. She would be sure to mention that comment to Jeff. He would be pleased, very. She liked pleasing her husband, even if the whole matter was male foolishness.

 

    But she let none of that show. Her eyes were cold and grim.

 

    “Yes, they will.
Sehr gut!
”
Chapter 39

    Mike knelt down next to Julie Sims. Frank’s niece was sitting cross-legged next to a small tree at the crest of the ridge, just a few yards from its highest point. Mike didn’t recognize the tree. Some kind of elm, he thought. The leaves had not yet been touched by autumn color.
    Julie’s rifle was propped against her shoulder, the butt nestled against her inner calf. The rifle was a Remington Model 700, firing .308 rounds, with an ART-2 scope. The gun was a larger caliber than was used in biathlon competition in the modern era, but it was the rifle Julie preferred for hunting. Her father had bought it for her three years earlier.
    Next to her was Karen Tyler, the girl who would serve as her observer. Karen was raised up on her knees. A pair of binoculars were slung around her neck, but at the moment she was studying the oncoming mercenaries through an M49 spotting scope. The expensive optical piece had been Frank Jackson’s contribution to Julie’s fledgling biathlon ambitions, along with her skis. For all Frank’s crabbing, Mike knew, he adored his niece as much as any of his own sons.
    “You’re sure about this?” asked Mike. He spoke very softly, so only Julie could hear.
    Julie’s lips twitched, but her eyes never left the landscape below the ridge. “What? Are you going to lecture me too?”
    Solemnly, Mike shook his head. “Look at me, Julie.” For all the softness of his tone, the words were full of command. Julie turned to face him. As always, Mike was struck by her classically “all-American country girl” features. Peaches-and-cream complexion, light brown hair, blue eyes, open face, snub nose. No one except a man in love with her would ever call Julie Sims “beautiful.” Just—good-looking.
    Mike nodded at Karen, now exchanging the scope for the binoculars—just as James Nichols had trained her. Use the binoculars for scanning the area, the scope for pinpointing target locations. He could see the little notebook by her knee in which Karen had scrawled key target areas and wind direction. The target area page was full. There were only two words on the opposite page:
no wind.
    “This isn’t target shooting, Julie. Or deer hunting. This is sniper work. In the past few weeks, James trained you the way he was trained when he was in the Marines, after he volunteered for sniper school.”
    Julie said nothing. Her face was expressionless. “Did you ever wonder why he never finished the training?” he asked gently.
    Nothing. Mike sighed. “He told me—and I’m willing to bet he told you, too. He thought being a tough guy and a good shot would be enough. It isn’t. They make sure you understand that. And you can drop out any time you want, without prejudice.”
    Nothing.
    “When he did finally understand it, he dropped out. He just didn’t have the temperament. And I know I wouldn’t, either. One shot, one kill—and you’re killing men, not animals. Men with faces you can see.”
    Finally, an expression came to her young, almost angelic face. But Mike couldn’t quite interpret it. Sarcasm? No, it was more like whimsy; or maybe, wry amusement.
    “Did Uncle Frank ever tell you the story,” she asked, “about the first time I went deer hunting? How I cried like a baby after I shot my first buck?”
    Mike nodded. Julie’s expression grew very wry.
    “You know why? The deer was so pretty. And it had never done me any harm.” Julie cocked her head toward her observer, a girl no older than she. Another recent high-school graduate. Slender, where Julie was not, but otherwise—peas from a pod.
    “Hey, Karen! Those guys look pretty to you?”
    Karen shifted her gum into a corner of her mouth. “Nope. Ugly bastards. Mean looking, too. Look more like wild dogs than cute little deer.”
    Julie bared her teeth. The smile was far more savage than anything belonging on the face of an eighteen-year-old, male or female. “That’s what I thought. Hey, Karen! Watcha think they’ll do—to you and me, I mean—if they get their hands on us?”
    Karen was back to chewing her gum. Her words came out in a semimumble. “Don’t want to think about it, girl. But I’ll tell you one thing. Won’t be trying to sweet-talk us into the backseat of a car. Not likely.”
    The smile left Julie’s face; but, if anything, the sense of whimsy was even stronger in her eyes. She gave Mike a level gaze.
    “That’s the whole problem with allowing men into combat,” she said solemnly. “You guys are just too emotional about the whole thing.”
    Mike chuckled. “All right, Julie—enough! Just checking.”
    “S’okay, Mike. I like you, too. But I’ll be fine. Just give me the word, and I’ll start dropping the bastards.”
    Mike shook his head slightly. The gesture was more rueful than anything else. He rose to his feet. “How far are they now, Karen? I make it six hundred yards.”
    “ ’Bout right,” came the reply. “A little less, those first horsemen. The crossroad is right around five hundred fifty yards, and they’re almost there.”
    “You two got your locations fixed?” Both girls nodded. “Okay, then. I want to wait a bit. Don’t want to scare them off before the Scots can circle. I want that army captured, not running off to attack some other town.”
    Mike turned his head, looking for Mackay. Mackay was standing next to Frank Jackson some fifteen yards off. Mike had asked the Scottish commander to stay with him as an adviser. Mackay had agreed readily enough. Much more readily than Mike had expected, in fact. At the time, Mike had ascribed that willingness to nothing more than Mackay’s confidence in Lennox. But now, seeing the Scotsman staring at Julie, he realized that Mackay had an interest of his own.
    Mike managed not to smile. He had noticed the way in which Mackay, in times past, had tried not to ogle Julie in her cheerleader costume. The Scotsman had been quite discreet about it, in fact, despite the bare legs and Julie’s exuberant athleticism. Mike found it amusing that Mackay was doing a much poorer job of maintaining his gentlemanly couth, seeing Julie now in her baggy hunting outfit. The Scotsman seemed utterly fascinated by the girl.
    Mike cleared his throat. “Uh, Alex?”
    Startled, Mackay jerked his gaze away from Julie. “Aye?”
    Mike pointed toward the still-distant mob of mercenaries. “How close do they need to be? For Lennox to be able to surround them before they can make their escape?”
    Mackay, for all his own youth, was a seasoned cavalry officer. He took no more than a few seconds to gauge the problem. “Four hundred yards,” came the confident answer. “Once all of them have passed the crossroad. That’ll do nicely.”
    Mike turned back to Karen and Julie. Karen nodded. Julie ignored him. She was giving Mackay an odd look. Then, quickly, looked away and hefted her rifle. There might have been a slight flush on her cheeks. Maybe.
    Mike strolled back to the top of the ridge, where Frank and Mackay were standing. Frank was studying the mercenaries on the level ground below through his own set of binoculars. When Mike came up alongside the Scotsman, he said casually, as if commenting on the weather: “She’s got a boyfriend, you know.”
    Mackay’s flush was not slight in the least.
    Mike did smile, now. “Frank doesn’t think much of him, though.”
    Jackson never took the binoculars away from his eyes. “Worthless snot, you ask me. Thinks ’cause he was the captain of a high-school football team that he’s some kind of bigshot for life. Probably wind up flipping hamburgers for the next thirty years.”
    He lowered the eyepieces. His face was quite expressionless. “Rather see her get hooked up with a more substantial sort of man, myself. Even if he ain’t as pretty as a homecoming king.”
    Silence. Mackay’s eyes were riveted on the mercenaries, as if he had never seen enemy soldiers before. His lips were pressed tightly shut.
    Frank glanced at him. “Your teeth bothering you? Why don’t you pay a visit to the town’s dentist? It’ll hurt, mind you—he’s pretty well out of anesthetic. But I’m sure he could fix them up.”
    Mackay’s flush deepened. Mike knew that the Scotsman’s teeth made him nervous in the presence of American women. For this day and age, Alex’s teeth weren’t in bad shape. But by American standards, they were something of an eyesore.
    Mackay’s preoccupation caused him to lapse into the dialect of his youth. “ ’ve thought on it,” he muttered. “I’ll no mind t’pain.”
    The last statement was flat, firm. Mike didn’t doubt him for an instant. Men of Mackay’s time had standards of pain acceptance that veered just as widely from those of Americans as their dental condition. “Anesthetic,” to a man like Mackay, meant half a bottle of wine—and glad to get it.
    Behind his lips, Mike could see Mackay’s tongue running over his teeth. “ ’Tis no the pain. S’the expense. I dinna ken if I can afford it.”
    Frank made a faint snorting sound. More of a sniff, perhaps. “Hell, don’t worry about that, Alex. Your credit’ll be good with him.”
    “Credit?” Mackay’s eyes widened. “
Credit?
I don’t even know t’man!”
    “I do,” stated Frank. “He’s my brother-in-law. Henry G. Sims, DDS.” Jackson nodded toward the sniper. “Julie’s father, as it happens. And he don’t think any better of little old Chip-shit than I do. As it happens.”
    The binoculars went back up to his eyes. “So go see him, why don’t you?”
    “Good idea,” concurred Mike. He gave Mackay a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Good idea.”