1634: The Baltic War: Chapter Twenty Nine

    Thorsten hadn’t hesitated in front of the door to the settlement house since the first time he’d visited, back in January. In the two months since then, he’d come to see Caroline Platzer every time he’d been able to get leave from the army’s training camp outside the city. Six times, now, all told. Half of which he’d been able to spend a full day in her company; none of them, less than three hours. His friends in the volley gun batteries had taken to ribbing him mercilessly about it, with Eric Krenz leading the charge. Complete with every conceivable variation of a joke on the subject of brainless moths being drawn helplessly, with no willpower of their own, into the scorching flames of a lamp or a fire.

    All that, Thorsten had ignored with no difficulty. To hell with them. He hadn’t let the opinions of others deter him from pursuing a goal since, at the age of seven, he’d let one of his more timid cousins persuade him not to swipe an apple from the orchard of a neighboring village that everyone knew produced the best apples in the area.

    Twenty years later, almost, and Thorsten could still taste what that apple probably would have tasted like. The very next day, he’d made a solemn vow to himself, in the way small boys will, that whatever else happened in his life he would not find himself on his deathbed passing into the afterworld with a cart-load’s worth of regrets. He’d added a great many curlicues to that vow since, with the increase of wisdom that the years brought and a better recognition of what was realistically possible and what wasn’t—but he’d never relinquished the heart of it.

    Nowadays, of course, he could pass up a stolen apple without a second thought. But that was just a piddly fruit. Figuratively speaking, Caroline Platzer was the biggest and juiciest apple he’d ever seen in his life. Bigger and juicier than he’d ever imagined in his life.

    Still, he hesitated. Not because the step he was about to take was irrevocable, but from a much deeper worry. Irrevocable steps came quite easily to Thorsten Engler. He was not in any way a man prone to indecision—nor was he a man who’d second-guess himself once he did make a decision.

    The problem was far simpler, and perhaps intractable. Would the blasted Americaness understand what he was doing?

    He’d wracked his brains for a month over the problem. He’d gone so far as to ask the advice and opinions of Eric and the rest of his soldier friends—and gotten nothing in return except more stupid jokes. He’d even gotten up the nerve to ask Gunther Achterhof, who, when the mood took him, could be the most savagely caustic humorist in the world.

    Alas, while Gunther had been sympathetic, he’d been no help either.

    “Sorry, Thorsten, I’ve got no idea. I’m afraid”—here the vulpine grin—“my relations with the Americans, although close in many respects, have never extended into this little area. What the up-timers would call a ‘minefield,’ by the way. They also talk about ‘walking on eggshells.’ What the first means—”

    “I know what a minefield is,” Thorsten growled. “We’re starting to train on laying them as well as digging them out. The up-timers didn’t even invent them, although—damn complicated people; too gnarly-brained to understand, half the time—I’ll grant you they developed some fiendish elaborations. And why would any sane person be walking on eggshells to begin with? Stupid. Waste of good eggs, trampling them into the dirt—not to mention the pain of cleaning your shoes afterward. Crack them and put them in a pan. Only Americans would even think of such a silly expression.”

    “Oh, my. Disgruntled, aren’t we?”

    “I don’t know what to do,” Thurston said, between gritted teeth. “I’m certain she likes me. As a man, too, not just… you know. A friend. I’m certain of that, by now. But—but—”

    “Yes, I understand. Where do you go from here? I take it you’ve gotten no indication from the lady herself?”

    “Who knows?” Thorsten threw up his hands with exasperation. Fortunately, he remembered to relinquish the tightly-gripped full mug of beer before he did so, or he’d have flung the contents onto the men at the next table. That would have produced a fight as well as waste of good beer. The fight, Thorsten wouldn’t have minded at all, the mood he was in. But he was saving up all the money he possibly could from his sergeant’s salary, and he could ill afford to throw away the beer.

    “Who knows,” he repeated, hissing a statement rather than a question. He took a draught from the beer. “Gunther, for all I know she might have been giving me signals every five minutes of every hour I’ve spent with her—and that’s a lot of hours by now. But if she has, they’re Americaness signals—and from three and a half centuries in the future, to make it still worse. Who can tell what she wants me to do? Or not do.”

    “Why don’t you just ask her?”

    Thorsten glared at him. Not because the proposal was insane—he’d considered it himself, at least a hundred times—but because…

    He couldn’t. It was as simple as that.

    Could. Not.

    Achterhof understood, of course. “Can’t, ha? Well, no, I suppose not. Even for me, the way they sometimes come right out and blurt things in the open makes me feel like I’m dealing with village idiots.” He slapped his chest. “We’re proper Germans, after all. And you, a farmer, to make it still worse.”

    Silence followed. Then Achterhof drained his beer. “Another?”

    “No.” Thorsten held up his own. “All I can afford, for today.”

    Gunther studied him for a moment, then chuckled. “Yes, I can see that. Not for Thorsten Engler to settle for a good pair of socks.”

    Thorsten had considered a good pair of socks, in fact. It hadn’t taken him two seconds to discard the idea as preposterous. For a German village woman, maybe. For an Americaness from the future, who knew how the different parts of the brain worked? God only knows what she’d think.

    “Oh, I’ll buy you one. But just one! Not that I’m stingy, Thorsten, but you clearly need to keep your wits about you.”

    They finished the next round of beers more or less in silence. Chatting a bit about the weather, that’s all. When Achterhof finished his beer, Thorsten followed his lead. He suspected the CoC organizer was probably good for another round, regardless of what he said, but Thorsten didn’t like to impose. Besides, the bastard was right. He did need to keep his wits about him. The few that the damn woman had left him.

    He rose. Achterhof looked up at him, and shrugged. “You’ll just have to do it like an impetuous cavalry charge, that’s all. And hope you don’t suffer the all-too-common result.”

    And now, it was time for the charge—and Thorsten was hesitating again.

    Fortunately—or not—Caroline emerged from the door. Smiling the way only she could.

    “You haven’t done this in ages! What’s the matter, Thorsten?”

    Before he could think of an answer, there was some sort of commotion behind her. Caroline turned her head.

    “Oh, God, she’s impossible sometimes!” She began to hurry back in, but paused quickly to wave an invitation at Thorsten to follow.

    A bit hesitantly, he followed—and found himself, once he entered the big outer room of the settlement house, looking at a small girl in very expensive clothing standing at bay, surrounded by four women in clothing that was just barely less expensive. Put together, at a guess, there was enough valuable finery there to set up a butcher shop.

    Caroline was in the midst of it, looking like a plain sparrow among peacocks—except she was taller than any of them and, leaving aside her utilitarian working clothes, much better looking.

    Much better for Thorsten, at least. But even an observer as judiciously impartial as Solomon would have allowed him half of that. Three-quarters, more likely, since Solomon had been male himself with a reputation for having an eye for women.

    “Kristina, you can’t, it’s as simple as that.” Unlike the others, who were trying to use the advantage of their height to overawe the child, Caroline had squatted—she did that so easily, with her athletic figure, and the end result had the usual effect on Thorsten—to bring her eyes level with the girl. “Your father would have a fit if he found out.”

    “So don’t tell him. He’s in Luebeck. And he does it himself! All the time!”

     One of the other women—all down-timers, Thorsten now recognized—tried to intervene.

    “Be still, girl! Your father is the king, and you are not. And there’s an end to it.”

    Thorsten had none of Caroline’s psychological expertise, much less Maureen Grady’s, but no villager he knew—certainly no village woman—would be so obtuse as to think that such an obviously headstrong child could be reined in with a mere admonition. In a situation like this, you either reasoned with a child or simply beat them into obedience.

    In a village, of course, the second option would already be in play by now, nine times out of ten. Thorsten wasn’t sure, however, if the same rules applied to royalty. He’d had even less contact with such than he’d had with Americans.

    The girl’s reply led him to believe the rules were otherwise.

    “Will be someday!” came her very spirited response. She seemed as unabashed as a small wolf being chastised by large lambs. She even—Thorsten almost laughed—shook her finger in the face of the woman who had admonished her. As high up as she could reach, at least. She wasn’t more than seven years old, eight at the most. The finger was actually being shaken at the woman’s midriff.

    “And you watch what happens to you then! I’ve got a good memory!”

    The woman seemed to flinch, a bit. But Caroline’s response was quite different. She took the girl’s finger-shaking hand and brought it down. Then, spoke to her quietly but very sternly.

    “That is enough, Kristina. And don’t you ever let me hear you threaten someone again.” When the girl—by now, Thorsten had deduced this must be the famous daughter of Gustav Adolf—avoided Caroline’s eyes, the Americaness seized her cheeks with her other hand and forced her to look at her.

    “Look at me. You can’t do that, Kristina. It’s not fair, it’s not right—and it’s bad for you too. You know it is, and you know why. We’ve talked about it, plenty of times. Haven’t we?”

    Kristina was trying to glare at Caroline now. Not… very successfully.

    “Haven’t we?”

    By now, Caroline’s grip on the girl’s face had loosened into something closer to a caress than the initial vise.

    “Yes,” said the princess, in the half-whine of a child agreeing—very grudgingly—to an adult’s wisdom.

    “And why is that?”

    Thorsten glanced at the four up-time women. Noblewomen, he assumed, assigned to watch over the princess. Fortunately, this time, they seemed far more inclined to let the much younger American woman handle the situation. In fact, they seemed downright relieved. There were also two soldiers standing against the very far wall. The princess’ bodyguards, those would be. From the expressions on their faces, it was quite obvious they intended to continue their splendid imitation of wooden soldiers, too.

    He looked back at Caroline and the princess. The girl was looking away again, trying evade the question. But Caroline didn’t repeat the stern cheek-grabbing maneuver. Instead, she lowered her hand from the girl’s face altogether, and shifted it to her left shoulder. That was definitely a caress, now.

    “And why is that?” she repeated. Softly, gently, not in the same stern tone she’d used earlier.

    Kristina wiped her nose. “Because all the studies show that kids”—the English term slid easily, in and out of the German—“who are mean to animals grow up to be nasty people. Monsters, some of them.”

    “And?”

    The nose got wiped again, more vigorously. “And it’s much too easy for a kid whose father has a lot of power, and will herself someday, to start thinking of people as animals. Which is even worse.”

    That seemed to open the flood-gates. Every trace of the royal fled from Kristina’s face, leaving only the greatly-distressed child. She flung herself into Caroline’s arms, sobbing in the unrestrained and chaotic way that a seven-year-old will.

    “But I’m such a good rider, Caroline! I can do it! I know I can!”

    “Yes, dear, I know. You’re a wonderful horsewoman. Everyone says that, and I don’t doubt it. Even if—”

    Sudden shrieks of laughter burst through the sobs. “You! You can’t hardly tell a horse from a cow!”

    They were both laughing, now. Thorsten, on the other hand, almost felt like crying from despair. The biggest apple he’d ever seen in his life had just gotten so big he could barely see the edges. He’d wondered, often, what sort of mother she would make.

    To his surprise, Caroline suddenly turned her head and gave him a strange look. A very considering one, it seemed, as it she were gauging something.

    What? His clothes? But he was just wearing the same uniform he always wore. He managed to keep himself from raising his hand to stroke his own cheeks. Silly, that. He knew he’d shaved this morning. He’d checked several times. Eric had made jokes about that too.

    Caroline looked back at the noblewomen, giving them a subtle but unmistakable glance. Leave, please. I’ll handle this.

    Not being fools, they obeyed, sidling quickly toward a distant corner of the room.

    Caroline rose and took the princess by the hand. “Come here, Kristina. I want you to meet a… good friend of mine. He can explain to you better than I can. He’s a sergeant in the new volley gun batteries. Almost a cavalryman himself.”

     That perked up the girl’s interest immediately. Thorsten had the sense of a very bright child who was interested in a great many things. No dullard, for sure. Hardly surprising, of course, given her sire.

    Before Thorsten quite understood what was happening, Caroline had ushered him and the princess into the office nearby that she used for consultations. She even closed the door behind her, which she’d never done the times Thorsten had visited her alone.

    “Please sit, Thorsten. You too, Kristina.” Both obeyed, and Caroline went around behind her desk and took her own seat. “Thorsten, the princess—”

    “What’s that big package you’ve got?” Kristina demanded, staring at the large cloth-wrapped bundle Thorsten had awkwardly perched on his knees.

    “Ah….”

    “Kristina!” Caroline half-barked, half-laughed. “Can’t you keep your attention focused on one thing for one minute?”

    The girl looked at her a bit guiltily. With that inimitable smile on her face, Caroline shook her head and pointed to the closed door. “Wasn’t but a minute ago you were throwing a fit, remember? Forget Thorsten’s package, whatever it is. Ask him to tell you why you can’t participate in the army’s field maneuvers.”

    Lightning-quick, all thoughts of anything else left the girl’s mind. She looked at Thorsten, with a half-pleading and half-eager expression on her face.

    “I can really ride a horse! Really, really, really. Ask anybody!”

    Thorsten stared at her. How in the name of all that was holy had a mere obsession with a most-likely-unobtainable woman led him to this state of affairs? If Krenz ever found out about it, he’d be teasing Thorsten all the way into the grave. Maybe beyond, who could say?

    Not knowing what else to do, he fell back on his sturdy village background. Forget that she was the daughter of Gustav Adolf, King of Sweden and Emperor of the United States of Europe, perhaps the premier captain of the day. Thorsten couldn’t begin to deal with that.

    What he could deal with, however—had, in fact, many times—was explaining to an overly confident child why it wasn’t a good idea for them to try helping with the heavy farm work. No sensible farmer would beat his boys for pressing him on such a matter. The heart of it, in fact, was something he needed to encourage. So, it was a time for calm explanations. Not talking down to the boy—avoid that at all costs—but simply taking him into your confidence and trying to get the child to look at the problem from the standpoint of what would best help the farm.

    That wasn’t so bad, he discovered. True, he was dealing with a girl instead of a boy, but so what? The phenomenon that Americans called a “tomboy” was hardly unknown in German villages.

    “—and that’s really the biggest problem, Your Highness. It’s not riding the horses, it’s—”

    “Call me Kristina!” she commanded. “I like you. I’ll tell my father to make you a count or something. At least an officer.”

    “Ah…” Best to ignore that altogether, he decided. The girl really did seem extremely intelligent, but she was only seven years old. Still too young, even for someone raised in a royal court, to be able to follow the tricky issues involved in whether or not the Emperor of the USE—but technically only the Captain-General in Magdeburg province, as he was in Thuringia, not the King of Sweden—could override the normal procedures for advancement in the very prickly and often radical regiments. Technically, he could, of course. But it would be very unwise, with a few possible exceptions—and this was certainly not one of them. Thorsten could just imagine the reaction of his fellow soldiers if he got promoted because he’d ingratiated himself to a child princess. Not even Krenz would be friendly about it.

    “Kristina, then. What I was saying is that the real problem is that handling the guns in action has to be done very, very carefully. What everyone will be worrying about is hurting your own people. The American term—we’ve adopted it—is ‘friendly fire.’ It’s a really big problem in a battle, you know. Lots of times as many men get hurt or even killed by their own as they do by the enemy. Not as bad, it’s true, on training maneuvers, but you still have to be very careful.”

    “I won’t get in the way! And I certainly won’t get thrown. I’m a really wonderful rider!”

    “Yes, but… you’re not understanding me. No, it’s probably that I’m not explaining it well. The problem isn’t so much what you might do, it’s that the men will all be worrying about you. They won’t be able to concentrate on what they should be concentrating on, because all of them—trust me, please, because I certainly would—will be devoting half their attention to looking around to see where the princess is. Kristina, please. It is so easy for a man to hurt or kill himself—or his buddies—when you’re dealing with firearms. Any kind of firearms, much less the kind we work with.”

    There was silence, for a moment. Then, deflating like a little balloon, Kristina said: “Oh.”

    Then, a bit later, in a very small voice. “I wouldn’t want that to happen. I’d feel really bad about that.”

    She looked up at Caroline. “This is part of not being mean to people, isn’t it?”

    Caroline gave her a gentle smile, not the gleaming one. “Not exactly. There’s nothing mean involved here. But, yes, it’s the same principle. You have to be careful, Kristina. Being a princess has disadvantages as well as advantages, it’s just the way it is. It’s much easier for you to hurt someone, even when you don’t mean to. So you have to learn to be more careful than most girls your age need to be. I know it’s upsetting, sometimes. But—”

    She held up and waved that same humorously-scolding finger that Thorsten remembered so vividly from his first encounter with her. “Don’t complain. If you weren’t a princess, you’d never have gotten your own horse by now. Certainly not the one you got.” The finger was now pointed at Thorsten. “Ask him. He comes from a farm family.”

    In that lightning-interest way she had, Kristina was now peering at him. “Really? Where is your family’s estate?”

    “Ah… it was destroyed in the war, I’m afraid.” His innate honesty made him add: “But it was a very small estate.”

    Not that honest, but… He pressed forward. “At this age, you’d maybe be riding a pony. But probably not. Probably one of the really old horses, that aren’t able to do much work any longer.”

    “Oh.” She made a little face. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

    Thorsten almost blurted out: To the contrary, the farm girls love it. What is it about girls and horses anyway? They’re just dumb beasts, and they’ll break your foot in an instant.

    But he said nothing. After a moment, the girl’s eyes got fixed on the bundle again.

    “What’s in the package? You still haven’t told me!”

    “Ah…”

    Fortunately, Caroline diverted her again.

    Excrutiatingly, Thorsten couldn’t tell if that was because she’d already guessed what was probably in it.

    He squirmed inside that Iron Maiden for five minutes, until Caroline finally shepherded Kristina out of the room and back into the clutches of the four down-time ladies.

    Then she came back and returned to her desk, smiling.

    “All right, Thorsten, I’m curious myself. What is in that bundle?”

    He rose, unfolded the cloth, and laid the contents on her desk. “I would like you to take these. From me.”

    He had no idea what to do next. In his growing panic, all he could think of was to race to the rear.

    “But I must be off, Caroline. We’re leaving tomorrow morning—very, very early, the Admiral insists—on our expedition.”

    Out the door he went. Not quite running.

    Once in the street, striding as quickly as he could toward the army depot where he could get a seat on a wagon returning to the base, his stern sergeant’s training came back.

    He’d just violated security, he realized—and grossly at that. The expedition was supposed to be kept a secret.

    But as stern as it might be, his sergeant’s training was a patina over a young man in a state of emotional chaos—and a practical German farmer, at that.

    Fuck it. The up-timers were lunatic on the subject of security. What difference did it make if a civilian in Magdeburg knew what several hundred enemy spies certainly knew by now anyway? No one doubted there were that many spies in the city. Not even Gunther Achterhof thought the CoC security apparatus could do more than keep the bastards from anything direct or ambitious. But there was no way to keep them out of Magdeburg altogether, since it was a city full of immigrants and more coming every day.

    All a man needed was half a brain and a decent eyeglass—which were hardly rare—and a good patch of woods. There were woods all over. From there, he could watch the regiments in their training. If he had any military experience at all, which he certainly would, he’d know the battle group was getting ready to march. There were apartments all over, too. The city was full of modest windows—but plenty big enough for an eyeglass. From one of them, he could watch Simpson’s ironclads getting ready also.

    Fuck secrets. All the more so, this day, when the only secret in the world that Thorsten Engler cared about was the secret heart of a woman he could only half-understand.