1635 The Papal Stakes: Chapter Seventeen

    They pulled beyond the ramshackle piers and neglected sidings of Porto before the captain of the Savoyard barque-longue brought his long, low ship over to the right bank of the Tiber where barges were clustered. His mixed crew of French, Corsicans, and Savoyards jumped over to the makeshift wharf when they were within four feet, counter-pushed with poles, and dropped hawsers into the narrowing gap between the hull and the siding.

    The final payment for passage had been handled when Ostia came into view, with John O’Neill counting out the silvers with the regretful intensity of a miser. So now, gear and pack in hand, Owen Roe O’Neill and his fellow Wild Geese departed the boat with a few halfhearted waves; they got few enough in return. The crew hadn’t been unfriendly, but the language overlap had been sketchy. Owen knew enough French to get by, as did Sean Connal. The doctor had quickly become the ship’s favorite, mostly because of his craft and his willingness to tend to the small crews’ minor ailments.

    The crew’s standoffishness had no doubt been reinforced by John O’Neill’s loud and resentful commentary upon the doctor’s plying of his art: not in terms of his efficacy, but generosity. Specifically, the earl of Tyrone made it known that Connal’s services should rightly have been offered in trade, to offset the cost of their passage. In fact, that was a fairly customary exchange, but the doctor had provided his services without striking such a bargain. He maintained that it was better to earn a little genuine good will than the price of half a fare. For his part, Owen agreed with the young doctor, but Johnnie O’Neill had made some sharp comments about Connal’s undue presumptions of independence, and that the group’s current circumstances did not allow them “the largesse of such gestures of noblesse d’oblige.” That imperious pronouncement also seemed to exhaust the earl’s supply of French phrases.

    Connal had merely remained silent, as had the watching crew, who thereafter kept their affairs well separate from those of their Irish passengers. They weren’t unfriendly, but distant. Particularly when interacting with John.

    Owen hefted his pack higher; well, that was the nature of the man. Certainly not the easiest to serve under, but by no means the worst, either. And now they had to set about finding a barge to take them the rest of the way upriver to Rome.

    There was a fair amount of Spanish soldiery about, but their loose ranks were already loading on the gathered barges. Seeing the gear and pennant of the Wild Geese, a few of the Spaniards hailed the Irish, curious as to their land of origin. The answers got a few cheers, a few strange looks, one or two shrugs, but nothing negative, since the Irish mercenaries of the Spanish Low Countries were a well-known military fixture. And after all, they had returned the hails in Spanish. Had the answers been in English, or had their names been of the Anglo-Irish variety, Owen wondered what their reception would have been. Cool, at best, he conjectured.

    As the barges carrying the Spaniards pulled slowly away from the wharf, Turlough Eubank returned from the cluster of Italian barges.

    “What luck?” asked John.

    “None, m’lord. Seems the barge master I spoke to is already waiting on a shipment of grain.”

    “They could have a long wait.”

    “No, sir. It’s a Tuscan ship, due here any hour.”

    “And this barge master won’t take a few extra coin from us to change his plans?”

    “He’s under Spanish contract, sir. Provisions for Rome, y’see.”

    “Hell and be damned, is every bloody ship here under Spanish contract?”

    Owen toed a bit of stray oakum with his boot. “Could well be, Johnnie. And if the rumors on our ship had even a passing acquaintance with the truth, Florence is sending down as much grain as the Spanish will buy. At regular rates.”

    “So now Tuscany is Spain’s lap-dog, as well?”

    “Maybe. Or maybe cheap Tuscan millet is the price the Spanish are demanding in exchange for another de Medici redcap.”

    “So Borja’s selling cardinalships, now?”

    “Ah, Johnnie, it would be strange if he didn’t. That’s how the game is played down here.”

    “Well, the game stinks like a steaming melder, it does. Eubank, go check with the last barge. Maybe the Good Lord will smile on some honest Catholics, for a change.”

    “As you say, m’lord. Oh, and Dr. Connal sent word: now that we’re on land again, he’ll be demonstrating the new pepperbox revolver while we wait.”

    “Oh, he will, will he?” muttered John, who rose and stalked inland, where half of the men had gathered near a vacant farmhouse set back from the banks of the river. Suppressing a sigh, Owen followed along.

 

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    Five red roof tiles were propped up on a chest-high wall that paralleled the derelict farmhouse. Sean leveled the nose-heavy pistol and started firing. The reports were sharp and barely a second between each one. On all but the fourth shot, one of the tiles exploded into a shower of dust and fragments.

    Although the range was only ten paces, Owen silently conceded that this was some pretty fair marksmanship. Particularly for a physician.

    Apparently, John was not disposed to make the same concession. “I think you missed one, Doctor.” John had probably intended his tone to be droll, but it had verged over into smug.

    Connal did not turn. Instead, his hands moved quickly, unseating the currently loaded cylinder, swapping in a fresh one from a leather chest-pouch of sorts. He locked it in place with a quick twist of a frontal knob, and expertly popped five percussion caps onto the cylinder’s five ignition ports (which, Owen had learned, the up-timers rather provocatively called “nipples”). The doctor thumbed back the hammer even as he raised the weapon, aimed, and fired.

    The last tile vanished in a spray of pieces.

    “My apologies about that straggler,” he said as he turned to face the earl of Tyrone. “I’ll be tidier next time.”

    One or two grunts of amusement from the watching Wild Geese faded quickly enough when John sent an annoyed glance in their direction. “Not so fast reloading as you made it sound, Doctor.”

    Connal nodded. “You can cut the time down by two-thirds if the percussion caps are already seated on the fresh cylinder. But carrying it that way can result in some misfires; the jostling can unseat or even ruin a cap. Not likely, but possible. Logically, it also creates a small chance of an accidental discharge while you’re carrying the cylinder on your person, but that would be quite a fluke.”

    “And when did you learn to shoot like that, Doctor? Not while you were rehearsing the Hippocratic oath, I’ll wager. Indeed, if you shot much better, I’d have to suspect it was the hypocritic oath.”

    There was a single, half-hearted snicker; the tone of the jest had been a bit more accusatory than it was jocular.

    But Connal merely smiled. “Well, contrary to common belief, I was not destined to the medical arts from the crib onwards. Couldn’t figure what trade to follow for the longest time — not until I was, oh, at least two years old.” Smiles sprang up, as well as one stifled giggle. “Sad to say, but I was a late bloomer.” His concluding confession got a few outright laughs — and a darker look from John.

    “So you thought you’d be soldiering, then?”

    “As I said, I didn’t know. But when I was first at university in Leuven, Hugh — er, Lord O’Donnell, came to visit occasionally. Visiting the old alma mater, as it were. Taught me to shoot.”

    “Why, of course he did. No doubt paid your way at the university, too, I’ll wager.”

    “For the space of one semester, yes, he did.”

    Which only made O’Neill’s face darken again, this time with a scowl. Johnnie didn’t like anyone allied with, or in service to O’Donnell much better than he did the “sassenach” Irish such as Preston. But his distaste for all things O’Donnell was in many ways the more embarrassing of his two prejudices: antipathy toward the “Old English” Irish had long, nationalistic roots. But his dislike of the O’Donnells stemmed from a much less noble trait: jealousy, plain and simple.

    But John’s focus on the gun had apparently distracted him from his resentment. “So how does this eye-gouging piece of rubbish work, Doctor? I’ve seen one or two of these up-time revolvers. They’re all pretty complicated pieces of machinery.”

    “This is much less so,” Connal explained. “The weapons to which you refer require exceptionally fine tolerances, since the cylinder holding the charge, or ‘cartridge,’ must align precisely with the weapon’s single barrel.”

    O’Neill scowled. “But that thing has five barrels. All as one piece.”

 

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    “Exactly. This means that each of the chambers is designed exactly like a self-contained barrel and breech. They are arranged in a pentagram, as you see.”

    “There you go: witchcraft for sure.”

    “Hardly,” smiled Connal. “Just as with the up-time revolvers you’ve seen, when you pull back the weapon’s hammer — or, in this case, a larger crossbar — it rotates the cylinder.” He demonstrated; the weapon made a monstrous clacking sound as the cylinder turned. “The percussion cap of a new barrel has now moved into the position occupied by the last one. When the trigger is squeezed and the hammer falls, it ignites the charge in the new barrel. You can fire five times before reloading.”

    Owen nodded. “But I’ve heard Dutch clockmakers complain that when they try to copy up-time devices like this, they can’t make the springs strong enough. How did you avoid that problem here?”

    “The gunsmiths used larger, cruder springs, which led, in part, to the cumbersome size of the weapon. The only spring that still has a great deal of resistance upon it is the one that turns the cylinder. And if that breaks — ” He manipulated a small knob protruding from the end of the cylinder, as if unlocking it, and then turned the entire unit by hand. “Still quite a lot faster than having to reload after every shot.”

    John was clearly working at keeping the scowl on his face and his growing interest off. “Sure and it’s the seventh wonder of the world, Dr. Connal, but you’ll not get me to use one of these monstrosities.” But Owen knew otherwise: he could hear the reluctant fascination in the earl of Tyrone’s voice.

    “That will be as you wish, Lord O’Neill. But you might wish to reconsider. The hammer is large and heavy so that a rider can manipulate it easily, even with a gauntlet on.”

    “So that’s why it has a crossbar all the way across, rather than a single hammer?”

    “Exactly. It’s easier to get a hold of. And given the springs used, it is easier to cock the weapon with a whole-hand pull on the crossbar.”

    Owen considered carefully. “Yes, and it would also be useful if you’re trying to cock the weapon on horseback. You could even snag the bar on a saddle-hook and push the whole weapon downward to prime the action.”

    “True enough, but there’s a more important advantage to the crossbar. Look at the vertical thumb tab at the center of the bar. What do you see?”

    John squinted. “Hmmm. There’s a small hole, right where the tab and the bar meet.”

    “Precisely. Just before it meets the crossbar, the vertical tab splits into two parts, rather like a Y standing on its head. The resulting triangle — the space between the arms of the upside-down Y and the top of the crossbar — is left open. If one aims through that aperture — what the up-timers call a ‘peep sight’ — you’ll see a small bead at the end of the barrel that is ready to fire.”

    Owen nodded. “So when the bead is on your target, and also in the center of the peep-sight –”

    “You are properly aligned.”

    “And how accurate is it?”

    “Like comparable flintlock pistols, its accurate aimed range is just under ten yards. However, if loaded with a charge of four single-aught pellets, the odds of scoring at least one hit on a target at twenty yards is almost fifty percent.”

    “Useless until you’re almost at sword range,” griped John, even though he hadn’t taken his eyes off the weapon for about a minute.

    “Aye, but most useful in trenches. Or in a city,” emended Owen. “Particularly with five barrels. So it’s a smoothbore then, Doctor?”

    “Yes; the bore is almost half an inch. Properly charged — the craftsmen are still experimenting with ‘sabots’ that the up-timers use to increase the velocity of smaller bullets — a shot from this weapon will routinely penetrate a steel cuirass at ten yards.”

    Eubank approached from the wharf. John raised his chin. “What’s the word, Turlough? Will we be walking to Rome, then?”

    “Only if you get seasick sailing upriver on the Tiber. Imagine my shock when the last bargeman said he could take our custom.”

    “Sounds too good to be true,” speculated Owen with a long look at Turlough.

    “Well, Colonel, on my mother’s grave I swear it’s true. But it’s none too good.”

    John cocked his head sideways. “And why would that be?”

    Eubank shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Seems the bargeman’s most recent passengers left the boat a bit of a mess.”

    “Ah,” exhaled Owen. “Gypsies?”

    “Sassenachs?” asked John.

    “Goats,” Eubank replied. “Far too many goats.”

 

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    Harry Lefferts peeked out from under the hood of his monk’s habit as the wagon rocked and then jolted sideways. The yellow-tan dust settled long enough for him to see green fields. In the middle distance, those expanses gave way to vines and olive trees that straggled up a low, rocky ridge. It was the same scenery that Harry had been watching for two days now, ever since they began their westward travel on the Via Prenestina. At the start, near Palestrina, the land had been less flat, so there had been more trees and vines, and occasional expanses of scrub given over to goats.

    But other than that, not much to see. One or two of the Wrecking Crew had perked up when they passed near the old Roman aqueducts. Sherrilyn had been particularly enthusiastic. Gerd had counterpointed her exclamations with sharp, snorting snores from the rear of the wagon. Disguised as a motley assortment of clerics, farmers, and teamsters, their load of wheat and rice provided an effective layer of concealment under which they had secreted their equipment and weapons. And those who did not look at all like the locals had to keep themselves more completely concealed most of the time.

    In Harry’s case, this meant nearly head-to-toe covering around the clock, since, having been the visual as well as behavioral inspiration for Rome’s lefferti, he was conspicuously recognizable in this region. Which meant that he had come to learn that monks’ habits were not comfortable; in addition to being itchy and rough, they were beastly hot. It had taken a while for the slight increase of traffic to register through the heat-drowsy boredom into which Harry had sunk. He leaned back toward the driver’s seat and drawled. “Are we there yet?”

    He could hear Sherrilyn’s grin as she interjected, in a shrill hausfrau voice from the other side of the wagon. “Zip it; we’ll get there when we get there.”

    Romulus, who clearly did not understand the up-time reference to admonishing whining kids in the back seat of a car, did not find Sherrilyn’s retort humorous. He merely shrugged. “See for yourself.”

    Harry turned and tipped up the rim of his habit’s hood. In the distance, so flat on the land that the Tiber was invisible from this modest height, the greater edifices of eastern Rome rose up through the city’s own mid-morning haze like a gang of hunched gray giants. Red tiled roofs tilted this way and that around their bent knees. The road they were on apparently led toward the lap of one of the closer stone edifices. Harry nodded at it. “That’s the gate?”

    “The Porta Maggiore,” muttered Romulus as he pulled the wagon to the side of the road and coaxed the pair of rickety old horses to a halt, “or the Porta di Santa Croce, as some prefer. At any rate, now that I can see it, I have reached the point beyond which I may not be seen.” As arranged earlier, he handed the reins and long switch over to Matija.

    Harry nodded his thanks to their taciturn guide, and smiled. “Not welcome in Rome?”

    “Not until the occupiers leave. I will remain at the appointed place for four days. If I have not heard from you by then, I will return to Palestrina, presuming you have no further need of my services.”

    “Yeah, we may take a boat straight back.”

    “Or you may be dead,” added Romulus philosophically. “Arrivederci.” Hat pulled well down beneath his eyes, the man whose real name they had yet to learn walked back the way they had come.

    The wagon rumbled into motion again, setting up a drift of dust that hung in the air for a few seconds. When it settled, Romulus was nowhere to be seen, although the road ran on so straight and far that it seemed to disappear into the infinity of its own vanishing point.