She broke off, realizing that she was using meaningless terms, and went directly to the point. "We call it gearing down." She pointed to the micrometer in Torstenson's hands. "With that-which will last a very long time, if it is not abused-we can make simple cannons which are far more precise and accurate than guns made anywhere else. And there are other items we can make."
Tom Simpson interrupted. His German, though not up to Rebecca's fluent standards, was much better than Piazza's. "Rifled muskets, for instance, using Miniй balls. Possibly some simple breechloaders." He chuckled. "There's quite a wrangle going on, among the gun buffs. Some want a Ferguson, some a-"
He broke off, seeing the renewed looks of incomprehension. Those terms, also, were meaningless. "Never mind," he said. "The gist of it is this. We can't recreate the world we left behind. But we can make things which are far in advance of anything here and now."
Smoothly, Rebecca took over. "That's part of it, Your Majesty." Half-apologetically: "Not to speak ill of your own munitions industry in Sweden, of course, but we can provide you with a much closer supply of good ordnance. Better ordnance, in all truth."
All traces of apology vanished. "And money."
Those words-truly magic!-brought dead silence to the room. Money was the essential blood of warfare, far more than pikes, horses, guns and powder-or even soldiers. For the Swedes, especially, the perennial shortage of cash was their biggest handicap.
"How?" demanded the king. He cocked his head skeptically. "I assume you are not offering a direct subsidy?"
Rebecca laughed softly. "Please, Your Majesty! Do I look like Richelieu?"
"Not in the least," muttered Torstensson. The young artillery officer was having a harder time than his monarch keeping his attention focused on Rebecca's mind.
Rebecca ignored the admiring remark. She pressed on: "A subsidy, no. But we can serve you in two other ways. First, southern Thuringia is rapidly becoming an economic center for Germany. Very rapidly, given the chaos in most of the Holy Roman Empire. Construction, manufacturing, commerce-all these are growing by leaps and bounds. The end result, among other things, is that we can provide your army with most of the supplies you need-"
"Food, too?" asked Torstensson. "And what about horses and oxen?" The professional soldier's mind had come back in focus.
Rebecca nodded. "Both. I might mention that American seed and livestock is better than the German, and they have begun a careful breeding program to preserve the strains. And we can offer you much better prices than you could get anywhere else-especially for the ordnance."
She gestured at the micrometer, still in Torstenson's hand. "Our metal-working methods are not simply more precise, they are also much faster and more efficient than anything you could find anywhere else in Europe. Or anywhere in the world, for that matter."
She hesitated for an instant, thinking. Then: "Gunpowder itself, for the moment, we cannot supply directly. Nor textiles, in any quantity. But because of the stability we have brought to the area"-she gave a quick, half-stubborn/half-apologetic glance at Wilhelm-"merchants and traders are pouring in. We cannot supply gunpowder or textiles, but we can definitely serve as a conduit for them. And, again, at a better price than you would find elsewhere."
Gustav rubbed his nose. "What you are proposing, in essence, is that Thuringia-your part of it, at least-can become my supply center and depot. Sweden's arsenal in central Germany."
"Yes," stated Rebecca firmly. The king gave her a shrewd look. She shrugged. "We understand that this will probably bring the wrath of the Habsburgs down on our heads."
Tom Simpson chuckled. "They'll be in for a surprise, if they try to hammer us under."
Mackay frowned. "It's not that simple, Tom. A cavalry raid can do a lot of destruction, even if it does no more than pass through the area. And it's a lot harder to stop."
The huge American got a mulish look on his face. Mackay tightened his jaws a bit. "Listen to me, Tom! If I were your opponent, I assure you I would be a lot harder to counter than one of Tilly's clumsy tercios."
Rebecca interrupted the developing quarrel with a sharp gesture. Gustav, watching, was impressed at the instant obedience the gesture produced. There was more to the woman's authority, he realized, than simply the fact she was the wife of the American commandant. Much more, he judged.
The king spoke again. "You mentioned a second form of financial assistance."
Rebecca's head swiveled back to him. For a moment, she stared with dark eyes. Gustav realized that the woman was judging him now.
When she spoke, her words were clipped, abrupt. "Are you familiar with the Abrabanel family?"
Gustav nodded. "Quite familiar. My assistant, Sir James Spens, has had any number of dealings with them in the past."
"Sir James?" exclaimed Rebecca. "I know him! Not well, myself. But my father thinks quite highly of him."
Gustav's eyes widened. "Your father?" Belatedly, he realized that he had not inquired as to the woman's maiden name.
"Abrabanel. My father is Balthazar Abrabanel."
The king laughed and clapped his thick hands. "Well-no wonder you're such a marvel! Balthazar for a father, and Uriel for an uncle." He grinned at her. "What was it like, being raised in such an atmosphere of cunning and intrigue?"
She grinned back. "Very nice, actually, Your Majesty. You know my father and uncle?"
Gustav shook his head. "Not personally. Only by reputation." He eyed her with renewed respect-and understanding.
"Am I to understand that the entire Abrabanel family has decided to throw its lot in with the Americans?"
Rebecca nodded. "Even the Turks. Especially the Turks, actually. Don Francisco Nasi has been residing in Grantville-our capital-for a number of weeks now. He has announced he plans to stay permanently."
Again, silence filled the farmhouse, while that news was absorbed. The Europeans in the room-Swede, German and Scot alike-understood the implications immediately. They were not peasants, for all that they might share some of the general prejudice against Jews. Those men, especially the king, were familiar enough with banking to know what Abrabanel allegiance to the United States provided. Put bluntly, the finest financial network in the world.
"Loans," mused Gustav. His gaze sharpened. "Interest?"
Rebecca's response came with a smile so broad it was almost a grin. "Five percent, annual interest. For a war loan. Four percent for anything else."
The king almost choked. "Five percent?" His pale blue eyes were practically bulging. "Annually?"
Rebecca shrugged. "The Americans-" She broke off; then, with a little laugh: "We Americans, I should say, have convinced the Abrabanels that a large and steady business is preferable to the occasional windfall." She repeated, very firmly: "Five percent. For you, that is. For Gustav II Adolf. Others will find the rate higher."
She looked away, brushing her thick hair with light fingers. Demurely: "Quite a bit higher, I imagine."
Suddenly, the king was roaring with laughter. "Five percent!" he hallooed, rising, almost lunging, to his feet; shaking his great fist at the heavens.
"That for Richelieu!"
Gustav lowered his fist. His own grin was matched by Torstensson's and Mackay's. Even Wilhelm, he saw, was smiling widely. The king of Sweden took a moment to admire the man's spirit as well as his brains. For all intents and purposes, the duke of Saxe-Weimar had just heard a death sentence passed on his hereditary claim to Thuringia-and he was quite intelligent enough to realize it. Once let a Thuringian republic establish its financial and commercial dominance, and the province's nobility would be lucky if they managed to maintain as much power as the Dutch. Even the mighty Spanish Habsburgs had broken on that rock, for well-nigh a century. Yet the man was spirited enough not to quail at the prospect.