Mackay translated. Julie-royal temper be damned-growled her response. Mackay translated.
The king erupted anew. "Nonsense!" he bellowed. Waving a great hand angrily: "That's five hundred yards!"
Imperiously, he pointed to Mackay and spoke to Julie. "Give this braggart that gun!" To Mackay: "Now-sir. Make good your boast!"
Mackay swallowed. Then, explained. The king's eyes bulged. Her?
Mackay nodded. The stare was transferred to-to-this-this impudent female!
Julie had had enough. She hefted the rifle. "Tell that fathead to pick his target," she snarled.
Mackay translated, more or less. He did not include the term "fathead." Gustav II Adolf glared at the enemy across the river, selecting his target. He couldn't see well enough, alas, so the king was forced to rely on Jцnsson.
"There's a very fine-looking officer near that one grove, Your Majesty. Dramatic fellow, judging from his posture."
Mackay began to translate, but Julie's German was good enough to understand the gist. The rifle was into her shoulder, her eye at the scope.
The king, watching, began to hiss. For all his indignation, Gustav was far too experienced a soldier not to recognize the casual expertise with which the girl Crack! The flat, unfamiliar sound startled the king. His head swiveled to Anders. The bodyguard's face seemed a bit pale.
"Well?" demanded Gustav.
"Dead on, Your Majesty. Right through the heart, I think. Hard to tell, at that distance. But he's down for good, that's certain."
"Nonsense! Luck! Another!"
Anders called out another target. A few seconds went by. Crack.
"Another!"
Crack.
"Another!"
Crack.
"Ano-" Gustav fell silent. The silence lasted for well over a minute. At the end, he heaved a sigh. Then, suddenly, he broke into a smile.
"Ah, Mackay-" The Scotsman, face very pale, stared at his sovereign. The king, for his part, was staring at Julie. Still smiling.
Julie was not smiling. She was glaring at Gustav with grotesque disregard for all proper etiquette in the presence of royalty.
"I believe I have offended your fiancйe," he said. "Under the circumstances, it might be best if you explained to her the provisions of the dueling code. Can't challenge a ruling monarch. Simply isn't done. Besides-"
He chuckled. "Explain to her that as the challenged party I would have the choice of weapons. Sabers, for a certainty!"
When Mackay translated, Julie's ill humor evaporated instantly. For a moment, she and the king of Sweden exchanged grins. Watching, Anders thought of a chipmunk and a bear beaming in mutual approval.
But he kept the thought to himself. He even managed not to smile at his king's next muttered words.
"Witchcraft-nonsense! What woman needs to be a witch, when she can shoot like that?"
A moment later, Torstensson's guns began to fire, and his amusement vanished. Anders knew the king's plan for the coming battle. No one had asked his opinion, of course-he was merely a bodyguard-but the veteran had a firm one nonetheless.
Gustav II Adolf proposed to force a river in the face of a powerful fortified enemy, in defiance of all established military wisdom of the day.
Madman!
"Too high!" bellowed Torstensson. "Still too high, damn you!"
The gunners at the American cannons swore angrily. Again, they fumbled at the-cursed newfangled!-things which the Americans called elevating screws. They were accustomed to adjusting the tangent elevation by simply levering up the breech and inserting quoins. Admittedly, the new system was quicker, and certainly much easier. Probably more accurate, too. But the gunners did not have the hang of it yet, and they kept overshooting. Some of that inaccuracy, of course, was due to the simple fact that the American guns, with their tight-fitting balls in perfect bores, had a greater range than they were accustomed to. As was the custom of the day, "aiming" was simply a matter of gauging the distance and the angle of the barrel.
Tom turned to Heinrich and whispered, "Remember, when we get back, to talk to Ollie about setting up some kind of sights and elevation lines."
Heinrich nodded. He did not need an explanation of the terms. The German mercenary-former mercenary; like Tom, he now held the rank of captain in the regular U.S. army-had spent much of the past winter in the machine shop. He had become quite familiar, even comfortable, with American notions of precision and accuracy.
Finally, the gunners got it right. The next salvo of cannonballs hammered straight into the earthworks sheltering Tilly's batteries. Those earthworks had already taken a beating from the traditional guns. Now, with the flat and powerful trajectories of the new cannonballs adding their own force to the bombardment, the enemy fortifications were beginning to come apart.
"Take a while, still, to smash them up," stated Torstensson. He smiled grimly. "But they won't be doing any shooting themselves, that's for sure."
He turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted to the orderly waiting on the slope above. An instant later, the man was spurring his horse toward the king's position upstream.
Torstensson went back to overseeing his guns. "Up to the Finns, now," he said. Cheerfully: "But those sullen savages won't be able to whine about their covering fire. Not today!"
He bestowed a look of approval on Tom and Heinrich. "Splendid pieces!" His eyes then moved to the very attractive American woman standing at their side. A similar thought crossed his mind, but he left it unspoken. Lennart Torstensson had already come to the same conclusion as Tom Simpson's own mates. Not a good idea, irritating a man who could probably lift one of those marvelous cannons.
An idle question came. He leaned over and murmured to Tom: "I'm curious. What would be your weapon of choice? In a duel, I mean."
The very attractive woman's husband replied instantly.
"Ten-pound sledgehammers."
Not a good idea.
"Now, now!" bellowed the king. On the marshy ground below, Swedish engineers led hundreds of soldiers in a rush to the river bank. The "rush," needless to say, was a slow and sodden kind of thing. The terrain was bad enough, even if the soldiers hadn't been hauling a multitude of freshly cut logs.
Despite the marshy ground, the engineers were soon throwing a crude bridge across the water. The work was not suicidal, due to the heavy covering fire of Torstensson's guns, but it was still dangerous. Within five minutes, several of the engineers had been wounded or killed. Gustav scowled unhappily. Tilly's men were simply sticking their arquebuses over the ramparts and firing blindly. But an occasional round, he supposed, was bound to find a target.
The king heard the American girl whisper something to Mackay. The Scotsman passed the remark along.
"Your Majesty, Julie says that most of the damage is being done by some skirmishers in the woods."
Gustav squinted at the line of trees. The term "sniper" was unknown in that day, but all armies had contingents of lightly armored skirmishers using hunting pieces. Those weapons, since they were not part of the line and were not concerned with rate of fire, were rifled. Their accuracy was still not great, but it was not laughable either.
"She is certain?"
Mackay nodded. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added: "She is also offering to-ah, the expression she favors is 'take them out.' "
The king smiled thinly. "You are afraid I will be offended by such an offer? My royal dignity insulted?"