Eager hands relieved Puss of his load, and he took his carbine back. "Who's in charge?"
Hermann pointed to a lieutenant taking cover in a doorway. The man was signaling everyone to pull back. Unfortunately, most of the men weren't taking any notice. They were looking at Puss. Right now, he was the person they were most likely to take orders from. Puss took his lead from the lieutenant and signaled them back. Over the next hour the company made a fighting withdrawal, until they were back where they'd started that morning.
Grantville
The knock on the door was a bit more impetuous than most callers to the Trelli residence used. Except of course, when the call was urgent. The household froze, knives and forks poised in the air. Slowly all eyes congregated onto Papa, who smiled ruefully around the table and laid his knife and fork on his barely-started dinner.
"I'd better see who that is," he said as he pushed back his chair and headed for the door.
The rest of the household was silent. Sveta could almost feel covert glances in her direction. An unexpected caller at this hour could only be bad news, and the most likely bad news was that something had happened to John. A sudden burst of activity from her baby just reinforced her concern.
Papa appeared at the dining room door. "It's Ernst Schreiber, from the Grantville Times, with a photographer. John's okay, but he's been a bit heroic, again."
Sveta looked past Papa. She knew Herr Schreiber from her work. She also knew what not a lot of people didn't-that Ernst Schreiber wrote the Times' famous, no, make that infamous, Rodger Rude column. "What do you want?"
"Sveta!"
"Sorry, Mama." She pointedly didn't include Ernst Schreiber in her apology.
"Just a few photographs of Sergeant Trelli's family and maybe a few words . . ."
Whatever Ernst had intended saying was lost in the ringing of the phone. Felix, already on his feet, answered it. "We know. Herr Schreiber, from the Times has just shown up-what was that? We should expect to hear from the Daily News as well? Thank you."
Felix Trelli hung up the phone. "That was your office, Sveta. Lieutenant Dauth wanted to warn you that Scoop has filed a story about John."
"Scoop!" All the terror she felt about when Ernst knocked on the door found an outlet in that scornful word. She turned on Ernst. "You're trusting something Scoop filed?"
Ernst shrugged. "It's a good human interest story. Local boy haul's officer from the jaws of death, then leads the officer's command in a fighting withdrawal. The press office in Magdeburg has confirmed enough of it that we intend running the story."
If the press office in Magdeburg was confirming anything Scoop filed . . . Sveta swallowed bile at what that suggested. Suddenly there was a brilliant flash of light. Blinking furiously, Sveta tried to focus on Ernst's photographer. "Did you just take a photograph?" she demanded.
It was a bit of a redundant question, as Jacob Fiedler was already swapping out the spent bulb in the flash unit he'd just used. He nodded anyway.
"Don't even think about doing that again."
"That's not very nice, Frau Anderovna. Jacob's just doing his job. We just want a bit of human interest to accompany the main story."
"What is the main story, Herr Schreiber?" Felix asked.
Next day
"ST. GEORGE DOES IT AGAIN!" The headline in the Grantville Times blared out in seventy-two point letters.
Sveta stared at the photograph under the headline. Whoever it was who said a picture was worth a thousand words had something like that photograph in mind. Even after being screened so it could be printed in the paper, you could sense the urgency as the man ran out of the cloud of smoke carrying a man over his shoulders while helping another limp to safety. It was bad enough he'd earned a St. George Medal saving some people from a rabid dog, now he had to risk enemy fire to rescue some soldiers as well.
"Why would he risk his life like that?" she asked Mama.
"Because that's the kind of person John is."
Sveta was close to tears. She was learning to admire the man she was married to, and the silly fool seemed intent on getting himself killed. "I wish he would stop. He's going to get himself killed if he keeps this up."
"Have you ever thought that maybe John doesn't think he deserves you, and that if he proves he's a good soldier, he might be more worthy of you?"
Sveta was stunned by the suggestion, and burst into tears. "But he's given me a family."
Suzanne reached out and stroked Sveta's hair. "I don't think John knows how important a real family is to you, Sveta. I'm reminded of something Betty told me John said back in June, when he first took you around to her place. Do you remember what he said when she suggested that he escort you to Jabe McDougal's wedding?"
Sveta tried to remember back to that horrible day. Slowly the words came back to her. "That a girl with my looks could have anybody she wanted."
"Have you ever wondered what John might have been thinking when he said that?"
Sveta had totally forgotten that conversation. She thought about it now, and came to a surprising conclusion. "John thinks I'm pretty?"
Suzanne grinned. "A bit more than pretty. You're a very beautiful girl."
Sveta thought of the most beautiful girl she knew. "As beautiful as Julia?"
"At least as beautiful as Julia."
"Oh!" Sveta had never really seen herself as being beautiful. She knew she was better than passable, but beautiful was always what other people were called, never her. "More beautiful than Donetta?"
Immediately Sveta wished the name unsaid. She glanced at Mama. There was moment of shock, and then a smug smile appeared on Mama's face.
"Madam's beauty was barely skin deep, Sveta. Your beauty runs deeper, and will last longer." Then Mama enveloped Sveta in a massive hug. "Don't worry, darling, everything's going to turn out all right."
Sveta luxuriated in Mama's embrace. She was happy Mama had accepted her. And even happier that her baby would be born into this wonderful family. Now, if only this war would end . . .
****
Northwest Passage, Part Nine
Bay of Biscay, March 1634
Two days into the voyage and habits were already forming. Meals were done in shifts, with the men usually eating last. Aboard the Grande Dame, Pierre Marion stood in line with a pail and bag to collect the evening meal for the group he ate with. He watched the cook serve out the helpings, one piece of meat and bread for every diner in a group. Captain de Bussy had laid down strict rules that anyone trying to steal an extra serving would be put on half-rations for a week. Fellow passengers made sure the rule was followed.
Rough tables were set up outside the cabins and each table had a bucket to draw the meat ration. Pierre ate with the five other men who made up the informal leadership for the La Chaume passengers. This was his meal to get the pail of pork and the bag of bread. As he leaned against the bulkhead waiting his turn, he could feel a hum from the ship's rigging transmitted throughout the frame of the ship. The tension on the rigging from the wind sounded like the ship was singing. It wasn't the only tension on board. As he watched the people on deck, it was evident that it was not a happy ship. The announcement, as they sailed, that passengers would be charged for the voyage from the money promised for the purchase of their land had left many passengers seething with resentment. The captain had posted sentries throughout the ship as a precaution.