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Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Harry Turtledove is one of the most well-known authors in the genre of alternate history - the past as it could have been. Or, at least, how Turtledove thinks it could, anyway. I'll be going through at least a few of his books, looking both at the world of the books and the history that Turtledove is playing with.



In 1588, King Philip II of Spain sent the 130 ships of the Invincible Armada to reconquer England from the Protestant Elizabeth II for Spain and the Catholic Church. That fleet, carrying 18000 Spanish soldiers, was supposed to pick up another 16000 men from the Spanish Netherlands, but aggressive action by Sir Francis Drake, Howard of Effingham and Admiral Sir John Hawkins was able to forestall this. In the decisive Battle of Gravelines, English naval forces sank 5 of the Spanish galleons while losing no ships, and the battered Spanish fleet was further wrecked by wind and wave. By the time the Armada limped back to Spain, a third of the fleet and over 20000 men were gone. The entire affair is regarded as one of the legendary disasters of military history. Or, at least our military history.





It is 1597. 9 years ago, the Spanish descended on England, smashing aside the armies of Elizabeth and conquering England. Isabella, daughter of Philip II, rules in London, and the English Inquisition hunts diligently for adherents to the banned Church of England - and any secret loyalty to Elizabeth I who sits imprisoned in the Tower of London. We will be following the adventures of a poet, actor, and playwright name of William Shakespeare, and those of a Spanish soldier, playwright, and actor by the name of Lope de Vega. As this book has only two POV characters, a relatively self-contained plot, and no sequels, it seemed like the ideal work to start with.




Conventions:

Excerpts from the book will be presented as quotes:

quote:

Like this

Plain text will be summaries of unquoted text.

Italics will be commentary or background information.

Each chapter will be broken into sections as the point of view shifts. This will be labeled in this manner:
Chapter 42 - Section 10: McCharacter


Any discussion of further parts of the book, or discussion of other books as they relate to this one - character and scene reuse is a common criticism of Turtledove - be in spoilers. In the latter case, I'd prefer that the name of the book (or at least series) you're referring to is mentioned outside of the spoiler.



There are some useful terms that will probably come up, so a small glossary is in order. This will be expanded as needed.
OTL = Original Time Line (actual history)
POD = Point Of Divergence (where actual history changed into book history)
POV = Point of View - in this context, it means the character whose head we are currently riding in. This book has two, later series have dozens.



(Will probably refine this OP as needed - this is new to me).

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Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




1597

Chapter 1 Part 1: Shakespeare

quote:

Two Spanish soldiers swaggered up Tower Street toward William Shakespeare. Their boots squelched in the mud. One wore a rusty corselet with his high-crowned morion, the other a similar helmet with a jacket of quilted cotton. Rapiers swung at their hips. The fellow with the corselet carried a pike longer than he was tall; the other shouldered an arquebus. Their lean, swarthy faces wore what looked like permanent sneers.

People scrambled out of their way: apprentices without ruffs and in plain wool caps; a pipe-smoking sailor wearing white trousers with spiral stripes of blue; a merchant's wife in a red wool doublet spotted with white--almost a man's style--who lifted her long black skirt to keep it out of puddles; a ragged farmer in from the countryside with a donkey weighted down with sacks of beans.

Shakespeare flattened himself against the rough, weather-faded timbers of a shop along with everybody else. The Spaniards had held London--held it down for Queen Isabella, daughter of Philip of Spain, and her husband, Albert of Austria--for more than nine years now. Everyone knew what happened to men rash enough to show them disrespect to their faces.

A cold, nasty autumn drizzle began sifting down from the gray sky. Shakespeare tugged his hat down lower on his forehead to keep the rain out of his eyes--and to keep the world from seeing how thin his hair was getting in front, though he was only thirty-three. He scratched at the little chin beard he wore. Where was the justice in that?

On went the Spaniards. One of them kicked at a skinny, ginger-colored dog gnawing a dead rat. The dog skittered away. The soldier almost measured himself full length in the sloppy street. His friend grabbed his arm to steady him.
After the Spaniards pass, Shakespeare spends a bit of time arguing with a man advertising a tavern before heading to his destination, a tailor's shop. After some negotiation over the new robe he has ordered, which is late, the two share some jokes about sumptuary laws as it is finished, before they are interrupted by the sound of instruments and marching troops. Much to Shakespeare's dismay, he had forgotten that the Spaniards had scheduled an auto-de-fe today. His complaints about the delay the traffic would bring him are met with the suggestion that he attend the event - a suggestion he finds revolting... until he is given the second suggestion that he might find some inspiration for his playwriting.

Already, we have a lot to unpack here.



The real William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616) was one of the most prominent literary minds in the history of the English language. His surviving works include 39 plays and almost 160 major poetic works, most of which have been translated to every language on Earth. Today, more than 4 centuries after his death, his fame is such that he remains a household name.

Born to a country gentleman in the small village of Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564, Shakespeare left little record of his early life, other than his marriage to Anne Hathaway in 1582, the birth of his elder daughter six months later, and the birth of his son and younger daughter (twins) in 1585.

The first recorded performances of works attributed to him occurred in 1592, and he frequently acted upon the stage. The last known acting performances from him date to 1608, shortly before an outbreak of plague forced the theatres of London to close, and his last plays were written in collaboration in 1613. He died suddenly of unknown causes in 1616.

Large land purchases suggest that his career made him a wealthy man, and he left the bulk of his estate to his daughter Susanna. Shortly after his death, friends of his compiled his works into the First Folio, asserting that the various other editions of his plays were unauthorized and inaccurate.

To this day, there is a conspiracy theory that Shakespeare was a front man for another author, based on the assertion that a country bumpkin like him could never possess the level of genius that was readily apparent in him.

We also see mention of the Spanish monarchs currently ruling England – so let’s see what the real ones were like.



Isabella Clara Eugenia (1566 - 1633) was, as suggested in the text, the daughter of Phillip II of Spain and his third wife. Betrothed to her cousin Rudolf Hapsburg (later Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II) at the age of 2, she was ineligible for marriage until Rudolf declared he wasn’t going to marry anybody. Eventually, she married her cousin Albert of Austria in 1599, at which time she was given control over the Spanish Netherlands (this territory being much of modern Belgium and Luxembourg, parts of France, The Netherlands, and Germany, capitaled at Brussels.).
Upon the death of Albert in 1621, she joined a religious community (now the Secular Fransican Order) in the spirit of Francis of Assisi.

History records their reign as an able one, marked by the virtual elimination of the long-simmering rebellion in the Spanish Netherlands, great patronage of the arts, and significant diplomatic coups. The most prominent diplomatic accomplishments were (ironically) the end of the undeclared war between England and Spain, along with a 12 year truce in the Eighty Years War.


Here, the Turtledove timeline and the OTL one doesn’t match up. The Armada sailed in 1588, and this book begins in 1597. As it is stated that Isabella and Albert were crowned immediately on the Spanish conquest, this means that she married Albert a full 11 years early, at a time when she was still solidly betrothed to somebody else. This sort of parallelism is one frequent criticism of Turtledove, and the origin of the thread title.



quote:


Shakespeare had thought nothing could make him want to watch an auto de fe. Now he discovered he was wrong. He nodded to the tailor. "I thank you, Master Jenkins. I had not thought of that. Perhaps I shall." He tucked the robe under his arm, settled his hat more firmly on his head, and went out into Tower Street.

Spanish soldiers--and some blond-bearded Englishmen loyal to Isabella and Albert--in helmets and corselets held pikes horizontally in front of their bodies to keep back the crowd and let the procession move toward Tower Hill. They looked as if they would use those spears, and the swords hanging from their belts, at the slightest excuse. Perhaps because of that, no one gave them any such excuse.

Two or three rows of people stood in front of Shakespeare, but he had no trouble seeing over any of them save one woman whose steeple-crowned hat came up to the level of his eyes. He looked east, toward the church of St. Margaret in Pattens' Lane, from which the procession was coming. At its head strode the trumpeters and drummers, who blasted out another fanfare even as he turned to look at them.

More grim-faced soldiers marched at their heels: again, Spaniards and Englishmen mixed. Some bore pikes. Others carried arquebuses or longer, heavier muskets. Tiny wisps of smoke rose from the lengths of slow match the men with firearms bore to discharge their pieces. The drizzle had almost stopped while Shakespeare waited for the tailor to finish the robe. In wetter weather, the matchlocks would have been useless as anything but clubs. As they marched, they talked with one another in an argot that had grown up since the Armada's men came ashore, with Spanish lisps and trills mingling with the slow sonorities of English.

Behind the soldiers tramped a hundred woodmongers in the gaudy livery of their company. One of those robes would do as well to play the king in as that which I have here, Shakespeare thought. But the woodmongers, whose goods would feed the fires that burned heretics today, seemed to be playing soldiers themselves: like the armored men ahead of them, they too marched with arquebuses and pikes.

From a second-story window across the street from Shakespeare, a woman shouted, "Shame on you, Jack Scrope!" One of the woodmongers carrying a pike whipped his head around to see who had cried out, but no faces showed at that window. A dull flush stained the fellow's cheeks as he strode on.

Next came a party of black-robed Dominican friars--mostly Spaniards, by their looks--before whom a white cross was carried. They chanted psalms in Latin as they paraded up Tower Street.

After them marched Charles Neville, the Earl of Westmorland, the Protector of the English Inquisition. The northerner's face was hard and closed and proud. He had risen against Elizabeth a generation before, spent years in exile in the Netherlands, and surely relished every chance he got for revenge against the Protestants. The old man carried the standard of the Inquisition, and held it high.
During this, Shakespeare’s thoughts turn to Queen Elizabeth, who the Spaniards had imprisoned in the nearby Tower of London as an act of “mercy” upon conquering the island. He wonders how merciful she considers it to be, and is unable to stop himself from mentally making lines in a play on the subject- which the Spanish would naturally deem treasonous.
He is distracted first by the arrival of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Parsons and then by the heavily guarded prisoners. First a dozen sentenced to hang, a large number sentenced to condemnation followed by imprisonment or humiliation, and finally a dozen condemned to be burned.
Among these latter are a proud and defiant Puritan by the name of Philip Stubbes, and a counterfeiter and alchemist by the name of Edward Kelley. Stubbes is practically rejoicing in his martyrdom, but Kelley is terrified, and desperately tries to convince him that he is repentant in the hopes of at least gaining an easier death by strangulation. His pleas failing to convince the monks, he spots Shakespeare in the crowd and cries out for aid – much to Shakespeare’s dismay as this brings suspicion on him.

quote:

As it went past, the pikemen who'd been holding back the crowd shouldered their weapons. Some folk went on about their business. More streamed after the procession to Tower Hill, to watch the burnings that would follow. Shakespeare stepped out into the muddy street. Along with the rest of the somber spectacle, he wanted to see Edward Kelley die.

"Say what you will about the Spaniards, but they've brought us a fine show," said a man at his elbow.

The fellow's friend nodded. "Better than a bear-baiting or a cockfight, and I never thought I'd say that of any sport."

Tower Hill, north and west of the Tower itself, had been an execution ground since the days of Edward IV, more than a hundred years before. Things were more elaborate now than they had been. Stakes with oil-soaked wood piled high around them waited for the condemned prisoners. Iron cages waited for them, too, in which they would listen to the charges that had brought them here. More iron cages, small ones, awaited the pasteboard effigies of the folk who had died in gaol or escaped the Inquisition's clutches.
With Isabella and Albert watching, they begin the final stage of the ceremony, with Stubbes being defiant to the end. The monks are forced to bind and gag him to stop him from singing hymns and shouting denunciations, causing him to simply resort to pantomime.

Shakespeare does not applaud Stubbes, although others do, due to his fear of the new suspicion placed upon him. He does, however, wonder if he could get away with so brave a character in a play without the audience dismissing him.
Some of the prisoners were repentant enough for some mercy and are strangled, but (despite his best efforts) Edward Kelley is not among them. The Queen gives the command, and the prisoners are burned.


The real Philip Stubbs was a well-known pamphleteer, most famous for a tract in which he denounced the theater, gambling, drinking, and contemporary fashion. He found no opportunities for martyrdom, and died in 1610.




Edward Kelley was also a real person, albeit one shrouded in legend. He was a partner of Elizabeth I’s advisor and court astrologer John Dee, who claimed to be able to contact angels. Kelley was an occultist and alchemist, famous for his claim to be able to transmute base metals into gold. He also was allegedly able to interpret the language of the angels Dee contacted. The two were accused of necromancy while traveling the Continent in 1587, and were forced to attend a hearing with the Catholic Nuncio of Prague, during which event Kelley managed to issue significant insults to the Catholic Church.

In 1589 or 1590, Rudolf II hired Kelley to make gold for the Holy Roman Empire. In 1591 Kelley was arrested by Rudolf II for killing a nobleman in a duel. In 1595 he was released to make gold, followed by his arrest for failing to make any gold. He either died in captivity in 1597 or poisoned himself in 1598. If there is any record of him meeting the historical Shakespeare, I cannot find it.



quote:

Better him than me, Shakespeare thought as fire swallowed Edward Kelley. The mixture of shame and relief churning inside him made him want to spew. Oh, dear God, better him than me. He turned away from the stakes, from the reek of charred flesh, and hurried back into the city.

This is a good setup section. The auto-de-fe is well done, provides an excellent grounding for the setting, and fingering Shakespeare out is a good setup for later.
The first sentence is particularly good. The notion of victorious Spanish soldiers marching through London is a very striking image, particularly with the familiar figure of Shakespeare to give it some grounding.



Chapter 1 Part 2: De Vega

quote:

LOPE FÉLIX DE VEGA Carpio had been in London for more than nine years, and in all that time he didn't think he'd been warm outdoors even once. The English boasted of their springtime. It came two months later here than in Madrid, where it would have been reckoned a mild winter. As for summer . . . He rolled his eyes. As best he could tell, there was no such thing as an English summer.

Still and all, there were compensations. He snuggled down deeper under the feather-filled comforter and kissed the woman he kept company there. "Ah, Maude," he said, "I understand why you English women are so fair." He had a gift for language and languages; his English, though accented, was fluent.
A somewhat tedious romantic scene follows, in which De Vega muses on his irredeemable fascination with women. The woman he is currently with is one of three mistresses he is currently keeping in London, and one with secrets of her own. Their revels are interrupted by the entrance of her husband.

quote:

"Thine husband?" Despite his horror, de Vega had the sense to keep his voice to a whisper. "Lying minx, thou saidst thou wert a widow!"

"Well, I would be, if he were dead," she answered, her tone absurdly reasonable.

In a play, a line like that would have got a laugh. Lope de Vega mentally filed it away. He'd tried his hand at a few comedies, to entertain his fellows on occupation duty in London, and he went to the English theatres whenever he found the chance. But what was funny in a play could prove fatal in real life. He sprang from the bed and threw on his clothes by the dim light those embers gave.
Dressing hastily, and cursing the overcomplicated garments of his day, De Vega flees out the window, musing that there would be no honor in fighting the woman’s husband due to the affair being adulterous.

Lost in the fogs of London, and well after curfew, he proceeds with drawn rapier. As an officer, he need not fear Spanish patrols, but any English out at this time would be criminals looking for somebody to rob.
He does encounter just such a man, but they manage to avoid actually meeting, and De Vega eventually happens on a Spanish patrol. They mock him for being out so late and ignoring the rules, chatter about the deficiencies of England and Englishmen, and provide him with an escort to the barracks near St. Swithin’s church. There he finds his servant Diego asleep, which is how one usually finds Diego. He finds the servant all but useless, but a proper Spanish gentleman is never without a servant, so a terrible servant is better than none.




Lope Félix de Vega y Carpio (1562-1635) was a Spanish soldier, playwright, and novelist. The author of more than 500 plays, 3 novels, 4 novellas, and over 3000 works of poetry, he is almost as prominent a figure in Spanish literature as Shakespeare is in the English variety.

He is nearly as famous for his amorous affairs as he is his literary one. The collapse of a love affair led to his exile from Castile, followed by his marriage under pressure in 1588. Shortly after marrying, he began his second tour with the navy of Spain and sailed off with the Armada to England. His ship, the San Juan, was one of the survivors of the doomed expedition, and he was not injured.

After his wife died after childbirth in 1594, he moved to Madrid and took on several new lovers - one of which bore him several more children – and a second wife. He joined the priesthood after the death of his favorite son and second wife, although he famously continued to take lovers. He died of scarlet fever in 1595


quote:

When he woke, it was still dark outside. He felt rested enough, though. In fall and winter, English nights stretched ungodly long, and the hours of July sunshine never seemed enough to make up for them. Diego didn't seemed to have moved; his snores certainly hadn't changed rhythm. If he ever felt rested enough, he'd given no sign of it.

Leaving him in his dormouse-like hibernation, Lope put on what he'd taken off the night before, adjusting the bright pheasant plume in his braided-leather hatband to the proper jaunty angle. He resisted the temptation to slam the door as he went out to get breakfast. My virtue surely piles up in heaven, he thought.

His breakfast of bread, olive oil, and wine (the latter two imports from Spain) is capped off by a visit from his captain’s servant Enrique, summoning him to an immediate meeting with said captain. Enrique is so brilliant and diligent a servant as to inspire envy in De Vega, who is saddled with the useless Diego. This does not prevent him from answering the summons immediately, of course.

quote:

"Buenos días, your Excellency," Lope said as he walked in. He swept off his hat and bowed.

"Good day," Captain Baltasar Guzmán replied, nodding without rising from his seat. He was a dapper little man whose mustaches and chin beard remained wispy with youth: though Lope's superior, he was a good fifteen years younger. He had some sort of connection with the great noble house of Guzmán--the house of, among others, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, commander of the Armada--which explained his rank. He wasn't a bad officer, though, in spite of that. Enrique wouldn't let him be a bad officer, Lope thought.

Guzman needles De Vega for his late return the night before, and the subject turns to the failing health of Spain’s dying monarch Philip II, and a mutually insincere hope that Phillip III will match his father’s rule. This turns to De Vega’s plans for the day, which are to attend the theatre. Guzman wonders if this is really in the line of duty, or simply a desire to satisfy the literary interests of Lope De Vega. De Vega counters with the well reasoned argument that he can gauge the mood of the common Englishman while standing incognito in the crowd, and chatting with the actors afterward could bring more insight still.

quote:

"Some of them indeed have connections with their patrons." Guzmán gave the word an obscene twist. But then he sighed. "Still, I can't say you're wrong. Some of them are spies, and so . . . and so, Lieutenant, I know you are mixing pleasure with your business, but I cannot tell you not to do it. I want a full report, in writing, when you get back."

"Just as you say, your Excellency, so shall it be," Lope promised, doing his best to hide his relief. He turned to leave.

Baltasar Guzmán let him take one step toward the door, then raised a finger and stopped him in his tracks. "Oh--one other thing, de Vega."

"Your Excellency?"

"I want a report that deals with matters political. Literary criticism has its place. I do not argue with that. Its place, however, is not here. Understand me?"

"Yes, your Excellency." You're a Philistine, your Excellency. It's God's own miracle you can read and write at all, your Excellency. But Guzmán was the man with the rank. Guzmán was the man with the family.
Enrique, on the other hand, is eager for a report of the theatre. De Vega sees this as an opportunity to butter up the servant, and possibly the master by extension.

De Vega makes his way to the theater, envying the fact that the English have dedicated theatres at all, as opposed to the Spanish practice of performing in front of a tavern. He pays the cheapest price to stand among the groundlings, reasoning that he’ll hear more there than he would in the more expensive gallery seats. This is rewarded when he hears a conversation praising the now-burned Stubbes that stops just short of criticizing the Spanish.


Philip II of Spain died of cancer in September 1598, meaning that concerns of failing health in 1597 are entirely reasonable by comparison to OTL. This, however, is another example of excessive parallelism. Much as with Isabella marrying Albert, there is a strong tendency for him to match things up to actual history even when the conditions changed dramatically. While the cancer that killed Philip in real life may have struck regardless, it is highly unlikely that it would strike in exactly the same way and time that it did historically.

Likewise, there is a very real chance that Philip III would have grown up a different man in a Spain that had crushed all enemies. Failing to consider that could justly be considered lazy writing.

quote:


"You ever see anybody braver nor Parsons Stubbes the other day?" a woman said. "Couldn't be nobody braver. God's bound to love a man like that--only stands to reason. I expect he's up in heaven right now."

"How about them what burned him?" another man asked.

"Oh, I don't know anything about that," the woman answered quickly. She'd already said too much, and realized it, but she wouldn't say any more. Nine years of the Inquisition had taught these talkative people something, at least, of holding their tongues. And before that they'd had a generation of stern heresy under Elizabeth, and before that Catholicism under Mary and Philip, and before that more heresy under Henry VIII. They'd swung back and forth so many times, it was a marvel they hadn't looked toward the Turks and had a go at being Mahometans for a while.
The play distracts him once it starts, as his English isn’t quite good enough to grasp it without effort. He is unhappy with the English practice of using young boys to play women, but admires Shakespeare’s use of it for comedy.

quote:

But Shakespeare, as de Vega had seen him do in other plays, used English conventions to advantage. Rosalind disguised herself as a boy to escape the court of her wicked uncle: a boy playing a girl playing a boy. And then a minor character playing a feminine role fell for "him": a boy playing a girl in love with a boy playing a girl playing a boy. Lope couldn't help howling laughter. He was tempted to count on his fingers to keep track of who was who, or of who was supposed to be who.

After the play, De Vega makes his way backstage to meet with the actors, which is so routine a behavior that the guards know him by name. There is a bit of comedy when he runs into somebody’s wife backstage and responds gracefully, only to have his lecherous reputation mocked by the company clown, Will Kemp. He finds Shakespeare having a chat with Christopher Marlowe, and the three of them start to talk about the theatre.



The choice of Lope De Vega to serve as Shakespeare’s foil is a good one. De Vega’s connection to the theatre makes their contacts eminently natural in a way that any other soldier would not have, and his status as a literary giant rivaling Shakespeare makes the image a striking one.


Chapter 1, Part 3: Shakespeare.

Late that evening, Marlowe rants about De Vega’s long presense, and mocks Shakespeare for calling the Spaniard a harmless theatre nut. Shakespeare responds with a dig at Marlowe’s love life.

quote:

Shakespeare stood several inches taller. He set a hand on the other playwright's shoulder. "However long he lingered, he's gone now, Kit. He's harmless, or as harmless as a man of his kingdom can be. Mad for the stage, as you heard."

"Think you so?" Marlowe said, and Shakespeare nodded. Marlowe rolled his eyes. "And think you babes are hid 'neath cabbage leaves for their mothers to find?"

The tireman coughed. He wanted the room empty so he could lock up the precious costumes and go home. Only a few people were left now, still hashing over what they'd done, what they might have done, what they would do the next time they put on If You Like It. Even Will Kemp, a law unto himself, took the tireman seriously. With a mocking bow to those who remained, he swept out the door.

Irked, Shakespeare stayed where he was. He snapped, "I know whence babes come--I know better than you, by God." Even in the dim, uncertain light left in the tiring room, he saw Marlowe flush. The other poet chased boys as avidly as prickproud Lope went after other men's wives.



Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) was another of the giants of Elizabethan theatre. His works were a great influence on other playwrights of the day, most notably a certain William Shakespeare. Indeed, he is one professed candidate for the “true author” of some of Shakespeare’s plays by theorists who lean in that direction. Concrete information about him is scanty. Speculation that he was an atheist, a Catholic, and a spy can be traced to his own era, and rumors of his love of boys appears shortly after his death, although none have been solidly substantiated. He died of a knife in the head during a fight with a man named Ingram Frizer.


After further prompting from the tired tireman, the two carry the argument out into the streets. At this point, Shakespeare prods Marlowe for whatever it is he didn’t want to talk about in front of De Vega.
Marlowe wants Shakespeare to meet with a business acquaintance of his, to which Shakespeare agrees. Marlowe, however, seems furious even after said agreement. After some discussion, it turns out that Marlowe is angry because said acquaintance wants to do business with Shakespeare instead of Marlowe.

Realizing now that the business must be of a literary nature, and fully recognizing the extent to which Marlowe influenced his own work, Shakespeare offers to refuse the man, stepping aside to give Marlowe the job. Marlowe is surprised, but admits that Shakespeare really is better for the job, needling Shakespeare for being willing to stand aside. They part, with the guarantee that Marlowe will bring his friend to meet Shakespeare the next evening.

Assuring his landlady that his late return was merely due to lingering after the play, and further assuring her that he’d have no trouble paying the rent, Shakespeare has a mug of ale before heading to dinner.

quote:

From the chest by his bed, he took his second-best spoon--pewter--a couple of quills, a knife to trim them, ink, and three sheets of paper. He sometimes wished he followed a less expensive calling; each sheet cost more than a loaf of bread. He locked the chest once more, then hurried off to the ordinary around the corner. He sat down at the table with the biggest, fattest candle on it: he wanted the best light he could find for writing.
The meeting the next day is with a bespectacled man named Thomas Phelippes.

quote:


They all shared a roast capon and bread and butter. Phelippes had little small talk. He seemed content to listen to Shakespeare and Marlowe's theatre gossip. After a while, once no one sat close enough to overhear, Shakespeare spoke directly to him: "Kit says you may have somewhat of business for me. Of what sort is't?"

"Why, the business of England's salvation, of course," Thomas Phelippes told him.

Thomas Phelippes (1556–1625) was a linguist and intelligence officer of the English government. He is most famous for playing a key role in unearthing the plot to kill Elizabeth I and replace her with Mary I. If we accept that Marlowe was a spy, it would be extremely likely for him to know Phelippes.

This section is more setup, and more interesting as a sort of slice-of-life bit than for plot reasons. The final sentence is a good cliffhanger, leaving us with the mystery of what exactly they want Shakespeare to do, and how a common playwright could play any role in saving England.

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 01:52 on Nov 8, 2019

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Epicurius posted:

It's kind of interesting that Turtledove is making the two viewpoint characters both playwrights...one English and one Spanish.

Just to add to your list of historical characters, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Parsons, is probably the Jesuit Robert Persons/Parsons, an English Jesuit, who was part of Fr. Campion's "English Mission" in 1580, where he tried to set up underground printing presses and recruiting young men to become Jesuits and then smuggling them to France.

After he left England in 1581, he went to France, where he worked on strengthening the House of Guise and also making plans to assassinate Elizabeth. After spending some time there, he went to Rome, and then in 1588, the Jesuits sent him to Spain, to improve relations with King Phillip II. He succeeded in doing that, and spent most of the rest of his life in Spain, setting up seminaries.

Thank you. I fully intended to cover this, and thought I had.


1597

Chapter II
Part I: De Vega
We open this chapter with De Vega speaking with Enrique before a meeting with Guzmán in response to his report on the play he attended. Enrique is full of praise both for De Vega’s report and for Shakespeare himself. After chit-chat along these lines, De Vega is brought into Guzmán’s office.

quote:

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt, but Enrique will make too much of himself." Tapping the report with his forefinger, Guzmán got down to business: "Overall, this is a good piece of work, Lieutenant. Still, I need to remind you again that you visit the Theatre as his Majesty's spy, not as his drama critic."

"I'm very sorry, your Excellency," Lope lied.

Guzmán laughed again. "A likely story. You're a lucky man, to be able to enjoy yourself so much at your work."

"I would enjoy myself even more if the benighted English let women take the stage," Lope said.

"Indeed. It frightens me, Lieutenant, to think how much you might enjoy yourself then." Baltasar Guzmán tapped the report again. His fingernails were elegantly manicured. He looked across the desk at de Vega. "I note that you met this Marlowe back in the tiring room after the presentation."

De Vega acknowledges meeting Marlowe, stating that he was merely there as a literary critic. Guzmán counters that Marlowe is a very dangerous man, known to keep company with rogues of all sorts. Knowing too many of the wrong kind of people means that Marlowe probably is the wrong kind of people, and the Inquisition has investigated him repeatedly.

This naturally turns to Marlowe’s association with Shakespeare, and inevitably to Shakespeare himself.

quote:


That he was right made his supercilious manner no less annoying: more so, if anything. Lope protested: "Say what you will of Marlowe, but Shakespeare has always stayed with the stage and fought shy of politics."

But his superior shook his head. "Not necessarily. At the recent auto de fe, one of the men relaxed to the Inquisition for punishment--a notorious sorcerer and counterfeiter--saw Shakespeare in the crowd and called out for him to testify to his good character. This fellow, a certain Kelley, was also an intimate of Christopher Marlowe's. So Shakespeare is not above suspicion. No man is above suspicion," he added, sounding as certain as if he were reciting the Athanasian Creed.

Though the news shook Lope, he did his best not to show it. He said, "A drowning man will clutch at any straw."

Guzmán acknowledges this, but still considers this to be a matter worth investigating. Guzmán tells De Vega to take his report to an Englishman in Westminster who is an important part of the Spanish administration of the country, assuring him that the Englishman speaks perfect Spanish.



This gun didn’t take long to fire. We saw last chapter that Shakespeare has been recruited in some plot against the Spanish, and De Vega was a perfectly placed agent to fight against said plot. Spurring the inquisition to suspect guilt-by association and thus giving De Vega a vague suspicion that something is wrong is a textbook way of bringing about the main conflict of the story, and it is hard to fault Turtledove’s use here.

I think it is kind of a clumsy execution, however, particularly in timing.







quote:

A wan English sun, amazingly low in the southern sky, dodged in and out from behind rolling clouds as Lope de Vega rode through London toward Westminster. When he went past St. Paul's cathedral, he scratched his head, wondering as he always did why the otherwise magnificent edifice should be spoiled by the strange, square, flat-topped steeple. Not so much as a cross up there, he thought, and clucked reproachfully at the folly of the English.



The building De Vega is discussing is the predecessor to the current St. Paul’s Cathedral. Old St. Paul’s was famous for having a rather maginificent steeple – until 1561. In that year, the steeple caught on fire (probably due to a lightning strike), causing the entire thing to cave in. The roof was repaired, but no new steeple was erected. Restoration of the grand old building was begun in 1621, but halted by the outbreak of the English Civil War. Eventually, the entire structure was gutted in the Great Fire Of London in 1666. While reconstruction was technically possible, the immense cost led leaders to demolish the structure and build a new cathedral instead.

quote:

Lope couldn't tell exactly where that ward ended and the suburbs of the city began. He had thought Madrid a grand place, and so it was, but London dwarfed it. He wouldn't have been surprised if the English capital held a quarter of a million people. If that didn't make it the biggest city in the world, it surely came close.

Westminster, which lay at a bend in the Thames, was a separate, though much smaller, city in its own right, divided into twelve wards. The apparatus of government dominated it much more than London proper. Isabella and Albert dwelt in one of the several castles there. Parliament--Lope thought of it as the equivalent of the Cortes of Castile, though it was even fussier about its privileges than the Cortes of Navarre--met there. Westminster Abbey was an ecclesiastical center, though the senior archbishop of England, for no good reason de Vega could see, presided at Canterbury, fifty miles away. And the clerks and secretaries and scribes who served the higher functionaries also performed their offices in Westminster.

By the time he finally found the man he was looking for, Lope felt as if he'd navigated the labyrinth of the Minotaur. He'd spent most of an hour and most of his temper making his way through the maze before he knocked on the right door: one in the offices of the men who served Don Diego Flores de Valdés, the commandant of the Spanish soldiers stationed in England.

"Come in," a voice called in English.

Lope de Vega did. The fellow behind the desk was unprepossessing: small, thin, pale, pockmarked, bespectacled. As de Vega walked in, he flipped a paper over so the newcomer wouldn't be able to read it. Lope caught a brief glimpse of pothooks and hieroglyphs--some sort of cipher. Maybe the man made up in brains what he lacked in looks. Peering down at the report, Lope said, "You are Thomas . . . Phelippes?" He'd never seen the name spelled that way before--but then, the vagaries of English spelling could drive any Spaniard mad.

Phelippes and De Vega chat amiably about languages and the virtues of Captain Guzmán, although De Vega notices something peculiar about Phelippes as he explains his mission and hands over the report.

quote:

Phelippes took it. "I thank you. I am acquainted with Captain Guzmán. A good man, sly as a serpent." Lope wouldn't have used that as praise, but the Englishman plainly intended it so. He also spoke of the Spanish nobleman as an equal or an inferior. How important are you? Lope knew he couldn't ask. Phelippes went on, "Is there anything he desires me to look for in especial?"

"Yes--he desires your opinion of the trustiness of the two poets, Marlowe and Shakespeare," de Vega said.
Phelippes confirms Guzman’s assessment of Marlowe as a dangerous and untrustworthy man, but insists that Shakespeare is a non-entity and political ignoramus. When informed about the behavior of Kelley, he insists that there was nothing more sinister there than a doomed man looking for any bit of aid he could find. Phelippes will provide a report to Guzman to that effect. After some discussion of the virtues of Philip II and lamenting his imminent death, the scene ends.

Here is a very interesting passage. Phelippes is not only on the side of whatever conspiracy is recruiting Shakespeare, but also a high figure in the occupation government. The obvious ploy for an author is to make it unclear who Phelippes is really working for – is he a rebel spy in the government, or is he an agent provocateur? Unfortunately, however, he is so blatantly covering for Shakespeare here that there is no mystery – if he was working wholly for the Spanish, or playing both sides for some reason, he’d have been much less blatant about protecting Shakespeare. This isn’t necessarily a fault in the writing – Turtledove might have decided that he didn’t want the readers to doubt, and simply wanted to demonstrate the reach of the conspiracy he hasn’t yet revealed.

Chapter 2, Part 2: Shakespeare

quote:

When rehersals went well, they were a joy. Shakespeare took more pleasure in few things than in watching what had been only pictures and words in his mind take shape on the stage before his eyes. When things went not so well, as they did this morning . . . He clapped a hand to his forehead. " 'Sdeath!" he shouted. "Mechanical salt-butter rogues! Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops! You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knaves."

Richard Burbage looked down his long nose at Shakespeare. He was the only player in Lord Westmorland's Men tall enough to do it. "Now see here, Will, you've poor cause to blame us when you were the worst of the lot," he boomed, turning his big, sonorous voice on Shakespeare alone instead of an audience.

Shakespeare acknowledges the hit, but insists that his part is small and that the next performance would be a disaster if things don’t improve. Burbage insists that everything will be better when it comes to the afternoon’s performance, as they always are.



Richard Burbage (1567-1619) was the owner of two theatres in London, and an extremely prominent actor. Most of Shakespeare’s title roles were first played by Burbage, and he was also a talented artist – it is speculated that the most famous painting of Shakespeare was a Burbage work.

quote:

"Not always," Shakespeare said, remembering calamities he wished he could forget.

"Often enough," Burbage said placidly. "There's no better company than ours, and all London knows it." He eyes, deep-set under thick eyebrows, flashed. "But you, Will. You're the steadiest trouper we have, and you always know your lines." He chuckled. "And so you ought, you having writ so many of 'em. But today? Never have I seen you so unapt, as if the very words were strange. Out on it! What hobgoblins prey on your mind?"

Shakespeare looked around the Theatre. Along with the company, the tireman and his assistants, the prompter, and the stagehands, a couple of dozen friends and wives and lovers milled about where the groundlings would throng in a few hours. Musicians peered down from their place a story above the tiring room. He had to talk to Burbage, but not before so many people. All he could do now was sigh and say, "When troubles come, they come not single spies, but in battalions."

Burbage tossed his head like a horse troubled by flies. "Pretty. It tells naught, of course, but pretty nonetheless."

"Give over, if you please," Shakespeare said wearily. "I'm not bound to unburden myself before any but God, and you are not He."

Kemp's eyes widened in well-mimed astonishment. "He's not? Don't tell him that, for I warrant he did not know't."

A flush mounted to Burbage's cheeks and broad, high forehead. "Blaspheming toad."

"Your servant, sir." Kemp gave him a courtier's bow. Burbage snorted.
Shakespeare here is quoting from Hamlet. Many such references show up in the dialogue here. Historically, Hamlet was not written until after this book is set, having been penned sometime between 1599 and 1602.


They return to rehearsal for the afternoon’s production of Romeo and Juliet, particularly the scene where Mercutio is slain by Tybalt. Burbage is still upset about the argument, and a far better swordsman than Shakespeare is – he is stated to have fought against the Spaniards during the invasion, while Shakespeare is a poor swordsman even by stage standards. These two factors almost cause Shakespeare to be injured when it comes time for him to “die”. Shakespeare acknowledges that the scene went better, but that he has something to say about Burbage’s swordsmanship.


quote:

The other player chose to misunderstand him. Setting a hand on the hilt of his rapier, he said, "I am at your service."

If they fought with swords in earnest, Shakespeare knew he was a dead man. What had Marlowe said about fanning quarrels? Surely not Burbage, Shakespeare thought, not when we've worked together so long. That such a thing could even occur to him was the measure of how many new worries he carried. I'll be like Kit soon, seeing danger in every face.

"Let it go, Dick," Kemp said. "An you spit him like a chine of beef, what are you then? Why, naught but a ghost--a pretty ghost, I'll not deny, but nonetheless a ghost--left suddenly dumb for having slain the one who gave you words to speak."

"There are other scribblers," Burbage rumbled ominously. But then he must have decided he'd gone too far, for he added, "We, being the best of companies, do deserve that which we have: to wit, the best of poets." He turned toward Shakespeare and clapped his big, scarred hands.

The afternoon performance went well, but the stage is pelted by the groundlings throwing stones at gentlemen who paid extra for a space right by the stage – and obscured the stage with thick clouds of tobacco smoke. Shakespeare is cleaning up and trading barbs with Will Kemp when De Vega enters.

quote:

"Were you I, you'd have a better seeming than you do," Shakespeare retorted. People laughed louder than the joke deserved. The biter bit was always funny; Shakespeare had used the device to good effect in more than one play. Will Kemp bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. He found the joke hard to see.

"Magnificent, Master Will!" There stood Lieutenant Lope de Vega, a broad smile on his face. "Truly magnificent! . . . Is something wrong?"

He'd seen Shakespeare start, then. "No, nothing really," Shakespeare answered, glad his actor's training gave his voice a property of easiness: for his was, without a doubt, a guilty start. "You did surprise me, coming up so sudden."

"I am sorry for it," the Spaniard said. "But this play--this play, sir, is splendid. This play is also closer to what someone--a man of genius, of course--might write in Spain than was If You Like It . . . though that too was most excellent, I haste to add."
De Vega spends much time showering Romeo and Juliet with praise. Shakespere is delighted with the plaudits until he realizes that much of the praise is due to the play being more similar to Spanish standards than much of his work. Eventually, De Vega turns to another subject.

quote:


"Were my duties less, my time to write were more," the Spaniard answered, and Shakespeare thought he'd got away with it. But then de Vega reminded him that he was in fact Senior Lieutenant de Vega: "In aid of my duties, sir, a question--what acquaintance had you with Edward Kelley, that he should call to you when on his way to the fire?"

I never saw him before in my life. That was what Shakespeare wanted to say. But a lie that at once declared itself a lie was worse than useless. Marlowe was right, drat him. De Vega is a Spaniard first, a groundling and player and poet only second. Picking his words with great care, the Englishman said, "I shared tavern talk with him a handful of times over a handful of years, no more." Though the tiring room was chilly, sweat trickled down his sides from under his arms.

But Lope de Vega only nodded. "So I would have guessed. Whom would Kelley have known better, think you?"

Marlowe, Shakespeare thought, and damned his fellow poet again. Aloud, though, he said only, "Not having known him well myself, I fear I cannot tell you." He spread his hands in carefully simulated regret.

"Yes, I see." Lope remained as polite as ever. Even so, he asked another question: "Well, in whose company were you with this rogue, then?"

"I pray your pardon, but I can't recall." Shakespeare used his player's training to hold his voice steady. "I had not seen him for more than a year, perhaps for two, before we chanced to spy each the other in Tower Street."

De Vega accepts this, and wanders off to flirt with one of the nearby women. Noting that one of the hired actors is infuriated by De Vega’s advances, he decides that this is an opportune time to leave. He collects Burbage and heads out of the theatre, stopping to have a passed-out customer removed from the theatre to avoid him getting a free play the next day.

Watching a woman slip and fall turns the subject to Will Kemp, and Burbage provides an excellent opportunity for Shakespeare to begin discussing weightier matters.

quote:

Shakespeare nodded. Kemp in particular had a habit of extemporizing on stage. Sometimes his brand of wit drew more mirth than Shakespeare's. That was galling enough. But whether he got his laughs or not, his stepping away from the written part never failed to pull the play out of shape. Shakespeare said, "Whether he know it or no, he's not the Earth, with other players sun and moon and planets spinning round his weighty self."

"Or the Earth and all round the sun, as Copernicus doth assert," Burbage said.

"He, being dead, may assert what pleases him." Shakespeare looked around nervously to make sure no one had overheard. "His Holiness the Pope holding opinion contrary, we enjoy not the like privilege."

Burbage frowned. "If a thing be true, it is true with the Pope's assent or in his despite."

"Here is a true thing, Dick," Shakespeare said: "An you speak such words where the wrong ears hear, you'll explicate 'em to the Inquisition."

The subject of the Inquisition allows Shakespeare to discuss the Spanish occupation and then, when Burbage expresses dissatisfaction with the situation, to bluntly ask if Burbage wants Elizabeth back on the throne. After some equivocation, Burbage finally puts it plainly. He’s an Englishman, not a Spaniard, and Shakespeare can go tell De Vega that if he wants to.

quote:

"You were an idiot to speak your mind to me, did you reckon I'd turn traitor," Shakespeare replied after some small silence of his own.

" ‘Treason doth never prosper: what's the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason,' " Burbage quoted, and then cocked his head to one side. "I misremember--is that yours?"

Shakespeare shook his head. "Nay: some other man's. I thank you; I am answered."

"And had I cried hurrah! for Queen Isabella?"

"Many who cry so prosper," Shakespeare said.

"The dons are here, and here to stay, by all the signs," Burbage said. "A man must live, as I said just now, and, to live, live with 'em. So far will I go, so far and no further. A fellow who sniffs and tongues the Spaniards' bums, like some scabby whining cur-dog with a pack of mastiffs . . . This for him!" He spat again.
The quote here is from Sir John Harington (1561-1612), and is possibly anachronistic. While it is not clear when he first wrote the phrase (the earliest record I can find of it is a collection of his works published in 1618 after his death), he mostly gained prominence in the late 1580s and early 1590s – after the POD of this series. In the altered timeline, publishing such a verse would probably bring swift punishment from the occupiers.

Apart from that, Turtledove does a good job here illustrating the attitude of someone living in an occupied kingdom. Having to decide how far you can bend before you betray your true loyalties is exactly the sort of thing people would have to deal with in such a situation.

They split off, Shakespeare going to his boarding house and Burbage to his home. Shakespeare muses that, were he to go home to Stratford as his wife insists upon he would avoid dealing with the Spaniards almost entirely, as they rarely go to the sleepy village. Unfortunately, London holds too much fame and money for him to be willing to do that.

quote:

When he walked into the house where he lodged, Jane Kendall greeted him with, "A man was asking after you today, Master Will."

"A man?" Shakespeare said in surprise and no small alarm. His landlady nodded. Fighting for calm, he found another question: "What sort of man? One of the dons?"

The tallowchandler's widow shook his head. Shakespeare hoped he didn't show how relieved he was. "He was about your own age," the widow said, "not a big man, not small. Ill-favored, I'll say he was, but with a look to him. . . . Did he ask me to play at dice with him, I'd not throw any he brought forth."
Shakespeare frowned and scratched his head. "Meseems that is no man I ken," he said slowly. "Gave he a name to stand beside this his ill-favored visage?"

Before his landlady could answer, Peter Foster laughed raucously. "Was't the name of his wife or his sweetheart or his daughter?"

"Go to!" Shakespeare said, his ears heating. He didn't live a monk's life in London, but he hadn't, or didn't think he had, given anyone cause to come after him for that kind of reason. Lieutenant de Vega boasted about the horns he put on husbands. Shakespeare, by contrast, reckoned discretion the better part of pleasure.

Again, Widow Kendall shook her head. "He said naught of any such thing. And he did leave a name, could I but recall it. . . . I'm more forgetful with each passing year, I am. It quite scares me." But then she suddenly grinned and snapped her fingers. "Skeres!" she exclaimed in delight.

She remembers that the man gave the name of Nick Skeres, and that she told him to look at the Theatre, which is where Shakespeare is during the day. One of the other boarders, a man named Peter Foster, suggests that the man might be wanting to throw Shakespeare in jail, and that innocence means nothing if the man is paid. He then criticizes Shakespeare’s lack of a sword, as any threat isn’t likely to know Shakespeare has no idea how to use one, but would reckon that a large man like Shakespeare would be extremely dangerous in a fight, if properly armed.

He heads off to his customary place for meals, where he dines on stewed eels. After he eats, he tries to do some writing, but has little success.

[url=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicholas_Skeres[/url]Nicholas Skeres (1593-1601?) was a con man and government spy in this era. He was almost certainly a player in the plot to kill Elizabeth that Thomas Philippes helped unover, probably as a government agent. He was later dining with Robert Poley (another man involved in uncovering the plot), Ingram Frizer, and Christopher Marlowe when an argument between the latter two lead to Frizer killing Marlowe in alleged self-defense. He was later involved with the rebellion of the Earl of Essex in 1601 and thrown in prison, where he is believed to have died.

quote:

Tonight, though, his own misgivings were what kept interrupting him. It was not a night when he had to worry about forgetting curfew. That he got anything at all done on Love's Labour's Won struck him as a minor miracle.

The play Shakespeare is working on is a bit interesting. There is no extant play known as Love’s Labour’s Won, although there are references to such a play existing in the late 16th and early 17th centuries. While it is possibly a lost work (perhaps as a sequel to Love’s Labor’s Lost), it is also possible that it was an early title of an older play – candidates include The Taming Of The Shrew, Much Ado About Nothing, or As You Like It (which, of course, is the play De Vega attended in Chapter I).




Chapter 2: Part 3: De Vega

quote:

The two actors--actually, the two Spanish soldiers--playing Liseo and his servant, Turín, appeared at what was supposed to be an inn in the Spanish town of Illescas, which lay about twenty miles south of Madrid. The one playing Liseo hesitated, bit his lip, and looked blank. Lope de Vega hissed his line at him: "¡Qué lindas posadas!"

"What lovely inns," the soldier--his real name was Pablo--repeated obediently. He might have been a slightly--a very slightly--animated wooden statue, painted to look lifelike but wooden nonetheless.

"¡Frescas!" agreed the fellow playing his servant (his real name was Francisco). He knew he was supposed to say, "Fresh air," to suggest a hole in the imaginary roof, but sounded even deader doing it than Pablo did.

Before they could go on to complain about the likelihood of bedbugs and lice, Lope threw his hands in the air. "Stop!" he shouted. "God and all the saints, stop!"

"What's the matter, Señor Lieutenant?" the soldier playing Turín asked. "I remembered my line, and Pablo here, he looked like he was going to remember his next one, too."

"What's the matter? What's the matter?" Lope's volume rose with each repetition. "I'll tell you what's the matter. What's the name of this play of mine?"

"La dama boba," Francisco answered. "That's what's the matter, sir?"

La Dama Boba (literally “The Silly Lady”, one English title is The Lady-Fool) is a comedy by Lope De Vega. The real de Vega didn’t write this work until 1613, rendering this as a potential anachronism. The different circumstances can excuse this – he simply wrote it earlier in this timeline- but the lack of any “I changed it on purpose” signposting makes me suspect this was an error by the author.

The furious de Vega pushes the two soldiers too far when he compares them negatively to the English actors he has been working with.


quote:


"So what? I've had a bellyful, I have," Pablo said. "This isn't part of my duty. If you think the damned Englishmen make such good actors, Señor Lieutenant, get them to put on your play for you. Hasta la vista." He stomped away. The soldier playing his servant followed, slamming the door behind them.

Lope swore. He sprang to his feet and kicked the bench on which he'd been sitting, which toppled the bench and almost ruined one of his toes. As he hopped around, still cursing, he wondered how in God's name he was going to put on La dama boba without two of his leading characters. If he could have got men from Shakespeare's acting company to recite Spanish verse, he would have done it. Except when they swore, Englishmen didn't want to learn Spanish.
He realizes that, while he could order the men, he would not be happy with the results. Then he has a brainstorm, and runs off to Guzmán's office. Guzmán is surprised to see de Vega at a time when he should be working on a play, and ask what occasions this unusually dutiful attitude.

quote:

"Your Excellency, I am always devoted to duty," Lope said. It wasn't strictly true, but it sounded good. He added, "And the powers that be have been kind enough to encourage my plays. They say they keep the men happy by giving them a taste of what they might have at home."

"Yes, so they say." Captain Guzmán seemed unconvinced. But he went on, "Since they say so, I can hardly disagree. What do you require, then?"

"Your servant, Enrique," Lope answered. Guzmán blinked. Lope explained how he'd just lost two actors, finishing, "God must have put the idea into my head, your Excellency. Enrique loves the theatre; he's bright; he would perform well--and, since he's a servant and not a soldier, he wouldn't get huffy, the way Pablo and Francisco did. If you can spare him long enough to let him learn Liseo's part, I'm sure he'd do you credit when he performs."

One of Captain Guzmán's expressive eyebrows rose. "Did he bribe you to suggest this to me?"

"No, sir. He did not. I only wish I would have thought of using him sooner."

"Very well, Senior Lieutenant. You may have him, and I will pray I ever get him back again," Guzmán said. "Now, whom did you have in mind for the other vacant part--Liseo's servant, is it not?"

"I was going to use my own man, Diego."

Guzmán's eyebrow rose again, this time to convey an altogether different expression. "Are you sure? Can you make him bestir himself?"

"If he doesn't do as I need, I can make his life a hell on earth, and I will," Lope said. "As a matter of fact, I rather look forward to getting some real work out of him. However much he tries to sleep through everything, he is my servant, after all. I may not own him so absolutely as I would a black from Guinea, but I'm entitled to more than he's ever given me."

Diego is, of course, asleep, and is far from enthusiastic about his new job. De Vega threatens him into the job at swordpoint, neither of them absolutely certain that the threat won’t be carried out. De Vega further informs him that, should Diego refuse to act he will be dismissed from de Vega’s service. Diego thinks this might not be so bad as he could always find another master, but de Vega cuts that thought off.

quote:


Sadly, Lope shook his head. "I've already discussed this with Captain Guzmán. You know how short of men--good, strong, bold Spanish men--we are in England. Any servant dismissed by his master goes straight into the army as a pikeman, and off to the frontier with Scotland. The north of England is a nasty place. The weather is so bad, it makes London seem like Andalusia--like Morocco--by comparison. The Scots are big and fierce and swing two-handed swords they call, I think, claymores. They take heads. They do not eat human flesh, as the Irish are said to do, but they take heads. I think you would make a poor trophy myself, but who knows how fussy a Scotsman would be?"
De Vega is lying about servants automatically going north, but Diego doesn’t know that, and agrees.

Another slice-of-life chapter, which seems to exist only as a nod to the real De Vega’s literary status. This isn’t a bad thing, and contributes to building the character, but it could be called padding. De Vega doesn’t come off too good here – aside from his offhand remark about Diego being just a little above a slave, threatening an employee with a sword (and sword-wielding Scotsmen!) because he doesn’t want to do something that is well beyond his usual duties is a bit harsh.

Chapter 2: Part 4: Shakespeare
Shakespeare is walking out of a poultry shop where he has just bought new feathers to make into pens when a man approaches him and hails him by name.

quote:

He did get recognized away from the Theatre every so often. Usually, that pleased him. Today . . . Today, he wished he were wearing a rapier as Peter Foster had suggested, even if it were one made for the stage, without proper edge or temper. Instead of nodding, he asked, "Who seeks him?" as if he might be someone else.

"I'm Nicholas Skeres, sir." The other man made a leg. He lived up to--or down to--Widow Kendall's unflattering description of him, but spoke politely enough. And his next words riveted Shakespeare's attention to him: "Master Phelippes hath sent me forth for to find you."

"Indeed?" Shakespeare said. Skeres nodded. Shakespeare asked, "And what would you? What would he?"

"Why, only that you come to a certain house with me, and meet a certain man," Nick Skeres replied. "What could be easier? What could be safer?" His smile showed crooked teeth, one of them black. By the glint in his eye, he'd sold a lot of worthless horses for high prices in his day.

"Show me some token of Master Phelippes, that I may know you speak sooth," Shakespeare said.

"I'll not only show it, I'll give it you." Skeres took something from a pouch at his belt and handed it to Shakespeare. "Keep it, sir, in the hope that its like, new minted, may again be seen in the land."

It was a broad copper penny, with Elizabeth looking up from it at Shakespeare. Plenty of the old coins still circulated, so it was no sure token, but Skeres had also said the right things, and so. . . . Abruptly, Shakespeare nodded. "Lead on, sir. I'll follow."
Skeres leads Shakespeare out of London itself, but not to the sort of tavern or shack he would expect covert business to be carried out in. Instead, he is lead to a palatial house on Drury Lane in Westminster itself. A servant leads them inside.

quote:


Carpets were soft under Shakespeare's feet as he went up one corridor and down another. He was more used to the crunch of rushes underfoot indoors. The house was very large. He wondered if he could find his way out again without help. Like Theseus of Athens in the Labyrinth, I should play out thread behind me.

"Here we are, good sirs," the servant said at last, opening a door. "And now I'll leave ye to't. God keep ye." Smooth and silent as a snake, he withdrew.

"Come on," Nick Skeres said. As soon as Shakespeare entered the room, Skeres shut the door behind them. Then he bowed low to the old man sitting in an upholstered chair close by the hearth in the far wall; a book rested on the arm of the chair. "God give you good day, Lord Burghley. I present Master Shakespeare, the poet, whom I was bidden to bring hither to you."

Shakespeare made haste to bow, too. "Your--Your Grace," he stammered. Had Skeres told him he would meet Queen Elizabeth's longtime lord high treasurer, he would have called the man a liar to his face and gone about his business. But there, without a doubt, sat Sir William Cecil, first Baron Burghley. After the Duke of Parma's soldiers conquered England, most of Elizabeth's Privy Councilors had either fled to Protestant principalities on the Continent or met the headsman's axe. But Burghley, at King Philip's specific order, had been spared.



William Cecil (1520-1598) was by far the most important advisor to Queen Elizabeth I. He was the primary architect of English foreign policy in the era, and was the primary player in establishing the primacy of the Church of England and the persecution of England’s Catholics. He was also a major proponent of building up the Royal Navy as a guardian against Catholic powers. He died in 1598 of a stroke or a heart attack.

Given his staunch anti-Catholic policies and his personal prestige, Cecil is an obvious threat to Spain’s control over England. It is thus incredibly unlikely that Philip would have him spared. To use a historical analogy, it would be like having a victorious Hitler leave Churchill alive while executing most other British politicians.

Cecil orders Shakespeare and Skeres to sit, and informs them that the health of Philip II is failing, as is his own. Fortunately for England, Cecil’s son Robert is a better man than his father (according to Cecil) while Philip’s son is less able than Philip is.

After some praise of Shakespeare’s play, Cecil informs Shakespeare that he is to deal the Spanish a heavy blow when Philip dies.

quote:

The gesture served well enough. Lord Burghley chuckled again--and then coughed again, and had trouble stopping. When at last he did, he said, "Think you not that, on hearing of Philip the tyrant's passing, our bold Englishmen will recall they are free, and brave? Think you not they will do't, if someone remind them of what they were, and of what they are, and of what they may be?"

After this, Cecil switches to Latin, which Shakespeare can understand well enough. He asks Shakespeare if he had ever read the Annals of Tacitus.

quote:


"So I did." Shakespeare nodded, too. "I made heavy going of it, I confess, for he is a difficult author."

"Recall you the passage beginning with the twenty-ninth chapter of the fourteenth book of the said work?"

"Your pardon, sir, but I recollect it not. Did you tell me to what it pertains, my memory might be stirred."

"I shall do better than that. Attend." Peering down at the book now on his lap, Burghley began to read the sonorous Latin text. After a couple of sentences, he glanced at Shakespeare over the tops of his spectacles. "Do you follow?"

"I take the meaning, yes, though I should not care to have to construe the text."

"Meaning suffices," Lord Burghley told him. "You are a scholar no longer, and I am not your master. I will not whip you if you mistake an ablative for a dative. Shall I continue?"

"If you please, sir."

Sir William Cecil read on to the end of the passage. To Shakespeare's relief, he went more slowly after the poet admitted having some trouble following the grammar. When he'd finished, he eyed Shakespeare once more. "See you the dramatic possibilities inhering to that section?"

Shakespeare sees quite well – the possibilities are so obvious that he practically aches to go start writing. More importantly, he sees what Cecil wants him to write.

The Annals Of Tacitus is a historical account of the Roman Empire from the years AD 14 through AD 89, not all of which survives today. [url= http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Tacitus/Annals/14B*.html] Book 14, Chapter 29-37[/url] describes an Briton uprising under Queen Boudicca that inflicted a heavy defeat on the IX African Legion and seized London, killing thousands of Romans before a larger and more prepared force returned the defeat, prompting Boudicca’s suicide.

Quite obviously, Cecil wants the audience to make a connection with the Romans invading Britannia with the Spaniards that invaded England. Shakespeare is confident, but sees difficulties. Cecil’s promises of everlasting fame and an immortal place in history move him, but he persists in his explanations

quote:


"Gramercy, my lord. Hear me, then." Shakespeare took a long breath of his own before continuing. "I can write the play. With what you have given me, I can shape it into the weapon you desire. I can put the groundlings to choler straight. Being once chafed, they shall not be reined again to temperance."

"Well, then?" Burghley folded his velvet-sleeved arms across his chest, covering the Order of the Garter he wore. "What more is wanted?"

Here a wise man shows himself a fool. Shakespeare reminded himself the theatre was not Burghley's trade. "Look you, my lord, you must bethink yourself: a play is more than words set down on paper. It's men and boys up on the stage, making the words and scenes seem true to those that see 'em."

"And so?" Burghley remained at sea.

But Nick Skeres stirred on his stool. "I know his meaning, my lord!" he exclaimed. "We can trust him--we think we can trust him, anyway." He spoke quickly, confidently; he was at ease in the world of plots and counterplots, as Shakespeare was while treading the boards of the Theatre. "But the play engrosses the whole company. Any one man, learning what's afoot, can discover it to the Spaniards, at which--" He drew his finger across his throat.


Cecil accepts this as a serious risk, but Shakespeare isn’t finished yet. Not only is it necessary to trust the entire company with the secret, but there must be many secret rehearsals, not to mention costumes. Cecil’s suggestion of skipping some of it is met with approval by Shakespeare, as long as Cecil wants a botched play that everybody laughs at.

quote:

A wordless rumble came from deep within Lord Burghley's chest. "You show me a sea of troubles, Master Shakespeare. How arm we against them? Here you must be my guide: you, not I, are the votary of this mystery."

"I see no sure way," Shakespeare told him, wishing he could say something different. "What seems best is this: to sound the players one by one, in such wise that I give not the game away should a man prefer the Spaniards--or even simple quiet--to daring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."

More quotes from Hamlet in this exchange.

Shakespeare’s doubts are killed abruptly by a simple question from Cecil - “Would you see England free again?”. Faced with it directly, Shakespeare agrees. Still, he can’t get started immediately as Cecil wants him to.


quote:

Shakespeare didn't scream, but he came close. "My lord," he said carefully, "I am now engaged upon preparing a new play for the company, and--"

"This hath greater weight behind it," Burghley said.

Again, screams bubbled just below the surface. "Your Grace, if I cease work upon a play half done, who will not wonder why? Were it not best that I draw no questions to myself?"

"You quibble," Burghley said ominously.

"By God, sir, I do not," Shakespeare answered. "And here's the rest of't: Lord Westmorland's Men will pay me for Love's Labour's Won, and pay me well. Who'll pay me for this Roman tragedy? A poet lives not upon sweet breezes and moonbeams; he needs must eat and drink like any man."

"Ah." Burghley nodded. Taking from his belt a small leather sack, he tossed it to Shakespeare, who caught it out of the air. It was heavier than he'd expected. When he undid the drawstring, gold glinted within. His eyes must have widened, for William Cecil let loose another of his wet chuckles. "There's fifty pound," he said carelessly. "An you require more, Nick Skeres will have't for you."

"G-Gramercy," Shakespeare choked out. He'd never made anywhere near so much for a play; most of his income came from his share of the Theatre's takings. He also eyed Skeres. Any sum of money that came through the sharp little man would probably be abridged before reaching its intended destination. Skeres stared back, bland as butter.

"Have we finished here?" Baron Burghley asked. Numbly, Shakespeare nodded. When he got to his feet, his legs, at first, didn't want to hold him up. Burghley said, "Get you gone, Master Shakespeare. I'll away anon. We should not be seen entering or leaving together, nor should you come to my house, though it be nigh. I am here on pretense of waiting on my nephews, Anthony and Francis Bacon."


So, now we know the plot. The idea of using a play to spark a rebellion is inspired (according to the afterword) by the 1601 Essex's Rebellion against Elizabeth I, which was intended to put the court in the control of the disgraced Robert Devereux, earl of Essex. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men (Shakespeare’s company!) was paid an impressive sum to perform Richard II in an apparent bid to gain support. The rebellion was broken up quite handily, and the company was not held in suspicion as part of it.

It is interesting to note that Turtledove did apply the butterfly effect in the name of Shakespeare’s theatre company. The historical company was Lord Chamberlain’s men under the patronage of Henry Carey, 1st Baron Hunsdon. Carey was not only a loyal servant of Elizabeth I, his position of the Captain of the Honourable Band of Gentlemen Pensioners made him her personal bodyguard at the time of the Armada. While it isn’t mentioned in the book as far as I can find, it is pretty obvious that Carey would have been killed during the invasion and thus in no position to sponsor a troupe of actors.

Instead, Shakespeare’s company is Lord Westmorland's Men. This means their patron would be Charles Neville, 6th Earl of Westmorland. Neville was a devout Catholic who was a participant in the Rising of the North of 1569, which aimed to unseat Elizabeth, rescue Mary I, and put her on the throne. Fleeing to exile in Scotland, and later Flanders, Neville led a force of expatriate Englishmen as part of the forces intended to reinforce the Spanish Armada. In a world where the Armada succeeded, Philip II would have rewarded him greatly.

Shakespeare is paid 50 pounds for his part, which is a lot of money. Based on the Bank of England’s inflation calculator, this would translate to £11,477.76 today – which probably underestimates things. Being paid that much for a single play would indeed be a good payday.

Going back to my earlier statement about pacing, the first De Vega portion of this chapter would have worked better here – knowing exactly what Shakespeare is doing makes it much more interesting to see de Vega being sent after him. However, the nature of the plot means that using the Inquisition as a pointer was probably unnecessary. Sniffing out treason in the theatre is literally De Vega’s job, and having his suspicions raised by more organic means would have flowed better.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter 3, Part 1: De Vega


quote:

LOPE DE VEGA waved to a tall, scrawny Englishman in ragged clothes who stood, as hopefully as he could, by a rowboat. "You there, sirrah!" he said sharply. "How much to row us across to Southwark?" He pointed to the far bank of the Thames.

"Tuppence, sir," the fellow answered, making a clumsy botch of his bow. "A penny each for you and your lady."

"Here, then." Lope gave him two bronze coins. "Put us ashore as near to the bear-baiting garden as you may."

"To the old one, or the new?" the boatman asked.

"To the new," de Vega replied.

"Yes, sir. I'll do't." The Englishman smiled at his companion. "Mind your step as you get in, my lady."

"Have no fear, my dear, my sweet," Lope said grandly, and gave Nell Lumley his arm. She smiled as she took it. She was as tall as he, blond and buxom, and called herself a widow for politeness' sake, though de Vega doubted she'd ever wed. But she was fond of him, and he always enjoyed squiring a pretty woman around. He expected to enjoy lying with her afterwards, too. Cold country, hot blood, he thought; Englishwomen had pleasantly surprised him.

And he enjoyed the feeling of being half, or a little more than half, in love. It heated his own blood, as a cup of wine would. As often as not, he discarded one mistress and chose another for no more reason--but also, he told himself, for no less reason--than to have that sweet intoxication singing through his veins.

Bear baiting was a popular blood sport in Elizabethan times, and continued in England until 1835. Today, there are a few regions where the "sport" is still practiced illegally, although the cost and difficulty of obtaining bears for the purpose limits it compared to other animal-fight practices. As practiced in England, it involved chaining a bear to a post and setting packs of hungry dogs on it.

De Vega and his mistress watch a bear being tortured and killed by dogs for entertainment. After it dies, another bear is brought out to kill more dogs.


quote:

Lope and Nell had just left the bear-baiting garden when someone called his name from behind. It was a woman's voice. As if in the grip of nightmare, Lope slowly turned. Out of the arena came his other mistress, Martha Brock, walking with a man who looked enough like her to be her brother, and probably was.

He would be, Lope thought in helpless horror. If she were betraying me, she couldn't get in much of a temper. But if she's not . . . Oh, by the Virgin, if she's not . . . ! Too late, he realized the Virgin was the wrong one to ask for intercession here.

"Who's that?" Martha Brock demanded, pointing at Nell.

"Who's that?" Nell Lumley demanded, pointing at Martha.

"Dear ladies, I can explain--" Lope began hopelessly.

He never got the chance. He hadn't thought he would. "You are no surer, no, than is the coal of fire upon the ice, or hailstone in the sun!" Nell cried. "And I loved you!"

"Impersevant thing!" Martha added. "A truant disposition!"

Lope tried again. "I can expl--"

Again, no good. They both screamed at him. They both slapped him. They didn't even quarrel with each other, which might have saved him. When they both burst into tears and cried on each others shoulders, Martha's brother said, "Sirrah, thou'rt a recreant blackguard. Get thee hence!" He didn't even touch his sword. With de Vega so plainly in the wrong, he didn't need it.

Jeered by the Englishmen who'd watched his discomfiture, Lope walked back toward the Thames all alone. When Pizarro's men conquered the Incas, one of them got as his share of the loot a great golden sun . . . and gambled it away before morning. He'd made himself a Spanish proverb, too. But here I've outdone him, Lope thought glumly. I lost not one mistress, but two, and both in the wink of an eye.

This is the only worthwhile part of this chapter. De Vega is publicly humiliated in a way that is certain to get back to his superiors and also many potential conquests. The bear-baiting is actually told fairly well, but it is still about torturing animals for entertainment. I suppose it is a worthwhile grounding in the setting, but it is pretty much irrelevant to the plot and really quite uncomfortable.

Chapter 3, Part 2:Shakespeare

quote:

WILL KEMP LEERED at Shakespeare. The clown's features were soft as clay, and could twist into any shape. What lay behind his mugging? Shakespeare couldn't tell. "The first thing we do," Kemp exclaimed, "let's kill all the Spaniards!"

He didn't even try to keep his voice down. They were alone in the tiring room, but the tireman or his assistants or the Theatre watchmen might overhear. "God mend your voice," Shakespeare hissed. "You but offend your lungs to speak so loud."

"Not my lungs alone," Kemp said innocently. "Are you not offended?"

"Offended? No." Shakespeare shook his head. "Afeard? Yes, I am afeard."

"And wherefore?" the clown asked. "Is't not the desired outcome of that which you broached to me just now?"

"Of course it is," Shakespeare answered. "But would the fountain of your mind were clear again, you prancing ninny, that I might water an rear end at it. Do you broadcast it to the general before the day, our heads go up on London Bridge and cur-dogs fatten on our bodies."

"Ah, well. Ah, well." Maybe Kemp hadn't thought of that at all. Maybe, too, he'd done his best to give Shakespeare an apoplexy. His best was much too good. He went on, "An you write the play, I'll act in't. There." He beamed at Shakespeare. "Are you happy now, my pet?" He might have been soothing a fractious child.

"Why could you not have said that before?" Shakespeare did his best to hold his temper, but couldn't help adding another, "Why?"

"You want everything all in its place." Again, Will Kemp might have been--likely was--humoring him. "I can see how that might be so for you--after all, you'd want Act First done or ever you went on to Act Second, eh?"

"I should hope so," Shakespeare said between his teeth. What was the clown prattling about now?

Kemp deigned to explain: "But you're a poet, and so having all in order likes you well. But for a clown?" He shook his head. "As like as not, I've no notion what next I'll do on stage."

"I've noticed that. We've all of us noticed that," Shakespeare said.

"Good!" Kemp twisted what had been meant for a reproach into a compliment. "If I know not, nor can the groundlings guess. The more they're surprised, the harder they laugh."

"Regardless of how your twisted turn mars the fabric o' the play," Shakespeare said.

Kemp only shrugged. Shakespeare would have been angrier had he expected anything else. The clown said, "I know not what I'll do tomorrow, nor care. If I play, then I play. If I choose instead to morris-dance from London to Norwich, by God, I'll do that. I'll do well by it, too." He seemed to fancy the ridiculous idea. "Folk would pay to watch me on the way, and I might write a book afterwards. Kemp's Nine Days Wonder, I'd call it."

"No man could in nine days dance thither," Shakespeare said, interested in spite of himself.

"I've ten pound to say you're a liar." By the gleam in Kemp's eye, he was ready to strap bells on his legs and set off with a man to play the flute and drums. He'd meant what he told Shakespeare--he didn't know what he'd do next, on stage or anywhere else. "Come on, poet. Will you match me?"

The man's a weathervane, blowing now this way, now that, in the wind of his appetites, Shakespeare thought. He held up a placating hand. "I haven't the money to set against you," he lied. "Let it be even as you claim. Fly not to Norwich, nor to any other place." He realized he was pleading. "You perform this afternoon, you know, and on the morrow as well."


Will Kemp was a real person, and a fairly prominent actor in his era. Much less is known about him than Shakespeare or Burbage, but in 1600 he did, in fact, morris-dance from London to Norwich in 9 days (spread over the course of weeks).


After some wordplay with Kemp, Shakespeare tries to sound out the loyalties of Jack Hungerford, the company's tireman (the contemporary term for the man in charge of wardrobe). As he will be essential to the presention of the new play, ensuring that he doesn't prefer the Spanish is essential. Unfortunately, Hungerford deflects the inquiry with ease. After a small part in the afternoon's performance of Marlowe's El Cid, Shakespeare leaves early to visit a bookseller.

quote:

Booksellers hawked their wares in the shadow of St. Paul's. Most of them sold pamphlets denouncing Protestantism and hair-raising accounts of witches out in the countryside. Some others offered the texts of plays--as often as not pirated editions, printed up from actors' memories of their lines. The volumes usually proved actors' memories less than they might have been.

Shakespeare ground his teeth as he walked past a stall full of such plays. He'd suffered from stolen and surreptitious publications himself. That he got nothing for them was bad enough. That they mangled his words was worse. What they'd done to his Prince of Denmark . . .

He'd added injury to insult by buying his own copy of that one, to see if it were as bad as everyone told him. It wasn't. It was worse. When he thought about the Prince's so-called soliloquy:



To be, or not to be. Aye there's the point.

To die, to sleep, is that all? Aye all:

No, to sleep, to dream, aye marry there it goes.



He'd seen that, burned it into his memory, so he could quote it as readily as what he'd really written. He could--but he didn't have the stomach to get past the third line.

Splendid in his red robes, a bishop came out of St. Paul's and down the steps, surrounded by a retinue of more plainly dressed priests and laymen. The soldiers on guard at the bottom of the stairs stiffened to attention. One of them--by his fair hair, surely an Englishman--knelt to kiss the cleric's ring as he went past.

The Spaniards enslaved some of us, Shakespeare thought. Others, though--others enslaved themselves. No one had made that soldier bend the knee to the bishop. No one would have thought less of him had he not done it. But he had. By all appearances, he'd been proud to do it.

Even if I go on with this madcap scheme, will it have the issue Lord Burghley desires? Shakespeare shrugged. He'd come too far to back away now unless he inclined to treason. That might save you. It might make you rich. He shrugged again. Some things were bought too dear.

Motion up at the top of St. Paul's caught his eye. A man in artisan's plain hose and jerkin was walking about on the flat-roofed steeple, now and then stooping as if to measure. We have a Catholic Queen and King once more. Will they order the spire finished at last? Shakespeare shrugged one more time. It would be yet another sign we are not what we were, what we once set out to be. But how many even care? Gloom threatened to choke him.

Gloom also made him inattentive, so that he almost walked past the stall he sought. It wasn't the sight of the books that made him pause, but the sight of the bookseller. "Good den, Master Seymour," he said.

"Why, Master Shakespeare! God give you good den as well," Harry Seymour replied. He was a tall, lean man who would have been good-looking had he not had a large, hairy wen on the end of his nose. "Do you but pass the time of day, or can I find summat for you?"

"I'm always pleased to pass the time of day with you," Shakespeare answered, which was true: he'd never known Seymour to print or sell pirated plays. He went on, "But if you've the Annals of Tacitus done into English, I'd be pleased to buy it of you."

"As my head lives, Master Shakespeare, I do indeed. And I'll take oath I fetched hither some few of that title this morning." Seymour came around to the front of the stall. "Now where did I put 'em? . . . Ah! Here we are." He handed Shakespeare a copy. "Will you want it for a play?"
This is an an oddity. The play mentioned here as Prince Of Denmark is quite obviously Hamlet, but that play was (as mentioned before) not historically written until after this book is set. It is also an questionable work to be written in an occupied kingdom - the central theme of a displaced prince seeking to bring justice to an usurper would hardly be less incindiary than the tale of the Celts against Rome that Shakespeare is commissioned to write in this setting, although the fact that Hamlet's rebellion is ultimately doomed might allow the play to be seen as a cautionary tale. Apart from authorial error, the explanation might lie in a lost work called "the Ur-Hamlet", which is a documented but lost work that was either an early version of the play written by Shakespeare, or else a work drawing on the same sources by a different playwright.

Apart from that, the problem of pirated plays was a very real one in this era, and it is the reason why most of the plays we have today are almost certainly corrupted to one degree or another.


The bookseller does have a copy of Tacitus in stock, and tries to get Shakespeare to pay extra for a fine binding. Shakespeare, being of a thrifty inclination, preferrs to buy the book unbound. Even unbound, the bookseller is asking six shillings, After some haggling, they agree on 5 shillings sixpence, cutting 6 pennies from the price. At 20 shillings to the pound, this works out to almost £70 (~$90) in today's money. Comparing this to other prices, he could buy two threepenny meals at his normal eatery, or attend the theater (or a bear-baiting) six times.




quote:


His joy in that sixpence quite quenched, Shakespeare strode north and east, back towards his Bishopsgate lodgings. Light faded from the sky with every step he took. The winter solstice was coming soon, with Christmas hard on its heels. They were both coming sooner, indeed, than he reckoned right. After their coronation, Isabella and Albert had imposed on England Pope Gregory's newfangled calendar, cutting ten days out of June in 1589 to bring the kingdom into conformity with Spain and the rest of Catholic Europe. When Shakespeare looked at things logically, he understood those ten days weren't really stolen. When he didn't--which was, mankind being what it was, more often--he still felt as if he'd had his pocket picked of time.

Some stubborn souls still celebrated the feast of the Nativity on what Gregory's calendar insisted was January 4. They did so in secret. They had to do so in secret, for the English Inquisition prowled hardest at this season of the year, sniffing after those who showed affection for the old calendar and thus for the Protestant faith adhering to it.

Along with darkness, fog began filling the streets. Here and there, men lit cressets in front of their homes and shops, but the flickering flames did little to pierce the gloom. Shakespeare hurried up Cheapside to the Poultry, past the smaller churches of St. Peter and St. Mildred, and up onto Threadneedle Street, which boasted on the west side churches dedicated to St. Christopher-le-Stock and St. Bartholomew. He let out a sigh of relief when Threadneedle Street opened on to Bishopsgate. A moment later, he let out a gasp, for a squad of Spaniards tramped toward him. But their leader only gave him a brusque jerk of the thumb, as if to tell him to hurry home.

"I thank our worship," he murmured, and touched his hand to the brim of his hat as he ducked down the side street that would take him to the Widow Kendall's. The Spaniard nodded in return and led his men south and west along Threadneedle. A decent man doing well the task to which he was set, Shakespeare thought. More than a few of the occupiers were decent men. Still, the task to which Philip had set them was the subjugation of England. And, on nine years' evidence, they did it well.

"Oh, Master Will, 'tis good to see you," Jane Kendall said when Shakespeare came into her house. As he went over to stand by the fire, she continued, "I was sore afeard them Spanish devils had took you."

"Not so. As you see, I'm here." Shakespeare looked around the parlor. "But where's Master Foster? Most days, he is before me, and, having somewhat to do betwixt close of Theatre and my coming hither, I know I am later than I might be."

"Later than you ought to be," the Widow Kendall said in reproving tones. "And as for Master Peter--"

Before she could go on, Jack Street broke in: "He's in the Hole. They nabbed him at last. I wouldn't guess what his law was, but outside the law, certes."

Shakespeare didn't know what his missing roommate's illegal specialty was, either, but wasn't surprised to learn those in authority thought Peter Foster had one. "Can we do aught for him?" he asked.

Jack Street gloomily shook his head. "Not unless we want them bastards asking after us next," the glazier said, which struck Shakespeare as altogether too likely.

"He's paid till the end of the month," Widow Kendall said. "An he bide yet in gaol then, I'll sell his goods for what they bring." She thought more of what she might do for herself than for her lodger.

After warming himself by the fire, Shakespeare went off to the ordinary around the corner for supper. A sizzling beefsteak and half a loaf to sop up the juices made him a happy man. He took out his quill and his bottle of ink and set to work on Love's Labour's Won. "By God, Master Will, what is it like, to have so many words in your head?" the serving woman asked.

"So that they come forth, Kate, all's well," he answered. "But if my thoughts be dammed, then I'm damned with them." He pounded his forehead with the heel of his hand to try to show her the feeling he got when the words would not move from his mind to the page in front of him.

She laughed and nodded and said, "Will another mug of beer loose the flow?"

"One other may," he said, and she poured his mug full from the pitcher she carried. He went on, "Ask me not again, I pray you, for with too much drink I've trouble knowing whether the words that come be worth the having."

"I'll leave you to't, then," Kate said, and she did.

But tonight the words, whether worth the having or not, did not want to come. Shakespeare stared into the candle flame and tried all the other tricks he knew to break the wall between his wit and his pen, but had little luck. While the upper part of his mind dutifully tried to get on with Love's Labour's Won, the deeper wellspring, the part from which inspiration sprang, dwelt with the woes of the ancient Iceni, not with his present characters. He smote his forehead again, this time in good earnest. The sudden pain did him no good, either.


After everyone else has left, Kate trades some wordplay with Shakespeare, in which we learn that the two have been carrying on an affair. Mercifully, Turtledove spares us a sex scene here, jumping from a kiss to Shakespeare hurrying home afterward. Settling down to try some more writing, he is interrupted by Pete Foster, who turns out to be quite adept with lockpicks and let himself out of jail. The man is confident enough to sleep in his own bed before heading off to disappear, much to Shakespeare's alarm. Foster proves correct, as he is gone by morning with nobody coming to look for him.

Chapter 3, Part 3: De Vega

quote:

"BUENOS DÍAS, YOUR EXCELLENCY," Lope de Vega said, sweeping off his hat and bowing to Captain Baltasar Guzmán. "How may I serve you this morning?"

"Buenos días, Lieutenant," Guzmán replied. "First of all, let me compliment you on La dama boba. Your lady was a most delightful boob, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching her antics yesterday."

Lope bowed again, this time almost double. "I am your servant, sir!" he exclaimed in delight. His superior had never before paid him such a compliment for his theatrical work--or, indeed, for work of any other kind.

Captain Guzmán went on, "And my compliments especially for wringing such a fine performance from your Diego. I know that cannot have been easy."

"Had I known I would have to use him, I would have made the servant a sleepier man," de Vega said. "As things were--" He mimed cracking a whip over Diego's back.

"Even so." Guzmán nodded. Then he raised an elegant eyebrow and asked, "Tell me: after which of your mistresses was Lady Nisea modeled? Or should I say, which of your former mistresses? The story is, they had it in mind to throw you into the bear pit for the mastiffs' sport."

"Please believe me, your Excellency, it was not so bad as that." He asked Captain Guzmán to believe him. He didn't tell his superior that what he said was true.

Guzmán's eyebrows rose higher still. "No, eh? It certainly has been a mighty marvel hereabouts. I suppose I should admire your energy, if not your luck at the bear garden. Everyone who saw them says a man would be lucky to have one such woman, let one two."

How can I answer that? de Vega wondered. Deciding he couldn't, he didn't try. Instead, he repeated, "How may I serve you, sir?"

Rather than answering him directly, Baltasar Guzmán said, "Your timing could have been better, Lieutenant. In fact, it could hardly have been worse."

"Sir?"

"Have you forgotten you are to meet with Cardinal Parsons this morning?" Guzmán eyed him, then assumed a severe expression. "I see you have. What a pity. It could be that the Cardinal, being an Englishman and having just come from Canterbury, has not heard of your, ah, escapade. It could be. I hope it is. But I would not count on it. The man is devilishly well informed."

Lope sighed. "Yes, sir. I know he is," he said glumly. "I'll do the best I can."

"Splendid. I'm sure you said the same to both your lady friends."
Well, not taking long to rag De Vega for that disaster. In this case, it is an excellent way to show just how thorough his hamilation was. Also a nice way to work in De Vega's status as a master playwright.


After fleeying his superior's office, he is briefly waylaid by Enrique, who is full of praise for La Dama Boba. De Vega warms to the praise, but he has to rush to the Archbishop.


quote:

"Thank you, your Eminence," Lope replied in the same language. He switched to English: "I speak your tongue, sir, an you have no Spanish."

"I prefer Latin. It is more precise," Parsons said. By his appearance, he was nothing if not a precise man.

"As you wish, of course." Lope hoped his own Latin would meet the test. He read it well, but he was no clergyman, and so did not often speak it. "I am at your service in every way."

"Good." Cardinal Parsons looked down at some notes on his desk and nodded to himself. "I am told you are the Spanish officer most concerned with sniffing out treason in the English theatre."

"Yes, your Eminence, I believe that to be true," Lope answered, pleased he'd remembered to use the infinitive.

"This is because"--the Archbishop of Canterbury checked his notes again--"you are yourself an aspiring dramatist?"

"Yes, your Eminence," de Vega repeated, wondering if the English churchman would take him to task for it.

But Parsons only said, "I am glad to hear it, Lieutenant. For treason is afoot in that sphere, and you, being familiar with its devices, are less likely to let yourself be cozened than would someone uninitiated in its mysteries."

Lope had to think before he answered. The cardinal's Latin was so fluent, so confident, he might have been whisked by a sorcerer from the days of Julius Caesar to this modern age. He made no concessions to Lope's weaker Latinity; Lope got the idea Parsons made few concessions to anyone, save possibly the Pope.

"Your Eminence, I go to the theatre more to watch the audience than to watch the actors," de Vega said. "Many of them I know well, and they have not shown themselves disloyal to Queen Isabella and King Albert."

Robert Parsons snorted like a horse. Lope needed a moment to realize that was intended for laughter. Parsons said, "And how likely is it that they would declare their treason before an officer of his Most Catholic Majesty of Spain?"

"You make me out to be a fool, a child," Lope said angrily.

"By no means, Lieutenant." The Archbishop of Canterbury's smile was cold as winter along the Scottish border. "With your own words, you make yourself out to be such."

Without his intending it, de Vega's hand moved a couple of inches toward the hilt of his rapier. He arrested the motion. Even if he was insulted, drawing sword on a prelate would certainly send him to gaol, and probably to hell. He gave the cardinal a stiff bow. "If you will excuse me, your Eminence--"

"I will not." Parsons' voice came sharp as a whipcrack. "I tell you there is treason amongst these men, and you will be God's instrument in flensing it out."

"But, your Eminence"--Lope spread his hands--"if they do not show it to me, how can I find it? There is no treason in plays that are performed. The Master of the Revels sees and approves them before a play reaches the stage. Sir Edmund Tilney is the one who will know if the poets plan sedition--indeed, he has arrested some for trying to say what must not be said."

Like Parsons' face, his fingers were long and thin and pale. When he drummed them on the desktop, they reminded de Vega of a spider's legs. "Again, you speak of overt treason," Parsons said. "The enemies of God and Spain, like Satan their patron, are more subtle than that. They skulk. They conspire. They--"

"With whom?" Lope broke in.

"I shall tell you with whom: with the English nobles who still dream of setting at liberty that murderous heretic jade, Elizabeth their former Queen." Parsons' eyes flashed. "King Philip was too merciful by half in not burning her when first she was seized, and again in not slaying more of the men who served her and upheld her while she ruled."

He had, Lope remembered, spent more than twenty years in exile from his native land. When he spoke of skulking and conspiring, he spoke of what he knew. Cautiously, de Vega asked, "Have you anyone in particular in mind?"

He expected the Archbishop of Canterbury to name Christopher Marlowe--everyone seemed to put Marlowe at the head of his list of troublemakers--or George Chapman or Robert Greene (though Greene, he'd heard, was ill unto death after eating of a bad dish of pickled herring). But Parsons, after an abrupt nod, replied, "Yes. A slanderous villain by the name of William Shakespeare."

Welp. The Spanish have figured the whole thing out. Bold storytelling choice there!

Naturally, the plot isn't going to unravel on page 99 of a 560-page book. Parson's suspicion of Shakespeare is based on the latter having been seen visiting a home of one of his betters (a mere playwright and actor has no business visiting the townhouse of a nobleman) and also in being seen with Skeres (who is the sort of ruffian no honest man would associate with. De Vega waves it off as Shakespeare being a friend of Marlow, and thus meeting many of the people Marlow meets - and Marlowe is not an honest man. The Archbishop is not convinced, and insists that De Vega investigate further.

quote:

Captain Guzmán had dark suspicions about Shakespeare, too. Lope had dismissed those: who ever thinks his immediate superior knows anything? But if Robert Parsons and Guzmán had the same idea, perhaps there was something to it. "I shall do everything I can to aid the cause of Spain, your Eminence," de Vega said.

Chill disapproval in his voice, Parsons answered, "It is not merely the cause of Spain. It is the cause of God." But then he softened: "I do take your point, Lieutenant. Work hard. And work quickly. My latest news is that his Most Catholic Majesty does not improve, but draws closer day by day to his eternal reward. With his crisis, very likely, will come the crisis of our holy Catholic faith here in England. No less than the inquisitors, you defend against heresy. Go forth, knowing God is with you."

"Yes, your Eminence. Thank you, your Eminence." Lope kissed Cardinal Parsons' ring once more. He left the cardinal's study, left St. Paul's, as fast as his legs would take him. No doubt Parsons had intended a compliment in comparing him to an inquisitor. But what he'd intended and what Lope felt were very different things.

The Inquisition was necessary. Of that de Vega had no doubt. But there was also a difference between what was necessary and what was to be admired. Vultures and flies are necessary. Without them, the ground would be littered with dead beasts, he thought. No one invites them to dinner, though, and no one ever will.

The book probably should have ended here, by internal logic. Shakespeare was already under suspicion from Kelley, and while De Vega's explanation covers Skeres, it does not explain why Shakespeare was visiting a house he had no business going near that happens to belong to a relative of a foe of Spain that was inexplicably left alive. Given that De Vega already has ample reason to be associating with Shakespeare (and thus serving as a threat to The Plot), this feels like an unnecessary narrative complication.




Chapter 3, Part 4: Shakespeare

quote:

SHAKESPEARE KNELT IN the confessional. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he said. The priest in the other side of the booth murmured a question he hardly heard. He confessed his adultery with the serving woman at the ordinary, his rage at Will Kemp (though not all his reasons for it), his jealousy over Christopher Marlowe's latest tragedy, and such other sins as came to mind . . . and as could safely be told to a Catholic priest.

As Shakespeare had conformed to Protestant worship during Elizabeth's reign, so he conformed to Romish ritual now that Isabella and Albert sat on the English throne and Philip of Spain stood behind them. More often than not, conforming came easy. The Catholic Church's rituals had a grandeur, a glamour, missing from Protestantism. Had Shakespeare been able to choose faiths on his own, he might well have chosen Rome's. His father had quietly stayed Catholic all through Elizabeth's reign. But having invaders impose his creed on him galled Shakespeare, as it galled many Englishmen.

The priest gave him his penance, and then, with a low-voiced, "Go, and sin no more," sent him on his way. He went up toward the altar in the small parish church of St. Ethelberge the Virgin--the church closest to his lodgings--knelt in a pew, and began to say off the Ave Marias and Pater Nosters the priest had assigned him. By the time he finished, he did feel cleansed of sin, although, being a man, he knew he would soon stumble into it again.
The religious practices of England during the reign of Elizabeth I were complex. Elizabeth herself was fairly conservative, and resisted the more aggressive reformation of the Church, and it wasn't until 1580 (only 8 years before the Armada) that they started aggressively cracking down on Catholics. Elizabeth was still blocking aggressive attempts by Puritans to strip ritual from the Church as late as 1586 (a mere two years before the Armada). Turtledove clearly was thinking of a strict Calvinist or Puritan setup similar to what you would find in many forms Continental Protestantism, but I don't think that's accurate.

After going throuh his penance, he runs into Kate the serving woman leaving the confessional. After some slightly awkward (because he knows she probably confessed their affair just as he had) conversation, he heads to the boarding house, hoping to get some work done. As he does so, multiple people start noticing him.


quote:

He hadn't gone far before an apprentice--easy enough to recognize by his clothes, for he wore a plain, flat cap and only a small ruff at his throat--pointed to him and said, "There goes Master Shakespeare."

Being a man whose face many saw, Shakespeare had that happen fairly often. He almost made a leg to the 'prentice, to acknowledge he was who the young man thought he was. But something in the fellow's tone made him hold back. The apprentice hadn't just recognized him; by the way he sounded, others were looking for Shakespeare, too. He didn't care for that at all.

Sure enough, though, another man and a woman pointed him out to their friends on his way back to his lodgings. And, when he got there, Jane Kendall was in a swivet. "Oh, sweet Jesu!" she exclaimed. "First Master Foster, now you! Whatever shall I do?"

"What mean you, Madam?" he asked, thinking, What will you do? Find more lodgers; what else? But if they pursue me as they pursue Peter Foster, whatever shall I do? He doubted whether running to Stratford would help him. They'd track him down there. Could he get over the border to Scotland? Have they got theatres in Scotland? Might a player live there, or would he slowly starve?

"Why, Master Shakespeare, the fellow asking after you, he looked a right catchpole, he did," his landlady answered. "Had a great gruff deep voice, too, enough to make anybody afeard. Oh, Master Shakespeare, what have you done?"

"Naught," Shakespeare answered. And that was true, or something close to true. He'd set down not a word on paper. The closest thing to evidence anyone might find among his possessions was the translation of Tacitus' Annals. But it wasn't the only work of history in his trunk, and he hadn't so much as dogeared the relevant page. As far as proof went, they'd be on thin ice.

But how much would that matter? The bastinado, the rack, thumbscrews, the water torture the English Inquisition favored . . . If they hauled him away and began tormenting him, how long could he hold out? He shuddered. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. He was no hero, and knew it too well. If they tortured him, he would tell all he knew, and quickly, too.
Even the book itself is pointing out that Shakespeare should be completely screwed right now. Yet, for some reason, he isn't.


He goes to dinner, and by some miracle he is able to write with great ease. He writes well enought that a disappointed Kate has to warn him in time to get home before curfew. The next morning, a large man greets him as soon as he leaves his lodgings.



quote:

"You are to come with me to Westminster," the man replied. "Forthwith."

"But I'm wanted at the Theatre," Shakespeare said.

"You're wanted in Westminster, and thither shall you go," the big man said implacably. "The wind lies in the east. Come--let's to the river for a wherry. 'Twill be quicker thus." He made the sign of the cross. "God be my witness, Master Shakespeare, you are not arrested. Nor shall you be, so that you do as you are bid. Now come. Soonest there, soonest gone."

quote:

"Bide here a moment," the Englishman with the deep voice said, and ducked into an office. He soon came back to the doorway and beckoned. "Come you in." Turning to the man behind the large, ornate desk, he spoke in Spanish: "Don Diego, I present to you Señor Shakespeare, the poet." Shakespeare had little Spanish, but followed him well enough to make sense of that. The Englishman gave his attention back to Shakespeare and returned to his native tongue: "Master Shakespeare, here is Don Diego Flores de Valdés."

Shakespeare made a leg to the Spaniard. "I am honored beyond my deserts, your Excellency," he said. In fact, he was more nearly appalled. Diego Flores commanded all of King Philip's soldiers in England. What knows he?

Instead of translating, as Shakespeare had expected, his guide politely inclined his head to the Spanish grandee and withdrew. Flores proved to speak good if accented English, saying, "Please seat yourself, Señor Chakespeare." He waved to a stool in front of the desk. Like most Spaniards, he made a hash of the sh sound at the start of Shakespeare's name and pronounced it as if it had three syllables.

"Thank you, my lord." Shakespeare perched warily on the stool. He would sooner have fled. Even knowing flight would doom him made it no less tempting. He took a deep breath and forced some player's counterfeit of calm on himself. "How may I serve you today?"

Don Diego Flores studied him before answering. The Spanish commandant was in his fifties, his beard going gray, his hooked nose sharper in his thin face than it might have seemed when he was young. When he said, "I am told you are the best poet in England," he sounded like a man not in the habit of believing what he was told.

"Again I say, your Excellency, you do me too much honor."

"Who surpasseth you?" Flores asked sharply, the Spanish lisp making his English sound old-fashioned. When Shakespeare did not reply, the officer laughed. "There. You see? Honor pricks you on, more than you think. This I understand. This I admire. If it be a sin to covet honor, I myself am the most offending soul alive." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "And so--for this were you summoned hither. Because you are the best."

"What would you of me? Whatever sort of poet I be, I am a poet of English. I know not the Spanish tongue."

"Claro que sí," Don Diego said, and then, seeing Shakespeare's puzzled expression, "But of course. You are desired because you write English so well." Shakespeare was sure he looked more puzzled than ever. Flores continued, "Have you not heard that King Philip, God love him, fails in regard to his health?"

Was that a trap? Ought I to claim ignorance? Shakespeare wondered. After some thought, he rejected the idea: the King of Spain's decline was too widely known to make such knowledge dangerous. Cautiously, the poet said, "Ay, your Excellency, I have heard somewhat of't."

Flores wants Shakespeare to craft a memorial for Philip II. What sort of memorial?

quote:

The Spanish grandee snorted. One unruly eyebrow rose for a moment. He forced it down, but still looked exasperated; plainly, Shakespeare struck him as something of a dullard. That suited Shakespeare well enough; he wished he struck Flores as a mumbling, drooling simpleton. The officer gathered himself. "May the memorial, the monument, you make prove immortal as cut stone. I would have from you, señor, a drama on the subject of his Most Catholic Majesty's magnificence, to be presented by your company of actors when word of the King's mortality comes to this northern land: a show of his greatness for to awe the English people, to make known to them they were conquered by the greatest and most Christian prince who ever drew breath, and to awe them thereby. Can you do this thing? I promise you, you shall be furnished with a great plenty of histories and chronicles wherefrom to draw your scenes and characters. What say you?"

Flores does not give Shakespeare the opportunity to refuse, and simply hands over a few of a hundred pounds. Combined with what he recieved from Cecil, this adds up to a rather tidy sum - but now he has to write a play for Spain and one for England. As he leaves, he spots Phillpes in a side room, and suspects that Phelippes is playing some sort of game.


So the Spanish, who suspect Shakespeare of plotting against them, decide to derail any plot by simply giving him a comission to keep him busy? As a literary device, this could lead to a pretty clever plot, but it doesn't work so well in terms of real world logic.

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 04:54 on Dec 23, 2019

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




CHAPTER IV, PART 1: De Vega

quote:

"Shakespeare will write a play on the life of his most Catholic Majesty?" Lope de Vega dug a finger in his ear, as if to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Shakespeare?"

Captain Baltasar Guzmán nodded. "Yes, that is correct. You seem surprised, Senior Lieutenant."

"No, your Excellency. I seem astonished. With the Archbishop of Canterbury and, it appears to me, everyone else in the world suspecting him of treason, why give him such a plum? He is, without a doubt, a fine writer--"

"And you are, without a doubt, naive." Guzmán smiled. Lope made himself smile back, in lieu of picking up his stool and braining his arrogant little superior with it. That supercilious smile still on his face, Captain Guzmán continued, "If Shakespeare is well paid, he may be less inclined to treason. This has been known to happen before. If he writes a play praising King Philip, he may be too busy to get into mischief." He ticked off points on his fingers as he made them.

"But what sort of play will he write?" Lope asked. "If he is a traitor--I don't believe it, mind you, but if he is--won't he slander the King instead of praising him?"

"Not with the Master of the Revels looking over his shoulder every moment," Guzmán replied. "If the Master finds even a speck of slander in the play, it will not go on the stage--and Señor Shakespeare will answer a great many pointed questions from the English Inquisition, from Queen Isabella and King Albert's intelligencers, and from Don Diego Flores de Valdés. Shakespeare may be a poet, but I do not think him a fool. He will know this, and give us what we require."

Lope didn't care for the way Captain Guzmán eyed him. You are a poet, and I do think you a fool, the nobleman might have said. But what he had said made more than a little sense. "It could be," de Vega admitted reluctantly.

"Generous of you to agree. I am sure Don Diego will be relieved," Guzmán said. Lope stiffened. He was more used to giving out sarcasm than to taking it. Guzmán pointed at him. "And one more thing will help keep us safe against any danger from Señor Shakespeare."

"What's that, your Excellency?"

"You, Senior Lieutenant."

"Your Excellency?"

"You," Baltasar Guzmán repeated. "Shakespeare is writing about King Philip of Spain. You are a Spaniard. You are also mad for the English theatre. What could be more natural than that you tell the Englishman what he needs to know of his Most Catholic Majesty, and that you stay with his troupe to make sure all goes well? He will be grateful for it, don't you think?"

"What I think," Lope said, "is that you may be committing a sin under the eyes of God by making me enjoy myself so much."

Captain Guzmán laughed. "I will mention it to the priest the next time I confess. I think my penance will be light."

"I hope you're right. . . . You order me to go to the Theatre, sir?" de Vega asked. His superior nodded. Lope wondered how much liberty he'd just received. "This will be the whole of my duty till the play goes before an audience?"

Guzmán nodded again. The pleasure that shot through Lope was so intense, he thought he would have to add it to his next confession. But then the nobleman said, "This is for the time being. It may change later. And if any emergency or uprising should occur--"





"God forbid it!"

"God forbid it, indeed. But if it should, you will help meet it as I think best."

"Of course, your Excellency. This goes without saying. I am, first of all, a servant of his Most Catholic Majesty, as is every Spanish man in this dark, miserable land."

"Muy bien. I did want to make sure we had everything clear." Something flickered in Baltasar Guzmán's eyes. Amusement? Malice? Perhaps a bit of both: "And with you, Senior Lieutenant, I was not sure anything went without saying. Buenos días."

"Buenos días," Lope echoed. He rose, bowed himself almost double, and left the captain's chamber without showing he'd felt, or even noticed, the gibe. It was either that or draw his rapier and have at Guzmán. He didn't want to fight. For one thing, the man was his superior, and entitled to such jests. For another, although de Vega did not despise his own skill with a sword, Captain Guzmán was something of a prodigy with a blade in his hand. Set against the requirements of honor, that shouldn't have mattered. The world being as it was, it did.


De Vega returns to his rooms, where his servant Diegao is, of course, fast asleep. Kicking him awake, De Vega informs Dieago of his new duties, with a very stern warning that he will not tolerate Diego using this distraction to spend more time asleep.

Well, at least the oddity of the situation is called out and somewhat justified. This is a very good way to ensure that De Vega is pitted against Shakespeare, as he's being assigned as Shakespeare's personal watchdog.

quote:

"Life is hard for a servant with a cruel master." Diego sighed. "Life is hard for any servant, but especially for one so unlucky."

"If I were a cruel master, you would already be up on the Scottish border, or sent to Ireland, or else tied to the whipping post on account of your laziness," Lope said. "Maybe that would wake you up. Nothing else seems to."

"I do what I have to do, señor," Diego said with dignity.

"You do half of what you have to do, and none of what a good servant ought to do," de Vega retorted. "Maybe you should fall in love. You'd stay awake for your lady, and you just might stay awake for me, too."

"Fall in love with an Englishwoman? Not me, señor." Diego shook his head so vigorously, his jowls wobbled back and forth. He didn't seem to have slept through any meals. With a sly smile, he added, "Look what Englishwomen have given you--nothing but trouble. And I don't need a woman to give me trouble, not when I've got a master."

For a moment, Lope sympathized with his servant. His own superior, Captain Guzmán, had given him a good deal of trouble, too. But Guzmán had also just given him the freedom of the English theatre. That made up for all the trouble he'd ever had from the cocky little nobleman, and then some. And, no matter what fat, lumpish Diego said, women had their uses, too.

Lope De Vega is not only an rear end in a top hat here, he's a stupid rear end in a top hat. In two out of three chapters, he's fallen into mockery and embarassmant because he can't stop chasing women. This is a pattern.




Chapter IV, Part 3 : Shakespeare.


quote:

RICHARD BURBAGE STARED at Shakespeare. "Tell it me again," the big, burly player said. "The dons are fain to have you make a play on the life of Philip?"

"Even so," Shakespeare said unhappily. The two stood alone on the outthrust stage of the Theatre. No apple-munching, beer-swilling, wench-pinching groundlings gaped at them from the open area around it; no richer folk peered from the galleries. It was still morning--rehearsal time. The afternoon's play would be Prince of Denmark. Burbage would play the Prince, Shakespeare his father's ghost. He'd just emerged through the trap door from the damp, chilly darkness under the stage. He'd written the lines they were practicing, but Burbage remembered them more readily than he did. On the stage, nothing fazed Burbage.

He threw back his head and laughed now, both hands on his comfortable belly. A couple of the tireman's assistants and an early-arriving vendor turned their heads his way, hoping they might share the jest. He waved to them, as if to say it was none of their affair. Had Shakespeare done that, they would have ignored him. Burbage they took seriously, and went back to whatever they'd been doing. Shakespeare sighed. Not by accident was Burbage a leading man.

Mirth still shining in his eyes, Burbage spoke for Shakespeare's ear alone: "Well, my duck, one thing it shows beyond doubt's shadow."

"What's that?" the poet asked.

"They suspect not your other commission."

"But how am I to do both?" Shakespeare demanded in an impassioned whisper. "Marry, how? 'Tis the most unkindest cut of all, Dick. Two plays at once? That will drive me mad, and madder till I see which be fated to journey from pen and paper to--this." His wave encompassed the painted glory of the Theatre.

"A pretty gesture," Burbage remarked. "Do you use it when appearing, thus." He crouched as if coming up through the trap door, then stood with a broader, more extravagant version of Shakespeare's wave. " 'Twill help to draw the auditory into the business of the play."

"I'll do't," Shakespeare said, but he refused to let the other man distract him. "I've not yet sounded the whole of the company on the other. After this, how can I? They'll take me for the Spaniards' dog, and think I purpose luring 'em to treason."

Burbage reassures Shakespeare that the company knows that Shakespeare is too honest a man for such a ploy. Shakespeare objects that he'd die almost immediately if he were that honest, with Burbage insisting that Shakespeare is wrong. If Shakespeare were honest to all, he'd die very, very slowly.

The conversation moves on to the play, with Burbage being rather fatalistic about the whole thing. It is Gods will which play the company will perform, and that's that.

Shakespeare is disappointed and somewhat alarmed to realize that Burbage genuinley does not care which play goes on. The company will make money either way, which is what is important. Shakespeare considers this to be something of a security risk.

Burbage's interpretation of events makes far more sense than what is really going on in the plot. This is a weakness - having multiple characters call out just how absurd a plot point is does not make the plot any less absurd, so it has to stand by itself still. I'm not entirely sure that this one does.

Will Kemp, like Burbage, is concerned with King Philip only so far as making sure his own role is correct.

quote:

Will Kemp sidled up to him, still carrying the skull he'd use while playing the gravedigger come the afternoon performance. "You'll give me some words wherewith to make 'em laugh, is't not so?" he said, working the jawbone wired to the skull so that it seemed to do the talking.

"Be still, old bones," Shakespeare said.

Kemp tossed the skull in the air and caught it upside down. That only made its empty-eyed leer more appalling. "Philip's such a pompous, praying, prating pig, any play which hath him in't will need somewhat of leavening, lest it prove too heavy for digestion." The clown's voice became a high, wheedling whine.

"Here is the first I've heard you care a fig for the words I do give you," Shakespeare said tartly. "It were better that those who play own clowns speak no more than is set down for them."

Kemp's flexible face twisted into an expression so preposterous, even Shakespeare couldn't help smiling. "But Master William, my dove, my pet, my chick, my poppet," the clown cooed, "the pith of't it is, as I've said aforetimes, the groundlings laugh louder for my words than for yours."

"I pith on you and the groundlings both." Shakespeare stood with his legs spraddled wide, as if easing himself. Will Kemp gaped at him. Forestalled, by God! Shakespeare thought. You were about to make your own pissy quibble, and looked not for the like from me. He added, "The Devil take your laughs when they flaw the shape of my play, as I've said before. Hear you me now?"

This really piths Kemp off, and the clown stalks off. Kemp's self-centered attitude does not reassure Shakespeare, and he becomes more and more convinced that the whole enterprise is doomed - the only mystery is who exactly will sell him out. This, inevitably, leads him to contemplate what will happen when his treason against Spain is discovered.

quote:

He wouldn't be burned alive, not for treason, or most of him wouldn't. They would haul him to Tower Hill on a hurdle, and hang him till he was almost dead. Then they'd cut him down and draw him as if he were a sheep in a shambles. They'd throw his guts into the fire while he watched, if he was unlucky enough to keep life in him yet. That done, they would quarter him and display his head and severed limbs on London Bridge and elsewhere around the city to dissuade others from such thoughts and deeds.

He shuddered. That was English law; Elizabeth had used Catholics who plotted against her thus. For all he knew, the Spaniards had worse punishments for traitors.

This is an accurate description of hanging, drawing, and quartering, which was the maximum sentence for men (women were burned until 1790, when the sentence was reduced to hanging) accused of treason against the Crown in England from 1352 until 1814. After 1814, the sentence was reduced to hanging until dead and posthumous drawing and quartering, and in 1870 the penalty was reduced to simple hanging. The sentence was further reduced to life imprisonment with the final abolition of the death penalty in 1996.


Shakespeare is shaken out of his dark reverie by Jack Hungerford, who is there to get him dressed to act as the ghost in Hamlet Prince Of Denmark. Shakespeare is annoyed by Hungerford's coddling, but cooperates as he takes his place. The smoke to hide the trapdoor he uses to appear on stage is generated by a bowl full of paper scraps that he sets on fire just before appearing.

quote:

He did make a point of remembering the candle. Hungerford would never have let him live it down had he forgotten after their skirmish. He also made a point of carrying it carefully, so he didn't have to come back and start it burning again. Not out, brief candle, he thought. Light this fool the way through dusty gloom.

He had to walk doubled over; had the stage been high enough to let him straighten up, it would have been too high to let the standing groundlings see the action on it. He peered out at the crowd through chinks and knotholes. He couldn't see much--the men and women in front blocked his view of those farther back. His ears told him more than his eyes could. It sounded like a full house, or something close, and it sounded like an enthusiastic one.

"It'll like thee well, Lucy," said a man standing close enough to Shakespeare for his voice to be distinct among the multitude. "The Prince of Denmark, he feigns he's mad, so--"

"Go to, Hal!" Lucy broke in. "I've not seen it afore, and I shan't thank thee for spoiling the devisings."

God bless you, Lucy. You're a woman of sense, Shakespeare thought. He knew too many playwrights who were too fond of boasting of their machinations. He thought them fond in the other sense of the word, for their plays seemed insipid to him when he knew ahead of time everything that happened.

More proof that this is Hamlet, of course. I do like the way he worked the reference to Macbeth into Shakespeare's internal monologue. Also, I like Lucy here.


Shakespeare has a few appearances with no lines, with an assistant bringing him a fresh bowl of paper after each. Even here his bad mood persists.

quote:

He had no lines here, or in his next couple of appearances. He had but to stand, looking ominous and menacing, till his cue to stalk off, and then go below once more. One of the tireman's helpers crawled out to bring him another bowl full of bits of paper and a fresh candle. "You nigh gasted them out of their hose, Master Shakespeare," he whispered.

"Good," Shakespeare whispered back. "Get thee gone." The tireman's helper went back the way he'd come. Shakespeare crouched in the smoke under the stage, fuming a little himself. I'd best know how to frighten them with the ghost, he thought. If not I, then who? He had failed once or twice: he'd been bad, or the audience had been bad, or who could say what had gone wrong? He didn't dwell on the failures. Every player had them, in every role. But he'd made the most of the part far more often. And so I shall again today.

He hadn't long to brood. The ghost appeared again in the first scene, and again vanished without a word. Then he appeared once more in the fourth scene of the first act. He was once more silent, but he beckoned to Burbage as the astonished Prince of Denmark.

The fifth scene was his. He had to vanish once more at the end of the fourth, then come back up on stage through a trap door closer to the tiring room. And he had his lines, urging the Prince to action against his murderous uncle. Shakespeare spoke them in a rumbling, echoing voice that might indeed have come from beyond the grave. Gasps and a couple of muffled squeals told him his words and looks were striking home. He remembered to use the gesture Burbage had liked during the rehearsal. The other player beamed. Shakespeare wasn't sure it really added anything, but it pleased Burbage and it didn't hurt.

The play continues until Shakespeare's role is done, at which point he flees from the smoke-filled area under the stage and aggressively begins to clean himself off. Burbage takes advantage of a scene he's not in to zip back and praise Shakespeare for his portrayal.

quote:

He washed again, then dried himself once more. "Better," Burbage said. "And the specter was as fine as you've ever given him." He imitated the gesture he'd urged Shakespeare to use. "Saw you how the audience clung to your every word thereafter, you having drawn them into the action thus?"

Shakespeare had seen no such thing, but he didn't feel like arguing. Things had gone well, no matter why. That would do. "They did seem pleased," he said.

"As they had reason to be. And now I needs must dash--I'm before 'em again in a moment." Burbage clapped Shakespeare on the shoulder, then hurried back toward the stage.

In his shirt and hose, Shakespeare watched the rest of The Prince of Denmark from the wings. In his present mood, a scene just past pleased him most: the one where the Prince admonished the players to speak trippingly and warned the clowns against making up their own lines. He stood for every poet ever born.

Well, looks like he's still unhappy with Kemp.

Marlow visits, and is immediately told to stop smoking his pipe.

quote:

"I will not, by God," Marlowe said, and took another puff. His eye swung to the beardless youth who'd played Ophelia, and who was now getting back into the clothes proper to his sex. "All they who love not tobacco and boys are fools. Why, holy communion would have been much better being administered in a tobacco pipe."

He reveled in scandal and blasphemy. Knowing as much, Shakespeare didn't react with the horror his fellow poet tried to rouse. Instead, he said, "Put it by, or I'll break it, and that gladly. Having spent the whole of the first act beneath the stage, I'm smoked and to spare, smoked as a Warwickshire sausage."



"Ah. Then you have reason for asking. I'll do't." And Marlowe did, knocking the pipe against the sole of his shoe and grinding out the coals with his foot. He gave Shakespeare a mocking bow. "Your servant, sir."

"Gramercy." Shakespeare returned the bow as if he hadn't noticed the mockery. Nothing could be better calculated to annoy Marlowe.

Or so he thought, especially when Marlowe gave him a shark's smile and said, "drat you again, Will."

"What, for speaking you soft? An I huff and fume, will't like you better?"

"No, no, no." Marlowe made as if to push him away. "I know the difference 'twixt small and great. De minibus non curat lex. No, drat you for your Prince of Denmark."

This time, Shakespeare bowed in earnest. "Praise from the master's praise indeed."

"In this play, you are my master. And, since I fancy not being mastered, I aim t'overcome you. There are Grecian pots, 'tis said, with figures limned in contortions wild, and with the painter's brag writ above 'em: ‘As Thus-and-So, my rival, never did.' After first seeing The Prince of Denmark last year, I set to work on Yseult and Tristan, afore which I shall not write, ‘As Shakespeare never did,' but, when you watch it, you may take the thought as there."

"And then my turn will come round again, to see how I may outmatch you." Shakespeare's early tragedies owed a good deal to Marlowe, who'd led the theatre when Shakespeare came to London from his provincial home. Since then, Marlowe had chased him more often than the reverse. "We do spur each other on."

Marlowe's line about tobacco and boys here is one that was attributed to him by the informer Richard Baines, who also accused Marlowe of evangelical athiesm, Catholicism, and blasphemy. Most scholars now consider this denunciation to be slander, and place little stock in it. This is the main source for the modern notion that Marlowe was homosexual himself, although there are some themes in his plays to support the notion.


"Yseult and Tristan", more commonly rendered "Tristan and Iseult" or "Tristan and Isolde" is a legendary tragedy of the doomed romance between Tristan Prince of Cornwall and the Irish princess Isolde who is married to Tristan's uncle Mark, King of Cornwall. The legend is known to date back to the 11th century, although there is some evidence to suggest that the tale is even older. It has been cited as the inspiration for the tale of Lancelot and Guenivere in various versions of the Arthurian mythos, and the entire thing was inserted directly into the court of King Arthur by Malory.

Probably the most famous adaptation today is the 1865 opera by Richard Wagner.

It is an entirely plausible source for an Elizabethan play, but the notion of a Marlowe play derived from it appears to be an invention of Turtledove.



Marlowe naturally knows about King Philip, and seems to be testing Shakespeare's loyalty to the plot. Shakespeare is spared from answering by the arrival of De Vega, in whose presence the plot must not be mentioned. Marlowe, as is typical of his behavior in this book, is acting like a boy playing spy games. He greets De Vega enthusiastically, praising the reception of La Dama Boba and regretting that he doesn't know enough Spanish to follow it himself.

De Vega is delighted with the praise, but that won't stop him from interrogating Shakespeare.

quote:

The Spaniard turned to him. "You will tell me at once, Master Shakespeare: is the Prince of Denmark mad, or doth he but feign his affliction?"

Marlowe's eyes gleamed. "I have asked myself that very question. So would any man of sense, on seeing the play. But here we have a man of better sense, for he asks not himself but the poet!"

"He is but mad north-northwest," Shakespeare answered. "When the wind is southerly he knows a hawk from a handsaw."

"Fie on you!" de Vega said, as Marlowe burst out laughing. Lope went on, "You give back the Prince's words, not your own."

"But, good my sir, if the Prince's words be not my own, whose then are they?" Shakespeare said, his voice as innocent as he could make it. "Certes, I purpose the question being asked. And I purpose each hearer to answer in himself, for himself."

This bit of play concluded, De Vega gets down to business. He brings up King Philip and offers every assistance in the endeavour. Shakespeare tries to deflect, but Lope insists on playing a key part. Shakespeare is on the verge of erupting before Marlowe of all people quitely urges caution.

quote:

Shakespeare wanted to shriek. He couldn't tell de Vega everything he wanted to, or even a fraction of it. But . . . "Tacite, Will," Marlowe said quickly.

In Latin, that meant be quiet. In English, it would have been good advice. Even in Latin, it was good advice. But was it also something more? Was it an allusion to Tacitus and to the Annals? How much did Marlowe know? How much did he want to show that he knew? And how much did Lope know, and how much was Marlowe liable to reveal to him for no more reason than that he could not take the good advice he so casually gave?

One of Lieutenant de Vega's eyebrows rose. In slow Latin of his own, he asked, "And why should Magister Guglielmus keep silent, I pray you?"

drat you, Kit, Shakespeare thought. But Marlowe, a university man as fluent in Latin as in English, kept right on in the ancient tongue: "Why? To keep from offering you the role of Philip himself, of course. I doubt his company would stand for it, and I am certain Master Burbage's fury at being balked of the hero's role would know no bounds." He talked himself out of trouble almost as readily as he talked himself into it.

This, of course, brings Burbage into the discussion, who demands to be informed what Marlowe was saying about him in Latin. The assurance that it was merely an admonition that the title role in King Philip belongs to Burbage and Burbage alone mollifies him, and he turns the whole thing into a dirty joke.

Shakespeare ends the scene wondering how exactly he's going to plot treason against Spain with a Spanish officer stuck to him like glue.


Chapter IV, Part 3: De Vega

quote:

LOPE DE VEGA couldn't have screamed louder or more painfully as a betrayed lover. He knew that for a fact; he'd screamed such screams before. This, however . . . "But, sir, you promised me!" he cried.

"I am sorry, Lieutenant," said Captain Guzmán, who sounded not sorry in the least. "I warned that, in an emergency, I would shift your duty. Here we have an emergency, and so I shall shift you."

"A likely story." Lope was convinced his superior intended to drive him mad. Guzmán knew how to make his intentions real, too. "What kind of emergency?"

"A soothsayer, prophesying against Spain and against King Philip," Guzmán answered.

"Oh," Lope said in crestfallen tones. Unfortunately, that was an emergency. Soothsayers and witches and what the English called cunning men caused no end of trouble. But then he had a brighter, more hopeful thought. "Could not the holy inquisitors deal with this false prophet? Surely such a rogue breaks God's law before he breaks man's."

Baltasar Guzmán shook his head. "They call it treason first and blasphemy only afterwards. They have washed their hands of the fellow."

"As Pilate did with our Lord," de Vega said bitterly.

"Senior Lieutenant . . ." Guzmán drummed his fingers on the desk. "Senior Lieutenant, I bear you no ill will. You should thank God and the Virgin and the saints that I bear you no ill will. Were it otherwise, the Inquisition would hear of that remark, and then, in short order, you would hear from the Inquisition. You have your pen, and some freedom in how you use it. You would be wise to guard your tongue."
He was right. That hurt worse than anything else. "I thank you, your Excellency," Lope mumbled, hating to have to thank the man at whom he was furious. He sighed. "Well, if there's no help for it, I'd best get the business over with as fast as I can. Who is this soothsayer, and where can I find him?"

"He is called John . . . Walsh." Captain Guzmán made heavy going of the English surname. "He dwells in"--the officer checked his notes--"in the ward called Billingsgate, in Pudding Lane. He is by trade a butcher of hogs, but he is to be found more often in a tavern than anywhere else."

"May I find him in a tavern!" Lope exclaimed. "I know Pudding Lane too well, and know its stinks. They make so much offal there, it goes in dung boats down to the Thames."

"Wherever you find him, seize him and clap him in gaol. We'll try him and put him to death and be rid of him once for all," Guzmán said. As de Vega turned to go, his superior held up a hand. "Wait. Don't hunt this, ah, Walsh yourself. Take a squad of soldiers. Better, take two. When you catch him, the Englishmen he has fooled are liable to try a rescue. You will want swords and pikes and guns at your back."
[/quote]

De Vega finds this advice dubious - alone he might be able to simply snatch the soothsayer and run. He follows orders nonetheless, and rounds up a squad of soldiers eager to stamp out a source of discontent. The sight of a squad of soldiers moving together draws jeers and a band of ruffians that attempt to hold them up. Before a fight can start, however, the mob decides that taking on armed and armored Spaniards while wielding clubs and wearing ordinary clothes is not a wise idea, and scatter.

After getting lost, then getting lost again from bad directions, they find a Catholic who gives them good directions.

quote:

So did Lope. "We may find this Walsh and something to drink together," he said, "for I hear he prophesies in taverns."

The soldier who'd spoken before guffawed. "And after he's drunk enough, he's one of these piss-prophets," he said, which got a laugh from everyone else. Plenty of people made a living divining the future--or saying they did--by examining their clients' urine.

Someone emptied a chamber pot from a second-story window. No way to be sure if the stinking contents were aimed at the Spaniards. A couple of men--including the fellow who'd made the joke--got splashed, but most of the stuff just went into the mud of the street, which already held more than its fair share of ordure and piss. "Eh, Sancho, now you're a piss-prophet," one of the other troopers said. Sancho's reply was almost as pungent as the air.

Pudding Lane was only a couple of blocks long, but made up in stench what it lacked in length. De Vega marveled that he hadn't found it by scent. Along with all the usual London miasmas, he smelled pig poo poo, pig piss, rotting swine's flesh, pig fear. "Any man from this street must be a false prophet," he said, "for not even God Himself could stand getting close enough to him to tell him anything."

He started asking after John Walsh. "I don't ken the man," one hog butcher said. "Never heard of him," said a second. "An he be who I think he is, he died o' the French pox summer afore last," a third said. "A went home to Wales, a did, whence a came," a fourth offered. "Seek him in Southwark. He dwelleth there these days, with a punk from a pick-hatch," a fifth declared.

Patiently, Lope kept asking. Sooner or later, he was bound to come on someone who either favored Isabella and Albert or simply craved peace and quiet. And he did. A lean man in a pigskin apron looked up from his work and said, "Belike you'll find him in the Blue Fox, half a block toward the Tower in East Cheap."

Again, Lope translated for his men. "A good thing we have you with us, señor," irrepressible Sancho said. "If we had to look for interpreters, everything would take three times as long, and like as not they'd tell us more lies than truth."

De Vega wasn't sure the lean man hadn't told a lie. But the tavern, to his relief, did prove easy to find. A signboard with the silhouette of a running fox, bright blue, hung above the door. "You men stay here in the street," Lope said. "I'll go in alone. If God is kind, I'll hear the man speaking treason from his own lips. Then I'll signal for you. "If not"--he shrugged--"again, it's God's will."

"Honor to your courage, Lieutenant," a soldier said.

"This for courage." Lope snapped his fingers. "I want to deal with this fellow as quickly as may be, for I have business of my own to attend to." Some of the men winked and sniggered and made lewd jokes he only half heard. Thanks to his reputation, they thought he meant business with a woman, or with more than one. But is not the Muse a woman, too? he thought.


Lope heads into the tavern and orders ale, which he can say without a betraying accent. Sure enough, the butcher begins a long sermon on the evils of Spain, drawing heavily on the book of Matthew.

quote:


He switched from Matthew to Revelations, but Lope had heard enough. Setting down his mug, he ducked out of the Blue Fox and beckoned to the soldiers. With them behind him, he stormed back into the tavern and shouted out a verse from Matthew that John Walsh had skipped: " ‘And many false prophets shall arise, and shall deceive many.' " Then he switched to Spanish, shouting, "Arrest that man there on the table. Santiago and forward!"

"Santiago!" the soldiers roared. They rushed toward the preaching pig butcher.

"Limb of Satan!" an Englishman cried. He hurled his mug at Lope, who ducked. The mug shattered on the morion of the man behind him. Another flying mug hit a Spaniard in the face. He fell with a groan, his nose smashed and bloody.

A moment later, a Spanish sword bit into the pig butcher who'd thrown the mug that hurt the soldier. The Englishman shrieked. More blood spurted, improbably red. "Let it begin here, as St. John the Divine saith it shall begin at the end of days!" John Walsh bellowed. "The star called Wormwood and the smiting of the sun! Ay, let it begin here!"

"Wormwood!" the Englishmen yelled.

Lope wondered if they knew what the word meant. Not likely, he judged, but it made a fine rallying cry even so. As for him, he shouted, "We must take the false preacher now, or London goes up in riot!" It had happened before, though not for four or five years. If it happened again, the blame would land on him. Where would they send him then? The Scottish border? The Welsh mountains? Ireland, which was supposed to be worse than either? Was any place worse than Ireland? If any was, they'd send him there.

An arquebus bellowed, deafeningly loud in the close tavern. The lead ball buried itself in the wall. After that, the firearm was good for nothing but a clumsy club. In a tavern brawl, bludgeons and knives and swords counted for more than guns. De Vega wished for a firearm that shot more than one ball, or at least for one that could be reloaded quickly. Wishing didn't help.

The Spaniards' armor did. So did the extra distance at which they could do harm, thanks to their swords. But then an Englishman, an enormous fellow, picked up a bench and swung it like a club. The weapon was clumsy but potent. The Englishman felled two soldiers in quick succession.

Another swing almost caved in Lope's skull. But he ducked, stepped close, and stabbed the big man in the stomach with his rapier. The bench fell from the man's hands as he wailed and clutched at himself. "Come on!" Lope shouted. Only a small knot of stubborn defenders still protected John Walsh.

"Let's away out the back door!" one of them said. De Vega cursed in sonorous Spanish. He hadn't known the Blue Fox had a back door. He hurled himself at the Englishmen, doing his best to forestall their escape.

A couple of them tried to hustle Walsh toward the back of the tavern. They might have pulled him to safety, but he didn't seem to want to go. "Nay, nay!" he cried, struggling in their grasp as if they were arresting him. "Let it begin here! It must begin here!"

Sancho tackled him. When he went down, half a dozen Spaniards leaped on him, while the rest drove back or knocked down the Englishmen still on their feet. "Is he still alive?" Lope asked.

"Yes, Senior Lieutenant. He'll live to hang," one of his troopers answered.

"After this, I think hanging's too good for him," Lope said. "But tie him up and gag him. Gag him well, by God, or the filth he shouts out will bring the English down on us before we can get him to safety."

Even as things were, stones flew when they emerged from the Blue Fox. But another arquebusier brought his match to the touch-hole of his weapon. It roared and belched forth a great cloud of pungent smoke. And the ball, as much by luck as anything else, knocked an Englishman kicking. The others drew back, naive enough to believe the Spaniards likely to hit twice in a row. Knowing better than they what arquebuses could do, Lope silently thanked them for their caution.

Presented unedited because it is the first major action scene in the books. Turtledove does this, at least, fairly well - I could see this scene being played out in a movie quite easily, and he doesn't get bogged down in minute details. He does, however, underestimate the humble arquebus here. Any matchlock smoothbore is fairly inaccurate by the standards of a later age, but this mostly shows at battle ranges. At stone-throwing range, any soldier who's actually trying could probably hit a man.


De Vega delivers his prisoner, and is granted permission to return to his primary duty at the theatre.


Chapter IV, Part 4: Shakespeare

Shakespeare's boarding house has a new lodger to replace the one who fled - an extremely poor and clumsy man named Sam King who keeps stepping on Shakespeare. Buoyed by good income from the theatre, which has been doing very well with Christmas approaching, he decides to give King enough money for a threepenny supper. We also hear of a second new lodger, a woman named Cicely Sellis who has hired an entire room from the stingy landlady, at what must be a fairly exorbiant cost.
Shakespeare heads off to his own dining establishment with his manuscript and pen.

quote:

Shakespeare got out his writing tools and took them to the ordinary he favored. He was relieved not to find his fellow lodger there; King would have insisted on chattering at him when he wanted to work. Love's Labour's Won was almost done. He needed to finish it as fast as he could, too. For one thing, the company's patience was wearing thin. For another, he didn't know how long he had till Philip of Spain died. He would need to have both his special commissions ready by then, whichever one actually saw the light of day.

Kate the serving woman came up to him. "God give you good even, Master Will," she said. "The threepenny is barley porridge with boiled beef." He nodded. She went on, "There's lambswool, if you'd liefer have it than the common brewing."

"I would, and I thank you for't," Shakespeare answered. On a chilly December evening, warm spiced beer would go down well.

Maybe the lambswool helped his thoughts flow freely. Whatever the cause, he sat and wrote till he was the last man left in the ordinary. Only when his candle flame began to leap and gutter as the candle neared extinction did he reluctantly pick up his papers and quills and ink and go back to the lodging house.

Arriving back home long after curfew, he builds up the fire -much to the irritation of his stingy landlady- and continues to write at the same feverish pace. Gradually, however, he realizes that he is not alone. The new lodger, Cicely Sellis, has been watching him.
As far as I can tell, "lambswool" is a term derived from a corruption of the Celtic phrase La mas ubal ("Day of the Apple Fruit"), and is a drink made by pouring hot ale (or cider) over pulped apples and spices - sugar, nutmeg and ginger.

quote:

"Give you good den," she said when he looked up. "I misliked troubling you, your pen scratching along so fast."

"I do thank you for the courtesy," Shakespeare answered. "There are those--too many of 'em, too--will break into a writing man's thoughts for no more reason than to see him stop and scuff the ground, wondering what he meant next to say."

"Some folk, able themselves to shape naught of beauty, are fain to mar another's work, for that they may not find themselves outdone. An you'd back to't, make as though I am not here. You'll offend me not." Cicely Sellis was five or ten years older than Shakespeare. She'd probably been a striking woman till smallpox scarred her face; beneath the flawed skin, her bones were very fine. She wore no ring. Shakespeare didn't know whether she was spinster or widow.

"Again, my thanks," he said. When he stretched, something crunched in his back. It felt good. He twisted, hoping he could get more relief. He noticed his hand was cramped, and wondered how long he'd been writing all told. "I can pause here. I have the way now, and shall not wander from it when I resume."

"Right glad I am to hear you say so." A gray tabby wandered in after Cicely Sellis. It stropped itself against her ankles. She bent and scratched it behind the ears. It began to buzz. It wasn't a big cat, but purred very loudly. "There, Mommet, there," she murmured. When she looked up again, she asked, "You'll soon have finished the play, Master Shakespeare?"

She expresses desire to see the play when it is finished if she can get free from her business. On inquiring, he learns that she works for herself, and he would be wise to come to her if he wanted questions answered.

quote:

"Ah." He'd wondered what she did. No wonder she'd wanted a room all to herself. "You are a cunning woman, then?" He wouldn't say witch, even if they amounted to the same thing.

And Cicely Sellis, sensibly, wouldn't answer straight out. "Marry, Master Shakespeare, in this world of men a woman needs must be cunning, mustn't she, if she's to make her way? Now I hear something, now I say something, and the world turns round." She nodded almost defiantly, as if to say, Make of that what you will.

Shakespeare didn't know what to make of it. In London as elsewhere in England, elsewhere all through Christendom, witches, or people claiming to be witches, were a fact of life. They did at least as much good for the sick as fancy physicians, as far as he could tell. Did they take their power from Satan? People said they did. Now here before him stood one of the breed. He could ask her himself, if he had the nerve.

He didn't.

"I am . . . content with my lot," he said. If she were truly a witch, she would see he was lying.

He couldn't tell whether she did or not. She gave him half a curtsy. Her eyes glinted, as the cat Mommet's might have done. "No small thing have you said there, nor no common thing, neither," she replied at last. "The richest man in the world, be he never so healthy, be he wed to a young and beautiful wife who loveth him past all reason, hath he contentment? Not likely! He will hunger for more gold, or for more strength of body, or for some other wench besides the one he hath, or for all those things together. Is't not so, Master Shakespeare?"

"Before God, Mistress Sellis, I think you speak sooth," Shakespeare answered.
As the conversation continues, he becomes increasingly uncomfortable with the deep, measuring way she looks at him.

quote:

Mommet suddenly stopped purring. His fur puffed out till he looked twice his proper size. He hissed like a snake. A freezing draught blew under the door, making the hair on Shakespeare's arms prickle up, too, and sending a swarm of bright sparks up the chimney as the flames flared.

In a deep, slow voice not quite her own, Cicely Sellis said, "Beware the man who brings good news, and he who knows less than he seems."

"What?" Shakespeare said.

She is confused, and professes to know nothing of what she just said, even after he repeats the words back. She uses this opportunity to retire to her rooms, cat following behind her. Shakespeare spends some more time trying to write, deeply disturbed. With little further progress, he heads to bed, confident that he will finish the play very soon.

Turtledove notes in the afterword that there was a real woman named Cicely Sellis that was accused of witchcraft around this time, but that she is not the character in the novel. Turtledove's Sellis is a wholly fictional character.

quote:

His bedroom was dark when he went in. Jack Street's snores made the chamber hideous. Shakespeare knew he himself would have no trouble sleeping despite the racket; he'd had time to get used to it. How--indeed, whether--Sam King could manage was a different question.

Shakespeare didn't bother with a candle when he stowed his writing tools in the chest by his bed. He'd dealt with the lock so often in darkness, he might almost have been a blind craftsman whose fingers saw as well as most men's eyes. The click of the key in the lock made Street the snoring glazier mumble and turn over, though how he heard that click through his own thunderstorm was beyond Shakespeare. The poet sighed--quietly--and yawned again.

As he slipped the bottle of ink back into the chest, his fingers brushed a new and hence unfamiliar bulk: the translation of the Annals he'd picked up in front of St. Paul's. " 'Sdeath," he whispered: a curse that was at the same time at least half a prayer. The translation itself was innocent. But if anyone thought to search for it, his death was likely whether it were found or not. That would mean Lord Burghley's plot was betrayed.

He finds sleep elusive, and lies awake for some time pondering what exactly Robert Cecil is planning and how likely it is to work; how he is to recruit the company to the plot without exposing it should a player balk; exactly what was going on with Sellis and where her strange warning came - from her, from God, or from Satan. Eventually, he sleeps.




He wakes in the dark - the sun rises late and sets early in England near the winter solstice - and eats a bland breakfast. Of the lodgers, only Sellis remains. The landlady is beaming, and Shakespeare fears that this is a bad sign. Sellis must be paying a lot of money for that room, and he fears that this will lead to an increase in his own rent.

quote:

When he went out into the street, he found he would have no accurate notion of when the sun came up, anyhow. Cold, clammy fog clung everywhere. It likely wouldn't lift till noon, if then. Shakespeare sucked in a long, damp breath. When he exhaled, he added fog of his own to that which had drifted up to Bishopsgate from the Thames.

He should have gone straight to the Theatre. He might have found some quiet time to write before the rest of the company came in and began rehearsing for the day's play.

Instead, though, he wandered south and east, away from the suburbs beyond the wall and down towards the river. He didn't know--or rather, didn't care to admit to himself--where he was going till he got there. By the time he neared the lowland by the Thames, the fog hung a little above the ground.

But even the thickest fog would have had a hard time concealing the Tower of London. Its formidable gray stone wall and towers shouldered their way into the air. People said Julius Caesar had first raised the Tower. Shakespeare didn't know whether that was true or not, though he'd used the conceit in a couple of plays. The Tower surely seemed strong and indomitable enough to have stood since Roman days.

However strong it seemed, it hadn't kept the Spaniards out of London. And now, somewhere in there, Queen Elizabeth sat and brooded and waited for--deliverance? Can I help to give it her? Or give I but myself to death?
A fittingly moody end to the chapter. Turtledove's attempts at end-of-chapter impact often fall flat, but this works.
As for the chapter as a whole, it is mostly a slice-of-life affair where relatively little happens. It isn't bad slice-of-life, but it doesn't advance the plot much.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Epicurius posted:

Just as a note, the only actual Rennaisance story of Tristan I could find was one from Belarus. For whatever reason, for about 300 years, with the exception of a few pieces of work like The Fairie Queen, people mostly stopped referring to Arthurian legends, and it wasn't until the 19th century that they became popular again.


This makes it a good choice for a non-historical work. There's no real author to snub, and it is entirely reasonable for there to have been a play on that subject.
Chapter V, Part 1: De Vega



quote:

AFTER CHRISTMAS MASS, Lope de Vega and Baltasar Guzmán happened to come out of the church of St. Swithin together. Lope bowed to his superior. "Feliz Navidad, your Excellency," he said.

Guzmán, polite as a cat, returned the bow. "And a happy Christmas to you as well, Senior Lieutenant," he replied. "I have a duty for you."

De Vega wished he'd ignored courtesy. "On the holy day?" he asked, dismayed.

"Yes, on the holy day." Captain Guzmán nodded. "I am sorry, but it is necessary, and necessary that you do it today." He didn't sound sorry. He never sounded sorry. He was stubborn as a cat, too; he went on, "I want you to take yourself to the church of St. Ethelberge"--another English name he massacred--"and ask the priest there if this poet friend of yours, this Shakespeare, has come to partake of our Lord's body and blood on the anniversary of His birth."

"Ah." However much Lope wished otherwise, Captain Guzmán was right here, as he had been with going after John Walsh--this was a necessary duty. "I shall attend to it directly. And if he has not?"

"If he has not, make note of it, but do no more now," Guzmán replied. "Then we watch him closely ten days from now. If he celebrates Christmas by the old calendar, the forbidden calendar, we shall know him for a Protestant heretic."

"Yes, sir." Lope sighed. "Heretic or not, we surely know him for a splendid poet."

"And if his splendid poetry serves Satan and the foes of Spain, isn't he all the more dangerous for being splendid?" Guzmán said.

And he was right about that, too. Again, Lope wished otherwise. Again, he sighed. But, because Captain Guzmán was right, de Vega asked, "How do I find this church of St. Ethelberge?" He had almost as much trouble with the name as his superior had done, and added, "Where do the English find such people to canonize? Swithin here, Ethelberge there, and I hear there is also a St. Erkenwald in this kingdom. Truly I wonder if Rome has ever heard of these so-called saints."

"I have plenty of worries, but not that one," Baltasar Guzmán said. "If the Inquisition and the Society of Jesus found these saints were fraudulent, the churches dedicated to their memories would not stay open."


He's right yet again, Lope thought, surprised and a little resentful. Three times in a row, all of a Christmas morning. He'd better be careful. If he keeps that up, I may have to start taking him seriously. He wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't, either. Since Guzmán hadn't answered him the first time, he tried again: "How do I find St. Ethelberge's church, Captain?"

"It's Shakespeare's parish church, sí? Shakespeare lives in Bishopsgate, sí? Go to Bishopsgate. You know the way there, sí?" Guzmán waited for Lope to respond. He had to nod, for he did know the way to and through that district: it led out of London proper to the Theatre. "All right, then," the captain told him. "Go to Bishopsgate. If you find the church yourself, fine. If you don't, ask someone. Who wouldn't tell a man how to get to a church on Christmas morning?"

He was, of course, right yet again. "I go," Lope said, and hurried off toward Bishopsgate as much to escape Captain Guzmán and his alarmingly sharp wits as to find out whether Shakespeare had been to Mass. Even though the day was gloomy, London's houses and public buildings made a brave show, being decorated with wreaths and strands of holly and ivy, now and then wound up with broom. Many of the ornaments had candles burning in them, too. In the first couple of years after the coming of the Armada, such signs of the season had been rare. Elizabeth and her heretic advisors discouraged them, as they'd discouraged so many observances from the ritual year. But, with the return of Catholicism, the customs that had flourished before Henry VIII broke with Rome were also coming back to life.

Turteldove's completely wrong here - The Christmas season was a major holiday during the reign of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I, filled with feasting, gift-giving, and parties. Shakespeare's own play Twelfth Night (1602) revolves around (and written as an entertainment for) the biggest and most popular festival day, Twelfth Night. The Anglican church continued to foster Christmas celebrations, with Charles I ordering noblemen to their estates in order to participate in the traditional role-reversal merrymaking.

It was not until Charles I was defeated and executed by Cromwell's Parlementarians in 1647 that the Puritans took control of the country and banned Christmas until the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660. After the ban was lifted, Calvinism continued to condemn the holiday, and the heavily Calvinist-influenced Presbytarians of Scotland were so adamant against it that it did not become an official public holiday in Scotland again until 1958. Turtledove seems to have conflated Puritiansim and Calvinism in specific with Protestantism in general.

Also wrong: the name of the church. St Ethelburga-the-Virgin within Bishopsgate is one of the relatively rare structures from Shakespeare's time that was not destroyed in the Great Fire of London - the structure that was concencrated in 1250 stood until 1993, when it was among the structures that were effectively destroyed by a 1 ton bomb consisting of a mixture of ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel set by the Irish Republican Army. Half of the structure remained standing, and the exterior was rebuilt to the original plan, alhtough with a completely different interior.




He finds no difficulty getting directions to the church, and saves a great deal of effort by managing to get there just as Shakespere is leaving Mass. He hides, because the only possible purpose for being here would be the actual one - to spy on Shakespeare. He heads back to barracks to report, only to find Guzman already gone to a feast. He reports to Enrique instead. After Enrique recieves the report, De Vega heads to his room to write. To his astonishment, Diego is not sleeping - indeed, not even present.

Chapter V, Part 2: Shakespeare


quote:

A RAGGED MAN on a street corner thrust a bowl of spiced wine at a pretty woman walking by. "Wassail!" he called.

She looked him over, smiled, and nodded at him. "Drinkhail!" she replied. He handed her the bowl and kissed her on the cheek. She drank, then gave him back the bowl.

"A happy New Year to you, sweetheart!" the ragged man called after her as she went on her way. He sang in a surprisingly sweet, surprisingly true baritone:



"Wassail, wassail, as white as my name,

Wassail, wassail, in snow, frost, and hail,

Wassail, wassail, that much doth avail,

Wassail, wassail, that never will fail."



William Shakespeare tossed the fellow a penny. "A happy New Year to you as well, sirrah."

The ragged man doffed his cap. "God bless you on the day, sir!" He held the bowl out to Shakespeare. "Wassail!"

"Drinkhail!" Shakespeare replied, and drank. Returning the bowl, he added, "I'd as lief go without the kiss." Some Grecian, he couldn't remember who, had said the like to Alexander, and paid for it. Marlowe would know the name.

I am unable to find any exact match to this particular custom. Wassail (derived from Wæs þu hæl, or "be thou hale") was a traditional Christmas toast, with Drinkhail (Drinc hæl, "Drink And Be Healthy") as the response, but the closest contxt I can find is Twelfth Night wassailing - going door to door singing and presenting the wassail bowl for gifts in a predecessor to modern caroling.

The drink here is also wrong for the period. In Shakespeare's day, the wassail bowl would have been filled with the same lambswool beverage seen earlier. A simpler mulled cider became common in later days, but the use of wine is primarily a part of modern revivals. In this case, it is possible that the use of spiced wine is a deliberate change that is supposed to reflect Spanish influence.


He continues down the street, paying another wassailer for a different song. He pauses to buy his landlady a present - a new carving knife to replace one she had recently broken the handle on.

quote:

He strode past a cutler's shop, then stopped, turned, and went back. The Widow Kendall had broken the wooden handle on her best carving knife not so long before, and had complained about it ever since. She kept talking about taking the knife to a tinker for a new handle, but she hadn't done it. Like as not, she never would get around to doing it, but would grumble about what a fine knife it had been for the rest of her days. A replacement, now, a replacement would make her a fine New Year's present.

"Good morrow, sir, and a joyous New Year to you," the cutler said when Shakespeare stepped inside. "What seek you? An it have an edge, you'll find it here." Shakespeare explained what he wanted, and why. The cutler nodded. "I have the very thing." He offered Shakespeare a knife of about the same size as the one Jane Kendall had used.

-snip-

They haggled amiably enough. Not for all his poet's eloquence could Shakespeare beat the cutler down very far. At last, still muttering under his breath, he paid. The cutler did give him a leather sheath for the knife. "The better your widow cares for't, the better 'twill serve her. Dirt and wet breed rust as filth breeds maggots."

"I understand." Shakespeare didn't intend to lecture his landlady on housewifery. What the Widow Kendall would say to him if he showed such cheek did not bear thinking about.

He took the knife back to his lodgings. On the way there, he slipped a halfpenny into the sheath. Giving the Widow Kendall the knife without the propitiatory coin would have been inviting her to cut herself with it.

"Oh, God bless you, Master Will!" she exclaimed when he handed her the knife. She gave him a muscular hug and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. That was another kiss he could have done without; her breath stank with eating toasted cheese. He did his best to smile as she said, "I've thought me of getting a new one since that handle broke, but. . . ." She shrugged.
Other than thanks, he recieves nothing from her except a mug of ale. He doesn't mind, because that's what he expected. Marlowe, however, does bring a gift when visiting later that day - a lovely copy of the Annals of Tacitius in Latin, bound in maroon leather and stamped with gold. Shakespeare is outraged because Marlowe is playing games with HIS conspiracy, and endangering it.

quote:

Showing Marlowe he'd drawn blood only encouraged him to try to draw more. With a smile, Shakespeare answered, "I'm sure I shall. The treason trials under Tiberius, perchance?" Ever so slightly, he stressed the word treason.

Marlowe bared his teeth in something that looked like a smile. "Treason? What word is that? And in what tongue? Tartar? I know it not."

"Perdie, Kit, may that be so," Shakespeare said. "May the day come when that Tartar word's clean forgot in England."

Laughing, Marlowe patted him on the cheek, as an indulgent father might pat a son. "Our lines will fail or ever that word's routed from our . . ." He drew back, sudden concern on his face. "Will, what's amiss?"

"You will find a better time to speak of failing lines than when my only son's but a little more than a year in's grave," Shakespeare said tightly. His fists bunched. He took a step towards the other poet, whom he saw for a moment through a veil of unshed tears.

Marlowe backed away. "Pardon my witlessness, I pray you," he said.

"I will--one day," Shakespeare answered, angry still. Marlowe left the lodging house moments later. Shakespeare wasn't sorry to see him go, not only because of what he'd said but also because he wouldn't linger to make more gibes about Tacitus and treason that might stick in someone's mind.

Hammet Shakespeare, the only son of William Shakespeare and twin brother to his daughter Judith, died at the age of 11 in 1596. The cause is uncertain, although there were known incidences of bubonic plague in the area around that time.

This part I quite like - it humanizes Shakespeare quite a bit - in this passage, he's not a legendary playwright or a conspirator, he's a grieving father.


Quite wisely, Shakespeare braves heavy snows that Sunday to make it to Mass - it is January 4 by the Spanish calendar, but December 25 by the English one. By going out of his way to attend Mass that day, he makes absolutely sure that there is no way anyone can claim that he was celebrating Christmas by the illegal calendar. On the twelfth day of Christmas two days later, he again visits the church and witnesses a play about the Christ child.

quote:

Shakespeare found the performances frightful and the dialogue worse, but the audience here wasn't inclined to be critical. In the Theatre, the groundlings would have mewed and hissed such players off the stage, and pelted them with fruit or worse till they fled.


After the holidays, he heads back to the theater with his completed-at-last manuscript. Burbage refuses to even look at it until it had been proofread, cleaned up, and -most importantly- copied into legible handwriting by Geoffrey Martin, the company's prompter and playbook keeper. Martin is also working directly for the goverment censor, Sir Edmund Tilney, meaning that his cooperation is essential for the plot to go forward.

Sir Edmund Tilney was, in fact, the Master of Revels and in charge of censoring stage plays - for Elizabeth I of England. I find it unlikely that the Spaniards would have left one of Elizabeth's courtiers in so vital a position

quote:

The prompter was about forty. He'd probably been handsome once, but nasty scars from a fire stretched across his forehead, one cheek, and the back of his left hand. The work he had--precise, important, but out of the public's eye--suited him well.
Martin chastises Shakespeare for the lateness of the play, and then for giving far too detailed stage directions.

quote:

"Your pardon, Master Martin," Shakespeare said. "I do essay precision, but--"

"You succeed too well," the prompter told him, also not for the first time. "With directions such as these, you break the action like a man disjointing a roast fowl. Simplicity, sir--simplicity's what wins the race."

Shakespeare wasn't convinced Martin was right. Like any playwright, he wanted things just so, with all the actors moving at his direction as Copernicus and his followers said planets moved around the sun. But the prompter's word carried more weight in such matters than his. As Martin went from one page to the next, Shakespeare did presume to ask, "What think you?"

"Aside from these wretched stage directions, very pleasant, very gay," Geoffrey Martin answered. "Without a doubt, the company will buy the play of you. And then you'll put all your work towards the new King Philip, is't not so?"

"As much of it as I may, yes," Shakespeare answered. The prompter's question gave him the opening he needed: "Tell me, Master Martin, what think you of--?"

But before he could finish the question, Martin lifted a hand. "Hold," he said, and such was the authority in his voice that Shakespeare fell silent. "Here in your second act, you have entering three lords and three ladies."

"I do," Shakespeare agreed, looking down at what he'd written--the second act seemed a long way off these days.

"See you here, though. Only two of these ladies speak: the one Rosaline, the other Katharine. What point to the third one, the one you style Maria?"

"Why, for to balance the third lord, of course," Shakespeare answered.

Geoffrey Martin shook his head. "It sufficeth not. Give her somewhat to do, or else take her out."

"Oh, very well," Shakespeare said testily. "Lend me your pen, then." He scratched out a name and substituted another. "Now hath she this passage, once Katharine's."
This confirms beyond all doubt that "Love's Labours Won" is the historical "Love's Labours Lost". Rosaline, Katharine, and Maria appear in Act II of the play, partnered with three lords.

Martin comments on the character of Adriano di Armatio -a Venetian braggart- commending Shakespeare for not making him a Spaniard, which the Master of Revels would never tolerate.

A bit of a historical joke here - in the actual play the character is Don Adriano de Armado, a Spanish braggart.

Shakespeare pounces on this opportunity to sound Martin out, and asks how much he likes tiptoing around Spanish sensibilites. He does not get the answer he wants.

quote:

"Working with the Master would be simpler without such worries, no doubt of't," the prompter replied. "But you'll not deny, I trust, that heresy's strong grip'd yet constrain us had they not come hither. I have now the hope of heaven. Things being different, hellfire'd surely hold me after I cast my mortal slough."

"Ay, belike," Shakespeare said, none too happily. Without a doubt, Geoffrey Martin had given him an honest answer, but he hadn't said what Shakespeare wanted to hear.

"Why? Believe you otherwise?" Martin asked--he'd heard how half-hearted Shakespeare's answer sounded, which the poet hadn't wanted at all.

"By my troth, no," Shakespeare said, this time using his experience on the stage to sound as he thought Geoffrey Martin would want him to.

"I should hope not, sir," the prompter said. "King Philip, God keep him, is a great man, a very great man. He hath from ourselves saved us, and in our own despite. Of whom else might one say the like, save only our Lord Himself?"

"Even so," Shakespeare said, and got away from Martin as fast as he could. The players he'd sounded had all been willing, even eager, to help try to expel the Spaniards from England. The tireman had been noncommittal. The prompter, plainly, took the Spaniards' part. And if Geoffrey Martin suspected treason, he knew important ears into which to whisper--or shout--his suspicions.

Shakespeare returns to the rest of the company in deep despair, to the point that Burbage notices immediatly and assumes that there is something wrong with the just-delivered play. Shakespeare clarifies for him, evoking a bit of "fun" from Will Kemp.

quote:

Someone clapped him on the shoulder. He jumped; he hadn't heard anybody come up behind him. Will Kemp's elastic features leered at him. Cackling with mad glee, the clown said, "What better time than the new year for a drawing and quartering? Or would you liefer rout out winter's chill with a burning? I'll stake you would."

"Go to!" Shakespeare exclaimed. "Get hence!"

"And wherefore should I?" Kemp replied. "I know as much as doth Dick here." Before Shakespeare could deny that, the clown continued, "I know enough to hang us all, than the which what could be more?"

Burbage is quite concerned with the newly discovered security hole, at which Kemp mocks them both for not knowing that Martin was a devout Catholic. Kemp brushes off concerns that he might be speaking too freely too close to Martin with the assumption that the new play would occupy his entire attention.

quote:

"O ye of little faith!" Kemp jeered. "Dear Geoff's prompter and book-keeper. He hath before him a new play--so new, belike the ink's still damp. What'll he do? Plunge his beak into its liver, like the vulture with Prometheus. A cannon could sound beside him without his hearing't."

Burbage looked thoughtful. "He may have reason," he said to Shakespeare.

"He may be right," Shakespeare said. "Right or wrong, reason hath he none. Where's the reason in a man who will hazard his life for nothing but to hear his own chatter? God deliver me from being subject to the breath of every fool, whose sense no more can feel but his own fancies."

"Doth thy other mouth call me?" Will Kemp retorted. He strode away, then stopped, bent, and spoke loudly with his other mouth.

Burbage and Shakespeare fume about Kemp, and discuss what to do about Martin. Clearly, the plot cannot go on with him present, but they can't simply fire him - he's too good at his job for that not to be suspicious. They decide to just have Shakespeare continue writing the play, and hope for aid.

quote:

A couple of evenings later, as the poet was making his way down Shoreditch High Street towards Bishopsgate after a performance, a man stepped out of the evening shadows and said, "You're Master Shakespeare, are you not?"

"I am," Shakespeare said cautiously. "And who, sir, are you?"

He used that sir from caution; had he felt more cheerful about the world and the people in it, he would have said sirrah. The fellow who'd asked his name looked like a mechanical, a laborer, in leather jerkin and laddered hose. When he smiled, he showed a couple of missing teeth. "Oh, you need not know my name, sir," he said.

"Then we have no business, one with the other," Shakespeare answered, doing his best to sound polite and firm at the same time. "Give you good den." He started on.

"Hold!" the stranger said. As he set a hand on the hilt of his belt knife to emphasize the word, Shakespeare stopped. In grumbling tones, the fellow added, "Nick said you were a tickle 'un. There's a name for you, by God and St. George! You ken Nick Skeres?"

Skeres had led him to Sir William Cecil. "I do," Shakespeare said reluctantly.

"Well, good on you, then." The stranger gave him another less than reassuring smile. "Nick sent me to your honor. You've someone in your company more friendlier to the dons than an honest Englishman ought to be?"

From whom had Skeres heard about Geoffrey Martin? Burbage? Will Kemp? Someone else altogether? Or had this bruiser any true connection to Skeres at all? With such dignity as he could muster, Shakespeare said, "I treat not with a man who hath no name."

"drat you!" the fellow said. But he didn't draw that knife. Instead, exasperated, he flung a name--"Ingram!"--at the poet.

Christian name? Surname? Shakespeare couldn't guess. But the man had given him some of what he wanted. Shakespeare answered him in turn: "Yes, there is such a one, Master Ingram."

"His name's Martin, eh? Like the bird?" Ingram asked. With odd hesitation, Shakespeare nodded. So did the other man. "All right, friend." He touched the brim of his villainous cap. "God give you good even," he said, and vanished once more into the deepening shadows. The poet stared after him, scratching his head.

The last name is not given yet, but this is Ingram Frizer. Fizer (15??-1627) was a companion to Christopher Marlow and Nicholas Skeres, and was not simply present the night Marlowe was killed. According to official sources, Marlowe's death was caused by Frizer stabbing him above the right eye with a dagger.




Chapter V, Part 3: De Vega

quote:

"Surely, Señor Shakespeare, you know that his holiness Pope Sixtus promised King Philip a million ducats when the first Spanish soldier set foot on English soil, and that he very handsomely paid all he had promised," Lope de Vega said. "A million gold ducats, mind you."

"Yes, I understand," Shakespeare replied. "A kingly sum, in sooth."

They sat with their heads together in the tiring room at the Theatre. De Vega puffed on a pipe of tobacco. The smoke rising from it fought with that from torches, lamps, and braziers. "I am glad you follow, sir," he said. "This needs must appear in the play on his Most Catholic Majesty's life."

Shakespeare had been scribbling notes in a character Lope could not have deciphered had his life depended on it. Now he looked up sharply. "Wherefore?" he asked. "It doth little to advance the action, the more so as Pope and King never met to seal this bargain, it being made by underlings."
De Vega is busily "aiding" Shakespeare with the writing of King Philip, but is chiefly serving to annoy him. Shakespaere manages to convince De Vega to drop this particular request, arguing that it would violate his honor as a poet to have this work be lesser than any of his other works.

quote:

Lope sprang from his stool and bowed low, sweeping off his hat so that the plume brushed the floor. "Say no more, sir. Your fellow poets and players would think less of you, did you write below your best. This I understand to the bottom of my soul, and I, in my turn, honor you for it. I am your servant. Command me."

"Sit, sit," Shakespeare urged him. "I own I stand in need of your counsel on the incidents of your King's life and on how to show 'em, the which is made more harder by his seldom leaving Madrid, those in his command working for him all through the Spanish Empire."

"Even so." Lope returned to his seat. He eyed the English poet with considerable respect. "You have more experience bringing history to the stage than I."

Shakespeare's smile somehow didn't quite reach his eyes. "When I put words into the mouths of Romans, I may do't without fear the Master of the Revels will think my ghosts and shadows speak of matters political."

Lope nodded. "Certes. This is one of the uses of the distant past." He leaned forward. "Here, though, not so distant is the past of which we speak. How thought you to portray the King's conquest of the heretic Dutchmen?"

"Why, through his kinsman, the Duke of Parma."

"Excellent," Lope said. "Most excellent. Parma being dead, no unsightly jealousies will to him accrue."

This would undoubtably be a formidible obstacle to dramatizing a man's life. This likely contributes to there being very few plays about Philip II - all excerpts from "King Philip" in this book are actually modified excerpts from Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus - a play that would already have been written by this time.

This work is eventually interrupted by Martin, who caught a major plot hole in Love's Labours Won. This is enough to cause Shakespeare to dismiss De Vega for now, with plans to get back to it two days later. Unusually, he came on -and leaves on- a horse.

quote:

Riding through the tenements that huddled outside the city wall, Lope felt something of a conquering caballero. He'd seldom had that feeling afoot. Now, though, he looked down on the English. From literally looking down on them, I do so metaphorically as well, he thought. A man's mind is a strange thing.

The English knew him for a conqueror, too. That made his passage harder, not easier. They got in his way, and feigned deafness when he shouted at them. They flung curses and catcalls from every other window. They flung other things, too: stones to make his horse shy and rear, lumps of filth to foul the beast and him. He never saw his tormentors. The ones not safe inside buildings melted into the crowds on Shoreditch High Street whenever he whirled in the saddle to try to get a glimpse of them.
He talks some Irish mercenaries out of a massacre to avenge his honor, and once inside the walls of London the harassment is limited to words - there's too many Spaniards about to make it easy to get away with throwing dung. He finds Diego in Diego's natural state. Shaking him awake, he hurls insults and death threats into his lazy servant's face.

quote:

"If there were an earthquake, it would swallow you as the whale swallowed Jonah, and you wouldn't even know it!" Lope bellowed. "Scotland--"

That got Diego's attention, where nothing up till then really had. "Not Scotland, señor, I beg you," he broke in. "The Scots are even worse than the Irish, from all I hear. May the holy Mother of God turn her back on me if I lie. They cook blood in a sheep's stomach and call it supper, and some say it is the blood of men."

"Scotland, I was going to say, is too good for you," de Vega snarled. He had the satisfaction of watching Diego quail, a satisfaction marred when his servant yawned in the midst of cringing. "By God, Diego, if you fall asleep now I'll murder you in your bed. Do you think I'm lying? Do you want to find out if I'm lying?"

"No, señor. All I want to do is . . ." Diego stopped, looking even more miserable than he had. He'd undoubtedly been about to say, All I want to do is go back to sleep. He wasn't very bright, but he could see that that would land him in even more trouble than he'd already found. A querulous whine crept into his voice as he went on, "I thought you'd stay at that damned Theatre a lot longer than you did."

"And so?" Lope said. "And so? Because I'm not here, does that mean you get to lie there like a salt cod? Why weren't you blacking my boots? Why weren't you mending my shirts? Why weren't you keeping your ears open for anything that might be to my advantage, the way Captain Guzmán's Enrique does?" Why does that vain little thrip of a Baltasar Guzmán get a prince among servants, while I'm stuck with a donkey, and a dead donkey at that?

Diego said something inflammatory and scandalous about exactly how intimate Enrique and Captain Guzmán were. "How would you know that?" Lope jeered. "When have you been awake to see them?"

Lope De Vega: Still an rear end in a top hat.

Diego insists that everyone's saying the same thing about Guzman. De Vega is doubtful, but cheers up a bit when he realizes that Guzman would be disgraced and removed from his post if he really does prefer the company of men, which would be a benefit to De Vega. Still, he knows full well that Guzman had a mistress until recently, which he throws in Diego's face. After Diego insists that Guzman preferring Enrique would quite obviously cause the loss of a mistress, De Vega loses his temper and orders Diego to get to work, starting by cleaning De Vega's dung-covered clothing.

He heads off to report to Guzman, only to be waylaid by Enrique, who wants to know what working with Shakespeare is like.

quote:


"I don't shape here," Lope said, remembering he might have to watch Enrique out of the corner of his eye, too. "I only have some lumber to sell. Shakespeare is the carpenter. He cuts and carves and nails things together. He'll do it very well, too, I think."

"He has a mind of his own?" Enrique asked.

"¡Por Dios, sí!" Lope exclaimed, and the clever young servant laughed. "You can think it's funny," de Vega told him. "You don't have to work with the Englishman."

Lope asks to see Guzman, and is told that he's probably in - he was with a mistress the night before, but promised to be in on time.

quote:

So much indeed for what everybody says, de Vega thought. When he walked into Baltasar Guzmán's office, the young captain looked like a cat that had just fallen into a bowl of cream. And when Guzmán asked, "What's the latest, Senior Lieutenant?" he didn't sound as if he'd bite Lope's head off if he didn't like the answer. He must have had a night to remember.

I wish I were in love again. I probably will be soon, but I'm not now, and I miss it. Sighing, de Vega summarized his session with Shakespeare. He also summarized the English attitude toward lone Spaniards on horseback: "Only my good luck they chose to throw more dung than stones. I might not have made it back if they'd gone the other way."

Captain Guzmán said, "I'm glad you're safe, de Vega. You're a valuable man." While Lope was still gaping, wondering if he'd heard straight, his superior added, "And I'm glad things are going so well with the English poet. Keep up the good work."

Lope left his office in something of a daze. Maybe Guzmán's amiga really did have the face of an angel and tits out to there. Lope couldn't imagine what else would have made the sardonic nobleman seem so much like a human being.

Chapter V, Part 4: Shakespeare

quote:

"WHERE'S MASTER MARTIN?" Shakespeare asked in the tiring room at the Theatre. "He was to have the different several parts from Love's Labour's Won ready to go to the scribes, that they might make for the players fair copies."

"Good luck to 'em," Will Kemp said. "There's not a rooster living could read your hen scratchings."

The clown exaggerated, but not by a great deal--not enough, at any rate, to make Shakespeare snap back at him. Richard Burbage looked around. "Ay, where is he?" Burbage said, as if Kemp hadn't spoken. "Geoff's steady as the tides, trusty as a hound--"

"Ah, Dick," Kemp murmured. "You shew again why you're so much better with another man's words in your mouth."

He'd made that crack before. It must have stung even so, for Burbage glared at him. A couple of players laughed, but they quickly fell silent. Not only was Burbage a large, powerful man, but he and his family owned the Theatre. Insulting him to his face took nerve--or a fool's foolishness, Shakespeare thought.

There's much discussion of where Martin is, leading to a joking suggestion from Kemp that he'd run off to sell the new play. Shakespeare doesn't find this amusing, and insults escalate to a brawl.

quote:

Shakespeare sprang for him. They each landed a couple of punches before the others of the company pulled them apart. Smarting from a blow on the cheek, Shakespeare snarled, "A dog thou art, and for the sake of bitchery." He didn't know that Kemp sought whores more than any other man, but flung the insult anyhow, too furious to care about truth.

Before the clown could reply in like vein, someone with a loud, booming voice called out from the doorway to the tiring room: "Here, now! Here now, by God! What's the meaning of this? What's the meaning of't, by God?"

"Constable Strawberry!" Burbage said. "Good day, sir."

"Good day," Walter Strawberry said. He was a jowly, middle-aged man who looked like a bulldog and had little more wit.

"I hope you are well?" Burbage said. The Theatre belonging to his family, he dealt with the constable. "I have not seen you long; how goes the world?"

"It wears, sir, as it grows," the constable replied.

"Ay, that's well known." Burbage's tone grew sharper: "Why come you here?" He quietly paid the constable and his helpers to stay away from the Theatre except when the players needed aid.
Constable Strawberry, alas, is fictional
After being assured that the fight is both benign and completed, Strawberry gets down to the business at hand.

quote:

"Why come I here?" the constable echoed, as if he himself might have forgotten. He coughed portentously, then went on, "Know you a certain wight named Geoffrey Martin?"

"We do," Burbage answered.

Will Kemp said, "A more certain wight never was born, by God." Strawberry ignored that, which probably meant he didn't understand it.

"Why come you here?" Burbage asked for the third time. "Hath aught amiss befallen him?"

"Amiss? Amiss?" Walter Strawberry said. "You might say so. You just might--an you reckon murther aught amiss, you might."

"Murther?" The dreadful word came from half the company, Shakespeare among them. Horror and astonishment filled most voices. Shakespeare's held horror alone. He realized he was not surprised, and wished to heaven he were.

Martin was found dead near an eating place, stabbed above his right eye.

Note that Martin was killed in the exact same manner that Marlowe was historically killed

quote:

"Master Burbage, sir, I know that not. This while, I know that not," the constable said gravely. "I put it to you--ay, to all of ye--what manner of enemies had he, of foes, of rivals, of opposants, and other suchlike folk who wished him not well? Never set I mine eyne upon the man till overlooking his dead corpse, so haply you will have known him better than I."

Behind Shakespeare, someone murmured, "Vere legitur, lex asinus est."

"What's that?" Strawberry said sharply. "What's that? If you know somewhat of the case, speak out! An you know not, keep a grave silence, like to Master Martin's keeping the silence of the grave. If you be lukewarm of knowing, spew nothing out of your mouths."

Google translate suggests that this phrase means something along the lines of "really read, the law is an rear end". I suspect that this isn't quite right

Strawberry demands to know if anybody has any information, to which nobody replies. Shakespeare, though silent, is wracked with guilt for what has been done to preserve his plot.

quote:

Shakespeare felt Richard Burbage's eye on him. Misery roweled him. I meant it not to come to this, tolled in his mind again and again, like a great iron bell. Before God, I meant it not. But come to this it had, whether he'd meant it or not. He couldn't even be surprised. Had he not embarked on treason, or what Isabella and Albert and their Spanish props would reckon treason, no one would have slain poor Geoff Martin. And treason and murther ever keep together, as two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose.

Getting no response, Strawberry leaves disappointed. Much gossip about the deed commences as soon as he's gone. After the brawl between Shakespeare and Kemp nearly brews up again, Burbage asks if anybody knows an appropriate replacement for Martin, and starts taking measures to ensure that they can go on working without one for a while.

After the play, Burbage walks home with Shakespeare.

quote:

Burbage matched him stride for stride. After a while, he said, "Will . . ."

Shakespeare didn't answer. He just kept walking.

"Will . . ."

"What is't?" Shakespeare snapped. "Are you sure you want to know?" This time, Burbage was the one who didn't say anything. He only waited. After a moment, Shakespeare realized what he was waiting for. "God be my judge, Dick, I devised his death not."

"I thought naught other. There's none o' the killing blood in you--else, as you say, Will Kemp were long since sped." But Burbage's smile quickly faded from his fleshy lips. "That you devised it not, I believe with all my heart. That it grieved you, I believe also. That it amazed you, as it amazed us . . ." He shook his head. "No."

"Why say you so?" Shakespeare asked.

"For that you spake of Martin his Popery as hurtful to a . . . a certain enterprise," Burbage answered. "Was't the second Henry who cried out, ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?'--and behold! there's Becket dead."

Shakespeare laughed uneasily. That shot struck much too close to the center of the target. Trying to lead Burbage away from the truth he'd found, the poet said, " 'Tis treason or folly or both together to set alongside a king's my name."

Burbage, however, was not so easily distracted. "An I hire me another Popish prompter, will he too lie dead in a ditch the day after?"

Shakespeare replies that he's only one small sail on a great ship, and the crew of that ship will replace any small sail that shows the strain. Burbage finds this convincing, and decides to -carefully- try to avoid hiring any Catholics as Martin's replacement.

quote:

"We're not on the boards now, Will."

"Think you not?" Shakespeare shook his head. "Till this . . . enterprise go forward, if it go forward, we are players everywhere, players always. Forget it at your peril."

Burbage chewed on that for a few paces. By the sour face he pulled, he did not like the taste. He pointed ahead. "There's Bishopsgate." He hurried on alone, flinging words back over his shoulder: "If you have the right of't, best not to be seen with you."

That hurt. It would have hurt worse had Shakespeare not been convinced he was right--which made Burbage right to avoid his company. The player passed through the gate and disappeared. Shakespeare followed more slowly. He felt he ought to ring a bell like a leper, to warn folk of his presence. His touch was liable to prove as deadly as any leper's. That he knew too well.

And then, when he was only a couple of houses from the one where he lodged, something else occurred to him. Geoffrey Martin had proved an annoyance to those who'd framed this plot. He'd proved an annoyance, and they'd brushed him aside as casually as if he were a flea on a doublet. And if I prove an annoyance? Shakespeare shivered. But Lord Burghley styled me his strong right arm. The poet shivered again. Plenty of people in the street that chilly afternoon were shivering, so he went unnoticed. If I prove an annoyance, they'll brush me aside as yarely as poor Geoff Martin.

Awful late in the game to figure out that rebellions mean bloodshed.

Chapter V, Part 5: De Vega

quote:

Captain Baltazar Guzmán held up a sheet of paper to Lope de Vega. "We are ordered to take special notice, Senior Lieutenant, of any who profane Lent this year by eating of foods forbidden these forty days."

"We are ordered to do all sorts of foolish things," Lope answered. "This is more foolish than most. The English, from all I've seen in my time here, break the rules as often as they keep them." He exaggerated, but not by an enormous amount. A surprising amount of meat got eaten here in the weeks before Easter.

Guzmán waved the paper. "But this," he said portentously, "is a special year."

"How is this year special?" de Vega asked, as he knew he was supposed to do. "I know his Holiness has declared that 1600 will be a year of jubilee, but 1598?" He shrugged. "To me, it seems a year among years."

"Not so." His superior waved the paper again. Lope was getting tired of seeing it without being able to read it. Guzmán went on, "Ash Wednesday, this year, is the fourth of February, and Easter the twenty-second of March."

"They're early," Lope remarked. "Is that enough to make it special?"
A quirk of the calendar (because Easter is so early in the Gregorian calendar, it is on the other side of a full moon from Easter in the Julian calendar) means that the illegal English Easter will be almost a full month after the legal Spanish Easter. This naturally changes the Lent for each Easter significantly. Either unrepentant Protestants will have to maintain the Lenten fast for an entire extra month to remain pure by their standards, or else they'll ignore the Catholic Lent (quietly) and only keep their own. This means that this year is an excellent chance to sweep up Protestants in hiding.

This is, as far as I can tell, accurate - by the Gregorian calendar, Easter was on March 22, 1598. The book suggests that having seperate Easters is rare, but as far as I can tell it is the norm - they're not usually quite so far apart, though.

quote:

"One thing is certain, though," Captain Guzmán said. "As long as there are still Protestants in England, we'll have no peace. This kingdom has to follow the holy Catholic faith. All the world, one day, will follow the holy Catholic faith. Then, truly, peace will come." He crossed himself. His eyes glowed with a Crusader's vision.

"Yes." De Vega crossed himself, too. But then, incautiously, he said, "We've fought the Portuguese and the French, and they're Catholic, too--after a fashion."

Guzmán waved that aside. "When all the world is Catholic, there will be peace," he declared, as if challenging Lope to argue with him. Lope didn't. He might not have been so passionately certain of that as Guzmán was, but he believed it, too.

"Is there anything else, your Excellency?" he asked.

There is another matter - the murder of Geoffrey Martin. He was a good Catholic, and his death shines new suspicion on Shakespeare. Guzman knows of nobody working with Martin as an informant, but the Inquisition might have - they don't talk to anyone outside the Inquisition much. De Vega is instructed to pay close attention to Martin's replacement. After leaving the office, De Vega meets a woman.

quote:

He knew nothing but thanks at escaping the barracks--thanks and cold, for snowflakes fluttered on the northwesterly breeze. It's January. It could be snowing in Madrid, too, he told himself. It was true. He knew it was true. It didn't help. When he thought of Madrid, he thought of a place where the vine and the olive flourished. He tried to imagine grapes and olives growing in London, and laughed at himself. Not even a poet's imagination stretched so far.

In the street outside the barracks, a Spanish soldier and a skinny Englishwoman were striking a bargain. He gave her a coin. She led him away. Before long, he would get relief. Lope didn't know whether to envy or pity him for being satisfied so easily.

"I'd sooner be a monk than buy a nasty counterfeit for love," he muttered. That didn't mean he enjoyed living like a monk. He had, though, ever since his two mistresses were so inconsiderate as to run into each other outside the Southwark bear garden. Goodbye, Nell. Farewell, Martha. High time I found someone new.

He wouldn't do it by the barracks. He knew that. The Spanish soldiers stationed there drew trulls as a lodestone drew iron. De Vega didn't want women of easy virtue. He wanted women who would fall in love with him, and whom he would love . . . for a while.

He wandered down towards the Thames, past the church of St. Lawrence Poultney in Candlewick Street. Not far from the church, a woman with a wicker basket called, "Whelks and mussels! Cockles and clams! Fresh today. Whelks and mussels . . . !"

Maybe they were fresh today, maybe they weren't. In this weather, even shellfish stayed good for a while--one of its few virtues Lope could think of. He eyed the woman selling them. She was a few years younger than he, wrapped in a wool cloak she would have thrown out two years before if she could have afforded to replace it. The worried look on her face told how hard life could be.

"Whelks or mussels, sir?" she said, feeling his eye on her. "Clams? Cockles? Good for dinner, good for supper, good for soup, good for stew." She all but sang the desperate little jingle.

"Cockles, I think," Lope answered, "though I should be pleased to buy anything from so lovely a creature."

Her weary sigh sent fog swirling from her mouth. "I sell that not," she said, voice hard and flat.

"God forbid I meant any such thing!" Lope exclaimed, though he had, at least to test her. He swept off his hat, bowed, and told her his name, then gave her his most open, friendly smile and asked hers.

"I oughtn't to tell it you," she said.

"And why not?" He affected indignation. "What shall I do with it? Make witchcraft against you? They'd burn me, none less than the which I'd deserve. Nay, sweet lady, I want it only for to write it on the doorposts of mine heart. My heart?" He couldn't remember which was right.

The girl with the basket of shellfish didn't enlighten him. A tiny smile did lift the corners of her mouth for a moment, though. She said, "There's a deal of foolery in you, is't not so?"

"I know not whereof you speak," Lope said, donning a comically droll expression.

That smile was like a shy wild thing he had to lure from hiding. He felt rewarded when he saw it. "I'm Lucy Watkins, sir," she said.

"My lady!" Lope bowed again. She wasn't his lady. Maybe she never would be. But he intended to make trial of that.
This can only end well. At least he isn't snobbish. I don't know if this is supposed to be the same Lucy we heard bitching about spoilrs in the Theatre, but I like to think it is.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter VI, Part 1: Shakespeare

quote:

SMOKE FROM THE fireplace, smoke from the flames under a roasting capon, and smoke from half a dozen pipes of tobacco filled the Boar's Head in East Cheap. Shakespeare's eyes stung and watered. "What's the utility of tobacco?" he asked the player beside him, who'd been drinking sack with singleminded dedication for some little while now. "What pleasure takes one from the smoking of it, besides the pleasure of setting fire to one's purse?" The stuff was, among other things, devilishly expensive.

The player blinked at him in owlish solemnity. "Why, to pass current, of course," he answered. After a soft belch, he buried his nose in the mug of sack once more.

"It suffices not," Shakespeare murmured.

"Pay him no heed," Christopher Marlowe said from across the table. Marlowe had a pipe. He paused to draw in smoke, then blew a perfect smoke ring. Shakespeare goggled. He'd never seen that before. It almost answered his question by itself. Laughing at his flabbergasted expression, Marlowe went on, "He is sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an rear end."

"Is that so?" the player said. "Well, sirrah, you can kiss mine arse."

Marlowe rose from his stool in one smooth motion. "Right gladly will I." He came around the table, kissed the fellow on the mouth, and returned to his place. The drunken player gaped and then, too late, cursed and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his doublet. Loud, raucous laughter filled the Boar's Head. Under it, Marlowe nodded to Shakespeare. "You were saying, Will?"

"What good's tobacco?" Shakespeare asked.

"What good is't?" Now Marlowe was the one who stared. "Why, let Aristotle and all your philosophers say what they will, there is nothing to be compared with tobacco. Have you tried it, at the least?"

"I have, four or five years gone by. I paid my shilling for the damned little clay pipe, and two shillings more for the noxious weed to charge it with, and I smoked and I smoked till I might have been a chimneytop. And . . ."

"And?" Marlowe echoed.

"And I cast up the good threepenny supper I'd had not long before--as featly as you please, mind, missing my shoes altogether--and sithence have had naught to do with tobacco, nor wanted to."


"Liked you the leek when first you ate of it? Or the bitter taste of beer?"

"Better than that horrid plant from unknown clime." Shakespeare shuddered at the memory of how his guts had knotted.


William Shakespeare is one of the only Turtledove protagonists that hates tobacco. Typically, much time is spent comparing the quality of different brands, and complaining about not being able to get enough. So far as I can tell, the opinion of the real Shakespeare on the matter is unknown. Christopher Marlowe, on the other hand, is reputed to be fond of the stuff - besides the dubiously attributed commentary on tobacco and boys in the last chapter, he was accused of claiming that Communion would be better if it were delivered in a tobacco pipe. While these are probably slanders, they do suggest a reputation.

The Boar's Head was a real tavern in Shakespeare's day, and featured in some of his plays - particularly Henry IV, Part 1. The building was destroyed in the Great Fire Of London in 1666.



Marlowe calls Shakespeare a fool, and insinuates that Shakespeare's hanging would be little loss - and could come soon. Naturally, Shakespeare is furious that Marlowe simply will not stop hinting and insinuating at the plot. The argument gets quite heated, with support for Shakespeare from a bystander who misses the byplay.

quote:

"Well shot, Will," Thomas Dekker called. The young poet whooped and clapped his hands. Lord Westmorland's Men had put on his first play only a few weeks before. He lifted up his mug of wine in salute. "Reload and give him another barrel!" He drained the mug and slammed it down.

Shakespeare caught a barmaid's eye and pointed to Dekker. When she filled the youngster's mug again, Shakespeare paid her. Dekker was chronically short of funds; till Shakespeare's company bought his comedy, he'd been one step from debtor's prison--and now, rumor had it, was again.

Marlowe clucked reproachfully. "Buying a claque? I reckoned it beneath you. The Devil will not have you damned, lest the oil that's in you should set hell on fire." He emptied his mug, and gave the barmaid a halfpenny to refresh it. "I pay mine own way," he declared, drinking again.

Thomas Dekker (died 1632) was a playwright and pamphleteer in this era, who is known to have written at least 20 plays. The first play that is convincingly attributed to him was performed in 1599, was imprisoned for debt twice, and played a major part in the War of The Theaters satire battle between 1599-1602. How much of a connection he historically had with Shakespeare is unknown (and disputed), but it is not unreasonable for them to be associating here

quote:

As Shakespeare had with Dekker, so Marlowe also had a partisan: a boy actor of about fourteen, as pretty as one of the girls he played. He laughed and banged his fist down on the tabletop. Marlowe bought him more of whatever he was drinking--beer, Shakespeare saw when the serving woman poured his mug full again. He'd already had quite a lot; hectic color glowed on his cheeks, as if he were coming down with a fever.

Marlowe blew another smoke ring, then passed the pipe to the boy, who managed a couple of unskillful puffs before coughing piteously and turning even redder than he was. Marlowe took back the pipe. He kissed the stem where the boy's lips had touched it, then put it in his own mouth again.

Watching intently was a tall, thin, pale man who wore wore a rich doublet of slashed silk. His tongue played over his red lips as he watched Marlowe and the boy. "Who's that?" Shakespeare asked Dekker. He pointed. "I have seen him aforetimes, but recall not his name."

"Why, 'tis Anthony Bacon," the other poet replied. "He hath a . . . liking for beardless boys." He laughed and drank again. Shakespeare nodded. Not only had he seen Bacon, he'd visited the house Anthony shared with his younger brother, Francis, to see Sir William Cecil. He suddenly wondered what Anthony knew of the plot. Wonder or not, he had no intention of trying to find out.

Anthony Bacon (1558–1601) was the much less famous older brother of Sir Francis Bacon, mostly known today (to what little extent he is known) for his career as a spy in France between 1580 and 1594. He was arrested for sodomy in 1586 due to sleeping with his male page, who had been sleeping with several other male servants. Bacon was spared the official punishment of burning at the stake by the intervention of Henry III of Navarre, who would become Henry IV of France in 1593.

Meanwhile, Will Kemp is taunting a minor actor to the point of violence, although other actors in the Boar's Head manage to restrain them, which inspires a quip from Shakespeare and a animated discussion on wordplay. Eventually, the boy actor gets annoyed at being ignored, leading Marlowe to leave with him, arm-in-arm. Shakespeare is appalled at Marlowe's lack of discretion.

quote:

Maybe the talk with Marlowe was what he needed to get his wits going, though. That night, at the ordinary, he began work on the play Lord Burghley had asked of him. He wished he were as wealthy as one of the Bacons, or as Burghley himself. Committing treason was bad enough. Committing it in public . . .

He put a hand over his papers whenever Kate the serving woman came near. She found it funny instead of taking offense. "I'll not steal your words," she said. "Since when could I, having no letters of mine own?"

She'd said before she needed to make a mark instead of signing her name. Shakespeare relaxed--a very little. Whenever anyone but Kate walked past the table where he wrote, he kept on covering up the manuscript. That, of course, drew more attention to it than it would have got had he kept on writing. A plump burgess looked down at the sheet in front of him, shook his head, and said, "You need have no fear, sir. Nor God nor the Devil could make out your character."

Geoffrey Martin had voiced similar complaints. But poor Martin had been the company's book-keeper; he naturally had a low opinion of the hand of a mere poet. To hear someone with less exacting standards scorn Shakespeare's script was oddly reassuring.

After a while, Shakespeare was the only customer left in the ordinary. His quill scratched across the paper so fast, the ink on one line scarcely had time to dry before his hand smudged it while writing the next. He started when Kate said, "Curfew's nigh, Master Will."

"So soon?" he said, amazed.

"Soon?" She shook her head. "You've sat there writing sith you finished supper, none of you but your right hand moving. Look--two whole leaves filled. Never saw I you write so fast."

A leaf of paper is one large sheet folded in half, producing four pages. According to the Internet Shakespeare Library, paper sizes in this era ranged from the Imperial (29"x20") to the Foolscap (17.5"x12.5"). This means that the individual pages would be somewhere between 8"x12.5" to 14"x20. In either case, filling 4 pages in an evening is impressive.

Shakespeare is astounded by this literary feat. Having returned to the present, he decides that he's written enough for the moment - Turtledove again spares us a sex scene here. In Kate's bed, they discuss their future - or, rather, the fact that Shakespeare's marriage means they have no real future.

----------------------------------------
Chapter VI, Part 2: De Vega



This chapter starts out with De Vega recieving ashes on Ash Wendsday, which, by the Gregorian Calendar was February 4 in 1598. Returning to the office, we learn that acting companies have been permitted to perform during Lent, because stopping business for 40 days would ruin most of them. Before heading off to the theatre, he does have some questions.


quote:

"Yes, sir," Lope said. "Sir, is there any further word of his Most Catholic Majesty? Shakespeare has asked after him. Not unreasonably, he wants some notion of how much time he has to compose the drama Don Diego Flores de Valdés set him."

"I have news, yes, but none of it good," Captain Guzmán replied. "The gout has attacked his neck, which makes both eating and sleeping very difficult for him. And the sores on his hands and feet show no sign of healing. If anything, they begin to ulcerate and spread. Also, his dropsy is no better--if anything, is worse."

Tears stung Lope's eyes. He touched the ashes on his forehead again. "The priest in the church spoke truly: to dust we shall return. But this is bitter, a man who was--who is--so great, having an end so hard and slow. Better if he simply went to sleep one night and never woke up."

"God will do as He pleases, Senior Lieutenant, not as you please. Would you set your judgment against His?"

"No, sir--not that it would do any good if I did, for He can act and all I can do is talk."

Guzmán relaxed. "So long as you understand that. With a man who makes plays . . . Forgive me, but I wondered if you arrogated some of the Lord's powers to yourself, since you make your characters and move them about as if you were the Almighty for them."

Lope looked at him in astonishment. "I have had those blasphemous thoughts, yes, sir. My confessor has given me heavy penance on account of them. How could you guess?"

"It seemed logical," Guzmán said. "You have a world inside your head, an imaginary world filled with imaginary people. Who could blame you for believing, now and again, that that imaginary world is real? You make it seem real to others in your plays--why not to yourself as well?"

"Do you know, your Excellency, I am going to have to pay serious attention to you, whether I want to or not," de Vega said slowly.

Guzman changes the subject to De Vega's current lady friend, and jabs him for his inconstancy. De Vega flees to the theatre, observing a tavern keeper being accosted by a constable for serving meat during Lent.

quote:

By now, the men who took money at the Theatre recognized Lope and waved him through as if he were one of the sharers among Lord Westmorland's Men. He wished he were. The life of a Spanish lieutenant was as nothing next to that which Burbage or Shakespeare or Will Kemp lived. De Vega was sure of it.

Kemp threw back his head and howled like a wolf when Lope walked into the Theatre. De Vega gave back a courtier's bow, which at least disconcerted the clown for a moment. Kemp, he noticed, wore no ashes on his forehead. What did that mean? Did it mean anything? With Kemp, you could never be sure.

Swords clashed as a couple of actors rehearsed a fight scene. One glance told de Vega neither of them had ever used a blade in earnest. Burbage, he'd seen, had some notion of what he was about. These fellows? The Spaniard shook his head. They were even worse than Shakespeare, who'd never pretended to be a warrior.

Burbage, now, boomed out the Scottish King's lines:



" ‘Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain,

And with some sweet oblivious antidote

Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the heart?' "



" ‘Therein the patient must minister to himself,' " replied the hireling playing the doctor.

Burbage frowned. Lope had seen the Scottish play a couple of times, and admired it. He knew, or thought he knew, what the actor was supposed to say next. And, sure enough, someone hissed from the tiring room: " ‘Throw physic to the dogs.' "

" ‘Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it,' " Burbage finished, and went on in his own voice: "My thanks, Master Vincent. The line would not come to me."

"No need to praise my doing only that for which you took me into your company," replied Thomas Vincent, the new prompter and playbook-keeper. He came out to nod to Burbage. "You should reprove me if I keep silence." He was about Lope's age, lean, and seemed bright. Lope had learned he went to Mass every Sunday. Before the Armada came, he'd been as zealous in attending Protestant Sunday services.

A trimmer, de Vega thought scornfully. Whichever way the wind blows, that's the way he'll go. But a lot of men, likely a majority, were like that. It made things easier for those who would rule them. Shakespeare's like that, too, Lope reminded himself. He was no Catholic when Elizabeth ruled this land. Which was one more reason to reckon him an unlikely traitor. He'd made his compromises with the way things were. The ones you had to worry about were those who refused to change, no matter what refusing cost them.

The lines here are, as suggested, from Act 5 of Macbeth, another play that shouldn't exist yet as it was first performed in 1606. In this case, there is even less reason for it to have been written, as there is a good possibility that it was inspired in part by the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. With Hamlet, I expressed doubt that the Spaniards would allow a play about rebelling against an usurper to be performed, because it would so easily be seen as an attempt to sow discord against them. Macbeth, however, has a justification - the historical play shows the character of Banquo, who is connected to the rebels againt Macbeth, as being an ancestor of James Stuart, who was King James I of England and King James IV of Scotland at the time. In 1598 England, however, the most prominent member of the House of Stuart would have been Mary I, the Catholic Queen of England who was deposed and later executed by Elizabeth Tudor. Thus it would be quite easy to argue that the play is supposed to represent Elizabeth as the usurper, and the Spanish as the forces restoring the legitimate rule.

EDIT: As Safety Biscuts pointed out, I've somewhat conflated Mary Tudor (Mary I of England) and Mary Stuart (Mary I of Scotland) here. Mary I of England was married to Philip II of Spain, and died of natural causes, allowing her sister Elizabeth to take the throne. Mary Stuart was imprisoned and later executed by Elizabeth because people were plotting to put her on the throne.

It would still be possible to explain the Scottish play being allowed by casting Mary Stuart as the "rightful" queen, but not as easily as I thought.


Seeing the new prompter causes De Vega to recall the fate of the former prompter, Geoffery Marten. Realizing that the prompter would be in an ideal position to discover any treason in the theatre, and that this makes Marten's death extremely suspicious, De Vega makes some excuses and runs off to investigate.

Chapter VI, Part 3: Shakespeare


quote:

"HAVE YOU A moment, Master Hungerford?" Shakespeare hated asking the question, and the ones that would follow. He hated it even more than he had when he'd spoken with Geoffrey Martin. When Martin gave the wrong answers, the inconvenient answers, Shakespeare hadn't known what would happen next. Now he did. If blood flowed, it would drip from his hands.

But the tireman only nodded. "Certes, Master Will. What would you?" He flicked a speck of lint from a velvet robe.

"What costumes have we for a Roman play?" Shakespeare asked.

"A Roman play?" The tireman frowned. "Meseems we could mount one at need." In most dramas, no matter when or where they were set, players wore clothes of current fashion. Audiences expected nothing else. But Roman plays were different. People had a notion that the Romans had dressed differently. And so actors strode the boards in knee-length white tunics and in gilded helms with nodding crests mounted (often insecurely) above them. Despite his answer, Hungerford's frown didn't go away. "Why ask you that, though? I know for a certainty we offer no Roman plays any time soon, nor Grecian ones, neither."

Shakespeare describes Boudicca to Hungerford, who, horrified, grasps the implications immediately. After being assured that Shakespeare is absolutely serious about this endeavour, Hungerford signs on.

quote:

"I wonder," Hungerford murmured. "Tell me, an you will: did you discover yourself to Geoff Martin?" Shakespeare said not a word. He hoped his face gave no answer, either. Hungerford grunted softly. "If I say you nay, will Constable Strawberry, that good and honest man, sniff after my slayer like a dog too old to take a scent after a bone that never was there?"

"I devised not poor Geoff's death, nor compassed it," Shakespeare said.

"The which is not what I asked," the tireman observed. Shakespeare only waited. Jack Hungerford grunted again. "I'm with you," he said. "I have not so much life left, and mislike living on my knees what remains."

"Praise God!" Shakespeare exclaimed. "I know not how we could have gone on without you."

"With a new tireman, belike, as we have a new prompter," Hungerford said. "Will you tell me I'm mistook?" Shakespeare wished he could and knew he couldn't. Hungerford nodded to himself. "A Roman play, is't? But tell me what you require, Master Will, and you shall have't presently."

Hungerford, however spots a problem immediately - the title character will, as is the practice in Elizabethan theater, be played by a boy under the age of puberty. The company has a superb boy actor for the purpose by the name of Tom, but there's a little problem with that:

quote:

"Item: his elder brother is a priest. Item: his uncle is a sergeant amongst Queen Isabella's guards." Jack Hungerford ticked off points on his fingers as he made them. "Item: his father gave the rood screen at their parish church, such adornments having been ordained once more on our being returned to Romish ways. Item: the lad himself more than once in my hearing hath said he's fain on becoming a man to follow his brother into the priesthood." He glanced over at Shakespeare. "Shall I go on?"

Shakespeare is appalled both by the risk and the fact that he was completely unaware of this. Hungerford explains the latter as Shakespeare not really giving a drat about most of the actors as long as they remember their lines.

Shakespeare has other concerns.

quote:

"Haply his voice will break, or his beard sprout. He's rising fifteen," Hungerford said. "Some troubles themselves resolve."

"Haply." Shakespeare made the word into a curse. " ‘Haply' suffices not. You spoke of Geoff Martin. Are you fain to have his fate befall a boy, for no cause but that he's of Romish faith? He will die the death, I tell you, unless he be eased from this company ere we give our Boudicca." If ever we give't, he thought unhappily.

The tireman frowned, too. "Sits the wind in that corner?"

"Nowhere else," Shakespeare answered. "What's a mere boy, to those who'd dice for a kingdom?"
Hungerford questions whether or not someone who thinks such thoughts is worthy of winning. Shakespeare counters with the Spaniards being at least as bad - with the still-recent auto-de-fe being a prime example. Hungerford concedes the point, and Shakespeare takes the problem to Burbage.



quote:

Burbage listened with more patience than Shakespeare would have expected--with more patience, in fact, than the poet thought he could have mustered himself. At last, he let out a long sigh. "What of the company will be left once you have your way with it?" he asked somberly.

"Would you liefer see Tom dead?" Shakespeare asked.

"I'd liefer see him playing," Burbage said.

"Tell me he is not of the Romish persuasion, and have your wish."

Burbage is not happy, and warns Shakespeare about how thin the ice is.

quote:

"The which brings me back to what I'd tell you. Mark my words, now; mark 'em well. The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have uncertain, the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoise of so great an opposition."

"Say you so?" Shakespeare asked. "Say you so?"

"Marry, I do."

Shakespeare wished he could fly into a great temper. I say unto you, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie, he wanted to shout. By the Lord our plot is as good a plot as ever was laid, our friends true and constant! A good plot, good friends, and full of expectation! A good plot, very good friends! What a frosty-spirited rogue are you!

He wanted to say all that, and more besides. He wanted to, but could not. "What of't?" he said, and did not try to hide his own bitterness. "We go forward e'en so--forward, or to the Spaniards. There's your choice, and none other."

Burbage's eyes had the look of a fox's as the hounds closed in. "drat you, Will."

"Anon," Shakespeare said, understanding Burbage's hunted expression all too well--he'd felt hunted himself for months. "But, for now, you'll see to Tom?"

"I'll do't," Burbage said. Forward, Shakespeare thought.

Burbage is completely right here. This plot is paper-thin in places, and involves a lot of very nasty people. This is a dangerous position to be in.


Chapter VI, Part 4: De Vega

quote:

"NOW HERE IS an interesting bit of business." Captain Baltasar Guzmán held up a sheet of paper.

Lope de Vega hated it when his superior did that. It was always for effect; Guzmán never let him actually read the papers he displayed. And Lope was in a testy mood anyhow, for his visit to Sir Edmund Tilney had yielded exactly nothing useful about Geoffrey Martin and whoever had slain him. With such patience as he could muster, de Vega said, "Please tell me more, sir."

"Well, Senior Lieutenant, you will know better than I how the pretty boy actors in these English theatrical companies draw sodomites as a bowl of honey draws flies," Guzmán said.

"Oh, yes, sir," Lope agreed. "It is a scandal, a shame, and a disgrace."

Captain Guzmán waved the paper. "We now have leave to go after one of these wicked fellows, and an important one, too."

"Ah?" de Vega said. "Who?" If it turned out to be Christopher Marlowe, he would go after the English poet with a heavy heart. Marlowe didn't hide that he loved boys. Far from hiding it, in fact, he flaunted it. He was so blatant about his leanings, Lope sometimes wondered if part of him wanted to be caught and punished. Whatever that part wanted, the rest of him would not care to be humiliated and then executed.

But Guzmán said, "A certain Anthony Bacon. Do you know the name?"

Anthony Bacon is an important man indeed, and De Vega questions the accusation carefully.

quote:

"Madre de Dios, I should hope so!" Lope exclaimed. "The older brother of Francis, the nephew of Lord Burghley . . . How did you learn that such a man favored this dreadful vice?" How is it that you can think of arresting such an important man, with such prominent connections, for sodomy? was what he really meant. The rich and the powerful often got away with what would ruin someone ordinary. But not here?

Not here. Guzmán answered, "Oh, this Bacon's habits are not in doubt. Even as long ago as 1586, when he was an English spy in France, he debauched one of his young servants. He was lucky the French court was full of perverts"--his lip curled--"or he would have suffered more than he did."

"We aren't arresting him for what happened in France while Elizabeth was still Queen of England, are we?" Lope asked. Even for a charge as heinous as sodomy, that might go too far.

But Baltasar Guzmán shook his head. "By no means, Senior Lieutenant. He has taken up with one of the boy actors in a company, and there can be no doubt he's stuck it in as far as it would go."

Referencing the 1586 incident is a nice touch.

De Vega's mind is running wild at this, mostly ruminating about the accusations Diego made about Guzman himself. He also has more practical questions - sodomy is a violation of the laws of the Church, and thus should be handled by the Inquisition rather than the soldiers who are normally more worried about treason.

quote:

"As it happens, Don Diego Flores de Valdés referred the matter to us," Guzmán replied. "It may yet come down to treason. Remember--not so long ago, your precious Shakespeare visited the house Anthony and Francis Bacon share. Why? We still don't know. We have no idea. But if we take Bacon and squeeze him till--"

"Squeeze him till the grease runs out of him," Lope broke in. Captain Guzmán looked blank. Lope explained: "Bacon, in English, means the same as tocino in Spanish."

They charge out at the head of a cavalry unit through Westminster. De Vega spots somebody that he thinks is Shakespeare running for cover, but Guzman vetos a diversion to investigate - even if it was Shakespeare, he has too many legitimate reasons to be in this part of town, and too many good reasons to want to stay far away from a group of charging horsemen for it to be anything more than a waste of precious time.

quote:

The troop of horsemen pounded up Drury Lane. Westminster seemed to Lope a different world from London: less crowded, with far bigger, far grander homes, homes that would have done credit to a Spanish nobleman. Only the abominable weather reminded him in which kingdom he dwelt.

Captain Guzmán reined in. He pointed to a particularly splendid half-timbered house. "That one," he said. "Senior Lieutenant de Vega, you will interpret for us."

"I am at your service, your Excellency." Lope dismounted.

So did Guzmán and the cavalrymen. A few of the latter held horses for the rest. The others drew swords and pistols and advanced on the estate behind the two officers. "I hope the heretics inside put up a fight and give us an excuse to sack the place," a trooper said hungrily. "God cover my arse with boils if you couldn't bring away a year's pay without half trying." A couple of other men growled greedy agreement.

"By God, if they give us any trouble, we will sack them," Captain Guzmán declared. "They're only Englishmen. They have no business standing in our way. They have no right to stand in our way." The cavalrymen nodded, staring avidly--wolfishly--at the house upon which they advanced.

A servant adswers the door, and Guzman demands that Anthony Bacon be produced at once. The cavalrymen surround the house to prevent escape, and the servant leaves to fetch somebody that can give answers.

quote:

The servant was as good as his word, coming back almost at once. Behind him strode a man made several inches taller by a high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. The newcomer's enormous, fancy ruff and velvet doublet proclaimed him a person of consequence. So did his manner; though no bigger than Lope (apart from that hat), he contrived to look down his nose at him. When he spoke, it was in elegant Latin: "What do you desire?"

So much for my translating, de Vega thought. "I desire to know who you are, to begin with," Captain Guzmán replied, also in Latin.

"I? I am Francis Bacon," the Englishman replied. He was in his late thirties--not far from Lope's age--with a long face, handsome but for a rather tuberous nose; a pale complexion; dark beard and eyebrows, the latter formidably expressive; and the air of a man certain he was talking to his inferiors. It made de Vega want to bristle.

It put Baltasar Guzmán's back up, too. "You are the younger brother of Anthony Bacon?" he snapped.

"I have that honor, yes. Who are you, and why do you wish to know?"

Guzmán quivered with anger. "I am an officer of his Most Catholic Majesty, Philip II of Spain, and I have come to arrest your brother, sir, for the abominable crime of sodomy. So much for your honor. Now where is he? Speak, or be sorry for your silence."

Francis Bacon had nerve. He eyed Guzmán as if the captain were something noxious he'd found floating in a mud puddle. "You may be an officer of the King of Spain, but this is England. Show me your warrant, or else get hence. For the house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defense against injury and violence as for his repose."

Guzmán's rapier cleared the scabbard with a wheep! Lope also drew his sword, backing his superior's play. The troopers with pistols behind them pointed their weapons at Bacon's face. "Damnation to you and damnation to your castle, sir," the dapper little noble ground out. "Here is my warrant. Obey it or die. The choice is yours."

For a moment, Lope thought Francis Bacon would let himself be killed on the spot. But then, very visibly, the Englishman crumpled. "I beseech your Lordships to be merciful to a broken reed," he said. "Ask. I will answer."

In Spanish, Captain Guzmán said to Lope, "You see? Fear of death makes cowards of them all."

"Yes, your Excellency," de Vega answered in the same language. Watching Bacon's face, he added, "Have a care, sir. I think he understands this tongue, whether he cares to speak it or not."

Francis insists that his brother is not at home, and he does not know where Anthony is - he left the house two days ago without a word.

De Vega thinks that this is proof Bacon was tipped off, possibly by a Spaniard who secretly shared his "sin". Guzman acknowledges the possibility, but also insists that they need to search the house to be sure. The cavalrymen are delighted at the opportunity to ransack the place.

quote:

The Spaniards went through the Bacons' home with a methodical ferocity that said they would have done well as robbers--and that might have said some of them had more than a little practice at the trade. They examined every space that might possibly have held a man, from the cellars to the kitchens to the attic. They knocked holes in several walls: some Protestants' houses had "preacher holes" concealed with marvelous cunning. A couple of troopers went out onto the roof; Lope listened to their boots clumping above his head.

They did not find Anthony Bacon.

His brother Francis asked, "How much of my own will they leave me?" By the way the troopers' pouches got fatter and fatter as time went by, the question seemed reasonable.

But Captain Guzmán was not inclined to listen to reason. His hand dropped to the hilt of his rapier once more. "You will cease your whining," he said in a soft, deadly voice. "Otherwise, I shall start inquiring amongst the younger servants here about your habits."

If he had any evidence that Francis Bacon liked boys, too, he hadn't mentioned it to Lope. But if that was a shot in the dark, it proved an inspired one. The younger Bacon sucked in a horrified breath and went even whiter than the portrait of his brother.

Francis Bacon (1561-1626) sits high among the ranks of most important scientists in history. He's credited with inventing the scientific method, pioneered the idea of forming scientific conclusions only by emperical data based on observation, and established a stark division between the fields of science (which can be studied) and the nature of God (which he held could only be learned by special revelation from God himself). He was also a political figure of considerable weight, servign as attorney general and Lord Chancellor to King James I. In 1621 accusations of corruption resulted in a few days imprisonment and a total bar from public office, and devoted his remaining years to his scientific works.

There is much debate over his sexuality. His failed courtship of a woman by the name of Elizabeth Hatton remained a sore point for his entire life, while his later marriage at the age of 45 to the 15 year old daughter of a wealthy member of Parliament was famously considered to be a strong love story, although it soured in a dispute over money.

Despite this, accusations of homosexuality persist, and there are contemporary sources to support the notion. Perhaps the strongest such accusation is the claim that he was having an affair with his "effeminate" manservant, and that this was the real reason he lost his political office.


Nothing is found, and they head back to the barracks empty handed - except for the loot they'd plundered. De Vega muses that nobody would dare repeat the rumors about Guzman now, then realizes that that does not mean the rumors are not true.


Chapter VI, Part 5: Shakespeare

quote:

THE EXPRESSION WILL KEMP aimed at Shakespeare lay halfway between a leer and a glower. "Well, Master Poet, what have you done with Tom?"

"Naught," Shakespeare answered, blinking. "Is he not here?" He looked around the Theatre. He'd just got there, a little later than he might have. He saw no sign of the company's best boy actor.

Kemp went on leering. "An you've done naught, what wish you you'd done with him?"

Shakespeare is alarmed, as any suspicion at all could prove fatal for someone in his position. Kemp is cut short by Jack Hungerford, who cuts him off sharply.

quote:

But from the tiring room came a sharp command: "Go to, Kemp! Give over."

Had Richard Burbage spoke to the clown like that, a fight would have blown up on the spot. Not even Kemp, though, failed to respect Jack Hungerford. He asked the tireman, "Know you somewhat o' this matter, then?"

"Ay, somewhat, and more than somewhat, the which is somewhat more than you," Hungerford answered.

"What's toward, then, Master Hungerford?" Shakespeare asked. Maybe, if everyone stuck to facts, no one would throw any more insults around. And maybe the horse will learn to sing, Shakespeare thought--one more bit of Grecian not quite folly he had from Christopher Marlowe.

"My knowledge is not certain, mind," the tireman said. Shakespeare braced himself to squelch Will Kemp before the clown could offer sardonic agreement there, but Kemp, for a wonder, simply waited for Hungerford to go on. And go on he did: "Some will know and some will have guessed Tom hath been . . . an object of desire for those whose affections stand in that quarter."

That proved too much for Kemp to resist. "When their affections stand," he said, "they want to stick 'em up his--"

He didn't finish. Somebody--Shakespeare didn't see who--shied a pebble or a clod of dirt at him. He let out an irate squawk. Before he could do anything more, Shakespeare broke in to say, "Carry on, Master Hungerford, I pray you."

"Gramercy. So I shall. As I said, he's a Ganymede fit to tempt any who'd fain be Jove. But even as Jove cast down Saturn, so Tom's Jove himself's been o'erthrown. Anthony Bacon's fled London, a short jump ahead of the dons."

A most convienent resolution to the problem. This would normally be a bit too convienent, but for one small factor.

Bacon has fled, off to the Continent, with Tom in tow.

quote:

Shakespeare groaned. Hungerford looked pained. Kemp preened. Shakespeare asked, "Tom was Bacon's ingle, then? I own I have seen Bacon here, though never to my certain knowledge overtopping the bounds of decency."

" ‘To my certain knowledge,' " Kemp echoed in a mocking whine. "Why think you he came hither? For the plays?" He laughed that idea to scorn, adding, "Quotha, his brother could write the like, did he please to do't."
This is a nod to the "Shakespeare was a pen name" theory. Sir Francis Bacon is a leading candidate for the "real" author of Shakespeare's plays among those few who subscribe to the notion.

quote:

Then, suddenly, Shakespeare raised a hand to his mouth to smother a laugh. What did Paul say in his epistle to the Romans? All things work together for good to them that love God, that was the verse. Now he couldn't have to worry about either asking Catholic Tom to play Boudicca or finding some good reason for not asking him. He hadn't just found a good reason--the Spaniards themselves had handed him one.

But the more he thought about it, the less inclined he was to laugh. Maybe the way that verse from Paul's epistle had worked out here was a sign God truly lay on his side, Lord Burghley's side, Elizabeth's side, England's side. Shakespeare hoped so with all his heart. Their side needed every scrap of help it could get.

This is what brings the situation into the realm of plausibility. Tom was a major threat to the plans of powerful men, and said powerful men just happen to have a double agent entrenched in the Spanish occupation government. It would be trivial for Phelippes to cast the necessary aspersions toward Bacon, and this would explain both why so prominent a figure found himself suddenly bereft of protection and how Bacon was tipped off that the Spanish were coming for him.

There are more rude jokes from Kemp, and the day's play is something of a disaster. Without Tom, they have to put another boy -by the name of Caleb- in Juliet's role, and he is not anything close to as able as Tom was.


quote:

Richard Burbage was not pleased. He bearded Shakespeare in the tiring room after the performance. "I am told this was the Spaniards' doing," he said heavily.

"I am told the same," Shakespeare answered.

Burbage glowered at him. "Were I not so told, I'd blame you. Since this madness of yours commenced, the company is stirred, as with a spoon--a long spoon."

"One fit to sup with devils?" Shakespeare asked, and Burbage gave him a cold nod. That hurt. To try to hide how much it hurt, Shakespeare busied himself with the lacings of his doublet. When he thought he could speak without showing what he felt, he said, "This came not from me, hath naught to do with me, and I am called a devil for't? How would you use me were I guilty of somewhat, having spent all your wrath upon mine innocence?"

Burbage reminds him of their recent conversation, and also brings up his own fears.

quote:

He might as well have kept silent. Burbage went on as if he had, repeating, "I lead this company. The land we stand on, the house we play in--we Burbages lease the one and own the other. D'you deny that?"

"How could I?" Shakespeare asked reasonably. "All true, every word of 't."

"All right, then. All right." Burbage's angry exhalation might have been the snort of a bull just before it lowered its head and charged. "Here's what I'd ask of you: if I in any way obstruct you, who takes my place, and what befalls me?"

Shakespeare wished he could pretend he didn't understand what his fellow player was talking about. He couldn't, not without making himself into a liar. Miserably, he said, "I know not."

"God drat you, then, Will!" Burbage's thunderous explosion made heads turn his way and Shakespeare's, all over the tiring room. Shakespeare wished he could sink through the floor as he'd sunk down through the trap door while playing the ghost in Prince of Denmark.

When the buzz of conversation picked up again and let him speak without having everyone in the crowded room hear what he said, he answered, "There is in this something you see not."

Burbage folded his arms across his broad chest. "That being?" By his tone, he believed he saw everything, and all too clearly.

But Shakespeare said, "An I prove a thing obstructive, I too am swept away for another, I know not whom. You reckon me agent, Dick. Would I were. Would I might persuade myself I were, for a man's always fain to think himself free. Agent I am none, though. I am but tool, tool to be cast aside quick as any other useless thing of wood or iron."

Burbage reluctantly admits the point, and Shakespeare heads home to work.

quote:

"Yes." Shakespeare let it go at that. He set his hat on his head. Having his own share of a player's vanity, he tugged it down low on his forehead to hide his receding hairline. He'd squandered a few shillings on nostrums and elixirs purported to make hair grow back. One smelled like tar, another like roses, yet another like cat piss. None did any good; over the past year or so, he'd stopped wasting his money.

The Lenten threepenny supper at his ordinary was a stockfish porridge. Stockfish took hours of soaking to soften and to purge itself of the salt that preserved it. Even then, it was vile. It was also cheap, and doubtless helped pad the place's profit.

For safety, he works on King Philip in public. The other play grows more dangerous the more of it is written. Back at the boarding house, he builds up the fire -much to the annoyance of his landlady- and attempts to start working on Boudicca. He is interrupted by Sellis's cat, Mommet. Shortly after, Sellis herself comes out looking for the cat.

quote:

She snapped her fingers and cooed. Mommet kept ignoring her. With a small, rueful shrug, she smiled at Shakespeare. "He does as he would, not as I would."

"Care killed a cat, or so they say," the poet replied.

Laughing, the cunning woman said, "If he die of care, he'll live forever. But how is it with you? Did he disturb you from your work? Do I?"

"No, and no," Shakespeare said, the first no truthful, the second polite. "I am well enough. How is't with yourself?"

"Well enough, as you say," Cicely Sellis answered. "Truly, I have been pleased to make your acquaintance, for your name I hear on everyone's lips."

"You ken my creditors, then?" Shakespeare said. "Better they should come to you for their fortunes than to me."

"A thing I had not heard was that you were in debt." She paused, then sent him a severe look. "Oh. You quibble on ‘fortune.' "

"Had I one, my lady, I should not quibble on't."

They share a few moments of banter, and Sellis begins to leave. Shakespeare stops her, seeking to know who is talking about him. He claims vanity, with some honesty, but is more concerned with the dangers of the plot he is involved in.

Sensible. Both Shakespeare and De Vega are proving to be quite able protagonists here, whatever one might say about their superiors.

quote:

"From whose lips?" Cicely Sellis pursed her own before answering, "I'll not tell you that, not straight out. Many who come to me would liefer not be known to resort to a cunning woman. There are those who'd call me witch."

"I believe it," Shakespeare said. What's in a name? he wondered. The English Inquisition could, no doubt, give him a detailed answer.

"Well you might," she said. "But believe also no day goes by when I hear not some phrase of yours, repeated by one who likes the sound, likes the sense, and knows not, nor cares, whence it cometh. ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' or--"

Shakespeare laughed. "Your pardon, I pray you, but that is not mine, and Kit Marlowe would wax wroth did I claim it."

"Oh." She laughed, too. "It's I who must cry pardon, for speaking of your words and speaking forth another's. What am I then but a curst unfaithful jade, like unto mine own cat? I speak sooth even so."

"You do me too much honor," Shakespeare said.

"I do you honor, certes, but too much? Give me leave to doubt it. Why, I should not be surprised to hear the dons admiring your plays."

He looked down at what he'd just written. Queen Boudicca, who had been flogged by the Roman occupiers of Britannia, and whose daughters had been violated, was urging the Iceni to revolt, saying,



"But mercy and love are sins in Rome and hell.

If Rome be earthly, why should any knee

With bending adoration worship her?

She's vicious; and, your partial selves confess,

Aspires to the height of all impiety;

Therefore 'tis fitter I should reverence

The thatched houses where the Britons dwell

In careless mirth; where the blest household gods

See nought but chaste and simple purity.

'Tis not high power that makes a place divine,

Nor that men from gods derive their line;

But sacred thoughts, in holy bosoms stor'd,

Make people noble, and the place ador'd."



What would the dons say if they heard those lines? What will the dons say when they hear those lines? He laughed. He couldn't help himself. Give me leave to doubt they will admire them.

As with King Philip, Turtledove is wise enough not to attempt writing original blank verse of his own. He cites John Fletcher's Bonduca as the primary source of the lines attributed here to Shakespeare, sitched together out of context and with a few edits.

Sellis mistaking Marlowe's work for Shakespeare's is a lovely touch.


Sellis continues, mentioning De Vega, then asking if she should attempt to question her Spanish customers about what they think of Shakespeare.

quote:

"The dons . . . come to see you, Mistress Sellis?" Shakespeare said slowly.

"In good sooth, they do," she answered. "Why should they not? Be they not men like other men? Have they not fears like other men? Sicknesses like other men? Fear not their doxies they are with child, or poxed, or both at once? Ay, they see me. Some o' the dons'd liefer go to the swarthy wandering Egyptians, whom in their own land they have also, but they see me."

"Very well. I believe't. An it please you, though, I would not have my name in your mouth, no, nor in the Spaniards' ears neither."

Shakespeare thought he spoke quietly, calmly. But Mommet's fur puffed up along his back. The cat's eyes, reflecting the firelight, flared like torches as it hissed and spat. By the way it stood between Shakespeare and its mistress, it might have been a watchdog defending its home.

"Easy, my poppet, my chick, easy." Cicely Sellis bent and stroked the cat. Little by little, its fur settled. Once it began to purr once more, she looked up at Shakespeare. "Fear not. It shall be as you desire."

"For which I thank you."

"I'll leave you to't, then," she said, scooping Mommet up into her arms. "Good night and good fortune."

She spoke as if she could bestow the latter. Shakespeare wished someone could. He would gladly take it wherever it came from.

This is a nice end to the chapter. The Sellis character is an interesting one, and I like how Turtledove gives her just enough strangeness to seem like she might actually be a witch - most authors would have gone hard on the mundane explanation.

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 03:41 on Mar 27, 2020

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Safety Biscuits posted:

Quick point of information here - you've confused two Queen Marys. Mary I, Queen of England, was a Catholic, but not a Stuart; she was Henry VIII's daughter by Catherine of Aragon, and therefore Elizabeth I's half-sister. She reigned from 1552-57, and was married to Philip II of Spain - the guy who organised the Spanish Armada. Elizabeth succeeded her after her death.

The Stuart Mary was Mary, Queen of Scots, aka Mary I of Scotland, Elizabeth I's cousin. She was the daughter of King James V of Scotland, and was forced to flee Scotland for England. Unfortunately for her, she had a claim to the throne of England; she was descended from Henry VIII, and was Catholic, unlike Elizabeth. Therefore, Catholics regarded her as Henry's rightful heir. This resulted in at least one plot involving placing her on the throne, which is why Elizabeth had her executed in 1587.

Thanks. I thought Mary Stuart actually held the position of Queen of England for a brief time, but that seems to be a mistake. That does weaken the justification for Macbeth being allowed that I came up with (This was not a Turtledove thing, this was a "I am trying to make this aspect make sense in the context of the story" type of thing, if that wasn't clear, so that's entirely my error), and I'll make an appropriate edit.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter Seven, Part I: De Vega

quote:

LOPE DE VEGA looked up from the paper. "I pray you, forgive me, Master Shakespeare," he said, "but your character is not easy for one unaccustomed to it."

"You are not the first to tell me so," the English poet answered, "and I thus conclude the stricture holds some truth."

They sat on the edge of the stage in the Theatre, legs dangling down towards the dirt where the groundlings would stand. Behind them, swords clashed as players practiced their moves for the afternoon's show. Looking over his shoulder, Lope could tell at a glance which of them had used a blade in earnest and which only strutted on the stage.

But that was not his worry. The nearly illegible words on the sheet in his left hand were. He pointed to one passage that had, once he'd deciphered it, particularly pleased him. "This is your heretic Queen Elizabeth, speaking to his Most Catholic Majesty's commander as she goes to the Tower?"

Shakespeare nodded. "Just so."

"It hath the ring of truth," Lope said, and began to read:



" ‘Stay, Spanish brethren! Gracious conqueror,

Victorious Parma, rue the tears I shed,

A mother's tears in passion for her land:

And if thy Spain were ever dear to thee,

O! think England to be as dear to me.

Sufficeth not that I am brought hither

To beautify thy triumphs and thy might,

Captive to thee and to thy Spanish yoke,

But must my folk be slaughter'd in the streets,

For valiant doings in their country's cause?

O! if to fight for lord and commonweal

Were piety in thine, it is in these.' "



"Will it serve?" Shakespeare asked anxiously.

"Most excellent well," Lope replied at once. "It is, in sooth, a fine touch, her pleading for mercy thus. How came you to shape it so?"

"I bethought me of what she might tell King Philip himself, did he come to London, then made her speak to his general those same words," Shakespeare said.

"Ah." Sitting, Lope couldn't bow, but did take off his hat and incline his head to show how much the answer pleased him. "Most clever. And then the Duke of Parma's reply is perfect--perfect, I tell you." He read again:



" ‘At mine uncle's bidding, I spare your life,

For mercy is above this sceptr'd sway:

'Tis mighty in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

And blesseth him that gives and him that takes.' "



"If it please you, I am content," the Englishman murmured.

"Please me? You are too modest, sir!" Lope cried. While Shakespeare--modestly--shook his head, the Spaniard went on, "Would King Philip might read these wondrous words you write in his behalf. As I live, he'd praise 'em. Know you the Escorial, outside Madrid?"

"I have heard of't," Shakespeare said.

" 'Twill be his Most Catholic Majesty's monument forevermore," Lope said. "And your King Philip, meseems, will live as long."

"May he have many years," Shakespeare said in a low voice. "May this play remain for years unstaged."

Lope crossed himself. "Yes, may it be so, though I fear me the day will come sooner than that." He tapped the sheet of paper with a fingernail. "I shall take back to my superiors a report most excellent of this."

I am unable to determine exactly which passages that Turtledove appropriated for these lines, but they hold together well enough that it isn't obvious that this is a repurposing.

Kemp comes in, demanding a role. De Vega is aghast, but Shakespeare backs Kemp.


quote:

To his surprise, Shakespeare stirred beside him. "No, Lieutenant, haply not," he said, and Lope felt betrayed. Shakespeare went on, "Sweeten the posset with some honey, and down it goes, and sinks deep. Without the same . . ." He shook his head.

"I have trouble believing this," Lope said.

"Then who's the fool?" Will Kemp said. He went on, " ‘'A was the first that ever bore arms.' " A sudden shift of voice for, " ‘Why, he had none.' " Back to the original: " ‘What? art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says, Adam digged; could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not, confess thyself--' "

"Confess thyself a blockhead," Lope broke in. "What is this nonsense?"

Quietly, Shakespeare said, "It is from my Prince of Denmark, sir, the which you were kind enough to praise not long since."

Kemp bent and took Lope's head in both hands. The Spaniard tried to twist away, but could not; the clown was stronger than he looked. Solemnly--and, Lope realized after a moment, doing an excellent imitation of Richard Burbage--Kemp intoned, " ‘Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him.' "--as if Lope's head were the skull of the dead clown in the play. " ‘I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.' " He kissed Lope de Vega on the mouth and let him go.

Furious, Lope sprang to his feet. His rapier hissed free. "Whoreson knave! Thou diest!" he roared.

"Hold!" Shakespeare said. "Give over! He made his point with words."

Kemp seemed too stupid to care whether he lived or died. Pointing to Lope, he jeered, "He hath no words, and so needs must make his with the sword." With a mocking bow, he added, "Fear no more kisses. I'm not so salt a rogue that you shall make a Bacon of me."

"All the contagions of the south light on you!" Lope said. But he did not thrust at the hateful clown.

He regretted his restraint a moment later, for Kemp bowed once more, and answered, "Why, here you are."

"Go to, both of you!" Shakespeare said. "Give over! Master de Vega, this once I will pray pardon in the clown's name, for--"

"I want no pardon, not from the likes of him," Kemp broke in, which almost got him spitted yet again.

"Silence! One word more shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee," the English poet told him. Shakespeare turned back to Lope. "I will pray pardon in's name, sir, for how else but by clowning shall a clown answer?"

Breathing heavily, de Vega sheathed his blade. "For your sake, Master Shakespeare, I will put by my quarrel."

But it was not for Shakespeare's sake, or not altogether, that he took it no further. Shakespeare gave him an honorable excuse, yes, and he seized on it. But Will Kemp--demons of hell torment him, Lope thought--had been right, and had proved himself right, no matter how offensively he'd done it. Lope wouldn't admit that to the clown, but couldn't help admitting it to himself.

"Kemp insults somebody and almost starts a brawl" scenes are a dime-a-dozen in this book, but this is the first time that somebody nearly kills him twice in a brief encounter for his behavior. A nice insight into De Vega here as a character here.



Shakespeare assures De Vega that Kemp will be perfectly respectable on the stage when King Phillip is performed. De Vega insists that Kemp belongs in an asylum.

De Vega heads back to report, gives a enthusiastic summary of the developing play to a delighted Enrique, and then makes his report to Guzman.

quote:

Baltasar Guzmán listened attentively to Lope. When de Vega started to quote the English, though, his superior held up a hand. "Spare me that. I don't know enough of the language to follow. Give me the gist, en español."

"Certainly, your Excellency," Lope said, and obeyed.

When he'd finished, Guzmán nodded. "This all sounds well enough, Lieutenant. I have one question, though." Lope nodded, too, looking as if he awaited nothing more eagerly. Captain Guzmán asked, "Can you be sure no treason lurks here, that an Englishman would hear but you do not? You have harped on Shakespeare's subtlety before."

The question was better, more serious, more important, than Lope had looked for. "I--" he began, and then shook his head. "No, sir, I cannot be sure of that. I am fluent in English, but not perfect. Still, the Master of the Revels will pass on the play before it appears. I may miss this or that. He will not."

"Yes. That is so." Captain Guzmán nodded and looked relieved. "And Sir Edmund is most reliable." He clicked his tongue between his teeth. "I have to make sure he stays reliable, eh?"

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" de Vega remarked.

"Just so--who watches the watchmen?" Guzmán turned Latin into Spanish. He eyed Lope, who felt a sudden horrible fear the little nobleman might decide he ought to do that job. But Guzmán shook his head, reading de Vega's thought. "You'll stay where you are. You're doing well there, and I have no one else who could take your place. So your precious Shakespeare really is writing this play, eh?"

"He really is, your Excellency," Lope answered.

"Good. Very good," Captain Guzmán said. "One more English whore--pay him, and he does what you want."

Here, Turtledove actually justifies the way the Spanish are treating Shakespeare. The "one more whore" attitude requires a ton of arrogance, but it is a kind of arrogance that has proved very common with rulers.


Chapter Seven, Part II: Shakespeare

quote:

SHAKESPEARE WAS TIRED of cheese and stockfish and even of fresh fish. What he wanted was a beefsteak, hot and sizzling and full of juice. When he grumbled to Kate in the ordinary, she leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice. "You can have what you crave, though not for the threepence of a common supper."

There is a room upstairs where he can get such a thing for a shilling - 12 pence, or four times what it would ordinarily cost. He declines this extravagance, both for the cost and out of concern for the reisk of betraying himself in the smallest of ways. Unfortunately, he recieves an unwelcome visitor.

quote:

He'd almost finished his unsatisfying Lenten supper when someone who was not a regular strode into the ordinary and looked around. Shakespeare needed a moment to realize that, though he hadn't seen the fellow here before, he knew him even so. The newcomer recognized him at the same moment, and walked over towards his table. "Master Shakespeare, an I mistake not," he said.

"Indeed, Constable Strawberry," Shakespeare answered. "Give you good even."

"And you." The constable perched on a stool. He waved to Kate. "A cup of sherris-sack, and yarely."

As the serving woman brought it, Shakespeare thanked heaven he hadn't brought Boudicca to the ordinary--although, he reminded himself uneasily, Walter Strawberry could also have come to the house where he lodged. Fighting that unease, he said, "What would you?"

"I'm turning up clods, you might say," Strawberry replied gravely. He nodded, pleased with his own turn of phrase. "Aye, I'm turning up clods."

See yourself in a glass, and you'll turn up a great one. The thought flickered through Shakespeare's mind. He bit back the urge to fling it in Strawberry's face. Will Kemp wouldn't have hesitated, but Kemp had less to lose. Wearing his polite player's mask, Shakespeare asked, "And what have you turned up?"

Strawberry has discovered that Shakespeare quarreled with Martin not long before the murder. Shakespeare explains quite seinsibly -and with a false layer of annoyance covering his fear- that this was a routine argument - Martin wanted to change the new play, and Shakespeare didn't want it changed. Strawberry acknowledges the point.

quote:

"Then why"--Shakespeare almost said whyfore himself--"come you here?"

"Fear not, Master Shakespeare. I draw nearer the occasion of my occasion, so I do." The constable took a scrap of paper from his wallet, peered down at it, and then put it back. "D'you ken a man named Frizer?"

"Frizer?" the poet echoed. Strawberry nodded. Shakespeare shook his head and shrugged. "No, sir. That name I wot not of."

"Ingram Frizer, he calls himself," Strawberry went on.

Ice ran through Shakespeare. He hoped his surprise and dismay didn't show. That loud-mouthed knifeman who'd asked if Geoff Martin was causing trouble . . . The poet made himself shrug again. "I am none the wiser, sir."

"Ah, well. I've said the same thing, the very same thing, many a time, so I have." The constable held up his mug and called to Kate: "Here, my dear, fetch me another, if you'd be so genderous."

"So can she scarce help being," Shakespeare remarked.

"Ah, in sooth? That likes me in a woman, genderosity, so it does. I thank you for learning me of it." Strawberry laid a finger by the side of his nose and winked. When the serving woman refilled his mug, he patted her backside.

She poured wine in his lap. He let out a startled squawk. "Oh, your pardon, I pray you," Kate said sweetly, and went back behind the counter.

Strawberry fumed. "Methought you said she was genderous of her person," he grumbled, dabbing at himself. "I saw no hint of that--marry, none." He sipped what was left of the wine, his expression still sour.

"A misunderstanding, belike," Shakespeare said.

"Ay, truly, for I understood the miss to be of her person . . ." The constable took another pull at the mug, set it down, and looked at Shakespeare as if just realizing he was there. "Ingram Frizer," he said again.

"I told you, sir, I know not the man."

"You told me. Oh, yes, you told me." Constable Strawberry nodded and then kept on nodding, as if he ran on clockwork. "But you ken a man who knows the aforespoken Frizer."

"Not to my knowledge," Shakespeare said.

"Ah, knowledge." Strawberry was still nodding, perhaps wisely. "I know all manner of things I have no knowledge of. But I say what I say, the which being so in dispect of the man."

"What man?" Shakespeare demanded, hoping a show of temper would mask his growing fear. "I pray you, tell me who it is quickly and speak apace. One more inch of delay is a South Sea of discovery. Take the cork out of your mouth that I may drink your tidings. Pour this concealed man out of your mouth as wine comes out of a bottle."

"As you like it, sir, I shall. His name is Nick Skeres. Will you tell me you ken him not? Eh? Will you?"

Constable Strawberry, quite frankly, is an idiot. Barely able to speak his own language, sarcasm and wit are completely beyond him. Yet he not only has figured out who killed Martin, he's traced the line further to Skeres. Or, in other words, he has all the pieces of the puzzle in his hands in a matter of weeks - Martin was killed shortly before the 40 day Lenten fast was begun, and it is still Lent now. This makes the Spaniards not noticing it far harder to buy.

Shakespeare passes it off - he admits to having met Skeres, but insists that these are chance meetings and he doesn't know Skeres well enough to aid in the investigation. Stawberry ponders this for a time, until his slow brain finally decides he's going to make no progress here and leaves.

Kate, of course is furious, and threatens to leave Shakespeare over Strawberry's behavior. She is appeased by Shakespeare's assurances that Strawberry is just a cop, no friend of his, and you can't expect better behavior from one such as him. She admits this, and resolves to bathe at the first opportunity to wash away his touch.

quote:

He had intended going back to his lodging and working on Boudicca there. He'd just sat down in front of the fire, though, when Cicely Sellis came out of her room with a swarthy fellow who lifted his hat to her, said, "Muchas gracias," and then vanished into the night.

As casually as he could, Shakespeare said, "That was a Spaniard." He hoped his words covered the pounding of his heart.

The cunning woman nodded. "He is . . . friend to a woman who hath oft come hither, and so thought to ask of me a question of his own."

"I hope he paid well," Shakespeare said.

Cicely Sellis nodded again, and smiled. "He did indeed. The dons are fools with their money, nothing less. Whether I gave him full . . . satisfaction I know not, though I dare hope."

"Ah." Shakespeare had been about to ask what the Spaniard had wanted, and had been afraid she wouldn't tell him. Now he thought he knew, especially as the fellow was well into his middle years. "He hath a difficulty in rising to the occasion?"

"E'en so." Amusement glinted in Cicely Sellis' eye.

Shakespeare asks for her remedy - out of pure curiosty, of course, and she admits that her remedy is that men believe her.

quote:

"How not? How could it be otherwise?"

"How? I'll tell you straight. What's the common curse of mankind? Folly and ignorance. To wisdom man's a fool that will not yield. I do now mind me of a saying, ‘The fool doth think he is wise'--and you may as well forbid the sea for to obey the moon, as or by oath remove or counsel shake the fabric of man's folly. That is truth, or there be liars."

"You think not much of them God made."

"I think God made them--fools," Shakespeare said. "Or will you quarrel?"

"Not I," Cicely Sellis said. "Never let it be said I could do such an unchristian thing as that. And I'll leave you to your work now, good sir, lest you find reason to quarrel with me." She dropped him a curtsy that might have come from a noblewoman--not that he'd ever had a noblewoman drop him a curtsy--and drew back into her room. "God give you good even," she said, closing the door behind her.

He builds up a fire, and begins writing the Roman reaction to the Iceni rebellion.

quote:

"And you," Shakespeare answered, though he wasn't sure she heard. He perched on the stool in front of the table, then nervously got up and put more wood on the fire. The Widow Kendall would complain in the morning when she found it gone, but she wasn't here now, and Shakespeare needed the light. He also needed to take a deep breath and calm himself before setting pen to paper on Boudicca. First Constable Strawberry, then that whoreson Spaniard . . . 'Swounds, an I die not of an apoplexy, 'twill be the hand of God on my shoulder, holding me safe from harm.

It was, perhaps, not by accident that his mind and his pen turned to the revolt Britain, under the queen of the Iceni, raised against the Romans, and to the Romans' horrified response. How would they feel, seeing a province they thought subdued rise and smite 'em? he wondered.

His pen began to move. Poenius Postumus, a Roman officer, began to speak on the page:



"Nor can Rome task us with impossibilities,

Or bid us fight against a flood; we serve her,

That she may proudly say she hath good soldiers,

Not slaves to choke all hazards. Who but fools,

That make no difference betwixt certain dying

And dying well, would fling their fames and fortunes

Into this Britain-gulf, this quicksand-ruin,

That, sinking, swallows us! what noble hand

Can find a subject fit for blood there? or what sword

Room for his execution? what air to cool us,

But poison'd with their blasting breaths and curses,

Where we lie buried quick above the ground,

And are, with labouring sweat and breathless pain,

Kill'd like slaves, and cannot kill again?"



Shakespeare paused to read what he'd just written, and nodded in satisfaction. He started to add something to Poenius' speech, but his pen chose that moment to run dry. Muttering, hoping he wouldn't lose his inspiration, he inked it and resumed:



"Set me to lead a handful of my men

Against an hundred thousand barbarous slaves,

That have march'd name by name with Rome's best doers?

Serve 'em up some other meat; I'll bring no food

To stop the jaws of all those hungry wolves;

My regiment's mine own."




He nodded again. Yes, that would do nicely. Poenius would later kill himself for shame at not having joined Suetonius' victorious army. Meanwhile, his anguished despair would move the play forward--and make the groundlings cheer his British, female foe.

After the Romans first conquered Britain, Tacitus said, they'd flogged Boudicca and violated her daughters. Rumor said the Spaniards had raped England's Virgin Queen after capturing her. Shakespeare didn't know whether rumor was true, but he intended to use it in the play.

But not tonight, he thought, yawning. He began to rest his head on his arms, then jerked upright with alarm tingling through him. If he fell asleep in front of the hearth and someone else got a look at what he was writing . . . If that happened, he was a dead man, and Lord Burghley's plan dead with him. He made himself get up and put away the deadly dangerous manuscript before he went to bed. His last thought as slumber seized him was, I may not make this business easier, but I will not make it harder.


There's one thing I really like about this section - Shakespeare's pen running out of ink and needing to be dipped. This would have been a routine annoyance and interruption for most until the middle of the 20th century when disposable ballpoints became ubiquiotus, but is practically a foreign concept today. Of equal interest is Shakespeare cheerfully using a doubtful rumor for his own purposes. He doesn't know if Elizabeth really was violated, and doesn't particularly care - it suits his purposes, and he's using it.

Chapter VII, Part 3: De Vega

De Vega enters his quarters, expecting to have to wake up Diego. He is shocked to find Deigo awake, and horrified to find him eating roast beef. He tears into Diego, threatining to give him to the Inquisition.

quote:

Diego shot him a resentful stare. "What are you doing here, anyway? When you didn't come back and you didn't come back, I thought you were off screwing your new Englishwoman. If you hadn't walked in when you weren't supposed to, you never would have seen me."

"And you still would have sinned," Lope said.

"And so what?" his servant replied. "God would have known, and maybe my confessor, but nobody else. I'm not doing any harm."

Lope pointed to the chunk of beef. "Get rid of that. Wrap a rag around it so nobody can see what it is and get rid of it. You didn't think anyone would catch you, but now somebody has. And do you know what that means? Do you, Diego?"

"What?" Diego asked apprehensively.

"It means you are mine," de Vega answered. "Mine, do you hear me? I hold your life in my hand, and if I choose to squeeze. . . ." He held out his right hand, palm up, and slowly folded it into a fist. He made the fist as tight as he could, to make sure Diego got the idea.

His servant shuddered. "You wouldn't do such a thing, señor . . . would you?"

That last frightened question, one Diego surely didn't want to ask but also one he couldn't hold back, told Lope just how worried he was. "Maybe I wouldn't," Lope said. "But, on the other hand, maybe I would, too. That depends on you, don't you think?"

"On me?" Diego didn't like the sound of that.

"On you," Lope said again. "Maybe you were just hungry this once, as you say. If you were, maybe we can forget about it. If you keep your nose clean from now on--if you stay awake, by God, and if you do all the things you're supposed to do--then nobody needs to know about it. But if you think you can go on being lazy and useless, well, even if I can't wake you up, I'd bet the inquisitors damned well can."

Diego looked sullen. "That's blackmail."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" de Vega agreed cheerfully. "A shame I need to blackmail you into doing what you ought to be doing anyhow, but if that's what it takes, that's what I'll do. You will stay awake from now on, won't you?"
I just love that exchange

Diego is not happy with the situation, which alarms De Vega. He has a solution to this - he writes out a sealed letter detailing the event, and informs Diego that that letter will be given to somebody who will open it if anything unfortunate should happen.

quote:

Out beyond the barred door, Diego cursed quietly. His blasphemies were music to Lope's ears. Then Diego picked up the boots; their heels thumped together. Lope hugged himself with glee as he got into bed. Not even the threat of the Scottish border had turned Diego into a tolerable servant. The threat of the Inquisition, though, seemed to have turned the trick.

And when Lope woke the next morning, he found Diego already up and waiting for him. "Here are your boots, señor," the servant said tonelessly. All the mud and scuff marks were gone from them; the leather gleamed with grease. Still with no expression in his voice, Diego went on, "What else do you require?"

"Do I hear rain outside?" Lope asked. Diego nodded. De Vega said, "Well, in that case, you can fetch me my good wool cloak, and get me a hat with an extra wide brim."

"Just as you say," Diego answered, and went to do it. He didn't grumble. He didn't even yawn. It was like a miracle. Lope had no idea how long it would last, but aimed to enjoy it while it did. Taking the letter he'd written with him, he went off to get his breakfast. Even the porridge the barracks kitchen served up tasted better than usual this morning.

With a bowl of barley mush and a cup of wine inside him, he went to see his superior. As usual, Captain Baltasar Guzmán's servant intercepted him before he got through the door. "You're looking cheerful this morning, Senior Lieutenant," Enrique remarked.

After exchanging pleasantries with Enrique, he heads in to see Guzman. Before anything else, he gives Guzman the "To Be Opened In The Event Of" letter he prepared. Guzman naturally accepts it. He then heads off to the theatre, where Burbage informs him that Shakespeare has failed to turn up on time.

Turtledove loves the Dead Man Writing trope he employs here. I can think of at least two more works where such letters are written, maybe three. This is understandable - it is a classic because it works. Also, great use of the chapter break and POV format - show that he's missing before you show why he's missing.


Chapter VII, Part 4: Shakespeare

quote:

"KEEP DRY, NOW," the Widow Kendall called out as William Shakespeare left her house to go to the Theatre. With rain drumming down, the advice struck him as useless, but was no doubt kindly meant. He nodded and hurried away.

His belly growled as he hurried through Bishopsgate. Lent wore on him. But he dared not break the fast, not in this year of all years. He was much more virtuous than he might have been, to make sure the Spaniards paid him no special notice.

"Master Shakespeare?"

The voice came out of the rain. Shakespeare jumped. "Who is it?" he asked sharply, peering through the dripping early-morning gloom.

"Here I am, your honor."

Shakespeare's heart sank. He'd heard that sly, whining voice before, seen that clever, ugly face. "What would you, Master Skeres?" he said. "Let it be brief, an you can. I must to the Theatre."

Nicholas Skeres shook his head. "I fear me not, or not yet. You needs must come with me, and straightaway."

"Wherefore?" Shakespeare demanded.

Skeres' smile showed his bad teeth. It also made Shakespeare want to drive them down his throat. "The wherefore of't's not for me to say," Skeres answered. "Still and all, them as sent me, they'd not be happy did I come back to 'em solus."

"And who did send you?"

"Them you'll meet when I fetch you thither." From everything Shakespeare had seen, Nick Skeres delighted in being uninformative. He also delighted in the power he held over Shakespeare. When he said, "Come," the snap of command filled his voice.

And Shakespeare had to go with him. He knew as much. He hated it, but he knew it. He did say, "They'll miss me, up in Shoreditch."

Nick Skeres shrugged. "Better that than they miss you whose man I am." He turned away towards the southwest. Heart sinking, Shakespeare followed, however much he wanted to go in the opposite direction.

A horse trying to haul a wagon full of barrels through the muck blocked a narrow street. The wagon had bogged down. The driver rained blows on the horse's back. With all its strength, the beast strained against the weight and the mud. Then, with a noise like a pistol shot, it broke a leg. Its scream was like that of a woman on the rack.

"Cut its throat," Skeres said with a laugh. "It's knacker's meat now."

So it is, Shakespeare thought grimly. And you'd cut my throat as heartlessly, you bloody, bawdy villain, did I likewise break down in your employ. Nick Skeres laughed again, as if to say he knew what was going through Shakespeare's mind--knew and didn't care. And that was all too likely true.

And here we see Shakespeare disappearing. There wasn't much mystery as to who took him - De Vega would have known if the Spanish troops or the Inquisition had grabbed him - but we still don't know why.


Skeres leads Shakespeare off, to a house not far from the Spanish barracks. They do not enter the house, but head into a garden behind it.

quote:

"Why, the men who're fain to see you. Who else?" Nick Skeres replied. Shakespeare glared. The other man looked back, unperturbed and resolutely close-mouthed. He took Shakespeare towards a rose arbor that no doubt perfumed the air and gave welcome shade when the sun shone high and hot, but that seemed as badly out of season as the rest of the garden now. As Shakespeare drew closer to it, he saw through the rain that two men sat in that poor shelter--waiting for him?

" 'Sblood, Master Skeres, they'll take their deaths," he exclaimed.

Shrugging, Skeres answered, "An they fret not, why should you?" He sounded altogether indifferent. The milk of human kindness ran thin in him, if it ran at all.

When Shakespeare ducked his way into the arbor, both waiting men slowly got to their feet. "God give you good morrow," Sir William Cecil rumbled.

Shakespeare bowed low. "And you, your Grace," he said. "But . . . should you not go inside, where . . . where it's warm and dry?" Where I may hope you'll die not on the instant, was what he meant. Lord Burghley was paler and puffier than he had been the previous autumn; he wheezed with every breath he took, and shivered despite being swaddled in furs.

But he shook his head even so. "Who knows what ears lurk within? As the matter advanceth, so advanceth also the need to keep't secret. And here, in sooth, we speak under the rose." He chuckled rheumily. Despite the laugh and his bold words, though, his lips had a bluish cast that alarmed Shakespeare. He gathered strength and went on, "When last we met, I told you my son would take this matter forward. Allow me to present you to him now. Robert, here is Master Shakespeare, the poet."

"I am your servant, sir," Shakespeare murmured, bowing to the younger man as he had to the elder.

Robert Cecil gave back a bow of his own. He was about Shakespeare's age, with a long, thin, pale face made longer still by the pointed chin beard he wore and by his combing his seal-brown hair back from his forehead. He would not have been a tall man even had he stood straight; a crooked back robbed him of several more inches. But when he said, "I take no small pleasure at making your acquaintance, Master Shakespeare, being an admirer of your dramas," Shakespeare bowed again, knowing he'd got praise worth having. The younger Cecil's voice was higher and lighter than his father's, but no less full of sharp, even prickly, intelligence.

They ask about the status of the play. Shakespeare's answer of "the end of spring" as a due date satisfies them, and a mention of King Philip prompts Cecil to give him an extra 50 pounds.

"Certes, Father." Robert Cecil reached under his cloak. His hands were long and thin and pale, too--hands a musician might have wished he had. He gave Shakespeare a small but nicely heavy leather sack. "We cannot let ourselves be outbid."

"By God, sir--" Shakespeare began, alarmed back into English.

The younger Cecil waved him to silence. "Did we fear betrayal from you, we'd work with another. This is for our pride's sake, not suffering our foes to outdo us."

quote:

No matter what they say, this is clearly a case of making sure that Shakespeare is an honest man - the kind that stays bought.

Shakespeare has a warning for them.

[quote]
In aid of which . . . "Constable Strawberry knows Ingram Frizer's name," the poet warned.

"We know of Constable Strawberry," Lord Burghley said with another wet chuckle. "Fear not on that score."

Robert Cecil nodded. "If he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse."

"His wits are not so blunt as, God help us, I would desire them," Shakespeare said.

"Comparisons are odorous," the younger Cecil observed, proving he had indeed marked Walter Strawberry's style, "but not Hercules could have knocked out his brains, for he had none."

"Belike," Shakespeare said, "yet some of what your wisdoms would not have discovered, that shallow fool hath brought to light."

"He'll find no more," Robert Cecil said. With that Shakespeare had to be content--or rather, less than content.
The Cecils are idiots. Anyone who's dug up that much is a massive danger, and the fact that Strawberry obviously has no brains makes it far worse. If he can ferret out that much, you're being way too obvious.

They send Skeres away, and Cecil demands recitations from the play, since he won't live to see it finished. After the first passage, he stops for their reaction.

quote:

He waited. The two Cecils looked at each other. Slowly, magisterially, Lord Burghley nodded. So did his son, who despite his briskness deferred to the old man's opinion. Shakespeare felt as if he'd just received the accolade. Robert Cecil said, " 'Twill serve. Beyond doubt, 'twill serve. Have you more?"

Shakespeare beamed. "By my troth, you know how to please a poet!" William Cecil laughed; Robert allowed himself a thin chuckle. Shakespeare continued, "This is Caratach, Boudicca's brother-in-law and the great warlord of the Iceni--"

"We know our Tacitus, Master Shakespeare," Robert Cecil broke in.

"Your pardon, I pray," Shakespeare said. "The groundlings, however, will not: thus I needs must make it plain."

"Indeed. You know your craft best, and so 'tis I must ask your pardon," the younger Cecil said. "Carry on."

"So I shall. This is Caratach, I say, speaking to Hengo, who is his young nephew, and Boudicca's."

"And who is not in the text of the Annals," William Cecil declared in a voice that brooked no contradiction.

"In sooth, your Grace, he is not," Shakespeare agreed, "but I need him for the play, and so summoned him to being."

The two Cecils put their heads together. Sir William Cecil said, "Again, Master Shakespeare, we take your point. The play's the thing. Let us hear it."


This is interesting mostly because these are very much relevant to the author. Not just somebody like Shakespeare, dramatizing history for a play, but for Turtledove himself. Setting a scene so that you don't have to have studied the era to follow it, and creating characters to fill in the gaps is an essential part of his own work.

After more recitation, they summon Skeres to take Shakspeare away.

quote:


I'll do't, sir. You can depend on Nick Skeres." Shakespeare could imagine no one on whom he less wanted to depend. But nobody in this mad game cared a farthing for what he wanted. Skeres turned to him with a half mocking grin. "You may not know't, Master Shakespeare, but I reckon you the safest man in London these days."

"What mean you?" Shakespeare asked.

That grin got wider. "There's not a ferret, not a flick, not a foist, not a high lawyer in the city but knows your name and visage--and knows you're to be let alone. God help him who sets upon you in Lord Burghley's despite."

"And my son's," Sir William Cecil said. "He will outdo me, as any man should pray his son will do."

Shakespeare wondered about that on several counts. He'd known plenty of men, his own father among them, who wanted to see their sons as less than themselves, not greater. More than a few of that type, far from advancing their sons, did everything they could to hold them back. And Robert Cecil, though surely a man of formidable wit, lacked his father's indomitable will. Maybe his slight frame and twisted back accounted for that. Or maybe the younger man would have been the lesser even had he been born straight. In the end, who but God could know such things?

And what is a playwright but a man who seeks to make a god of himself and creatures of his characters? Shakespeare shoved the blasphemous thought aside, though surely it had crossed the mind of everyone who'd ever touched pen to paper in hopes of writing something worth going up on stage.
You might recall that these same blaspemous thoughts were earlier brought up in reference to De Vega, an excellently drawn parallel between the two literary giants.

He takes his leave, and heads off toward the theatre when Skeres allows him to separate.

quote:

When Shakespeare got to the Theatre, one of Jack Hungerford's helpers pointed to him and let out a delighted whoop: "God be praised, he's here!"

"In sooth, God be praised!" Richard Burbage boomed from center stage--his usual haunt. "We'd begun to fear you'd gone poor Geoff Martin's way, and the great and wise Constable Strawberry would summon one of us for to identify your moral remainders." Like most players worth their hire, Burbage had a knack for mimicking anyone he chanced to meet. He made no worse hash of the language than the constable himself, though.

"Some of us were less afeard than others," Will Kemp said. Shakespeare wondered--as he was no doubt intended to wonder--how the clown meant that. Had he meant to say some people remained confident nothing had happened to Shakespeare? Or did he mean some people wouldn't have cared had something happened? Better not to know.

"I pray your pardon, friends," Shakespeare said. "I was summoned to see someone, and had no choice but compliance."

He hoped the company would take that to mean he'd been called before Don Diego Flores de Valdés. Kemp, as was his way, drew a different meaning from it. His hands shaped an hourglass in the air. Several players laughed. So did Shakespeare.

His laughter abruptly curdled when Burbage said, "Your spaniel of a Spaniard came sniffing after you earlier today, and made away in some haste on hearing you'd come not."

"Said he what he wished of me?" Shakespeare asked, cursing under his breath. Lope de Vega, of course, would have no trouble learning he hadn't gone to Don Diego. I did well, not using the lie direct, Shakespeare thought.

"He'd fain hear more King Philip, else I'm a Dutchman," Burbage answered, at which Will Kemp began staggering around as if in the last stages of drunkenness and mumbling guttural nonsense that might have been Dutch. Shakespeare laughed again. He couldn't help it. When Kemp let himself go, no man who saw him could help laughing.

Kemp takes his clowning too far with Burbage, and nearly gets beaten for it. After putting Kemp into place, Burbage asks if the work is satisifying the client.

quote:

Before he and Shakespeare could start another round of insults, Richard Burbage asked the poet, "Doth the work thus far done suit the principal?"

Was he speaking of Don Diego or of Lord Burghley, of King Philip or of Boudicca? Shakespeare wasn't sure. He wondered if Burbage were sure. Either way, though, he could safely nod. "So I am given to understand."

"Good, then. Beside that, naught else hath great import." Burbage set his hands on his hips and raised his voice till it filled the Theatre: "Now that Will's back amongst us, and back with good news, let's think on what we do this afternoon, eh? The wives of Windsor shall not be merry unless we make them so."

Kemp fell to with more spirit than he often showed at rehearsals--but then, of course, he played Sir John Falstaff, around whom the comedy revolved. Even though the play ended with Falstaff's humiliation, the part was too juicy to leave him room for complaint. Indeed, after the rehearsal ended, he came up to Shakespeare and said, "Would you'd writ more for the great larded tun." He put both hands on his belly. He was not a thin man, but would play Falstaff well padded.

"More? Of what sort?" Shakespeare asked. He knew Kemp spoke because he wanted the role, but was curious even so. The clown might give him an idea worth setting down on paper.

But Kemp said, "He is too straitened in a town of no account. Let him come to London! Let him meet with princes. No, by God--he deserveth to meet with kings!"

Shakespeare shook his head. "I fear me not. I got leave to write of the third Richard, he being villain black. But, did I bring other Kings of England into my plays, and in especial did I speak them fair, 'twould be reckoned treason, no less than the . . . other matter we pursue. Can you tell me I am mistook?"

Will Kemp scowled. "drat me, but I cannot. Devil take the dons, then! A bargain, Master Shakespeare--do we cast them down, give me Falstaff and a king."

If he had a reason to throw off the Spaniards' yoke, he would be less likely to go to them in a fit of temper or simply a fit of folly. "A bargain," Shakespeare said solemnly. They clasped hands.

After ignoring this point for most of the book, it seems strange to point out at this point that many of Shakespeare's plays WOULD in fact have been reckoned treasonous by an occupying power. More importantly, the specific example given is dubious. Shakespeare's Richard III paints Richard Plantagenet as an usurper and kinslayer who's eventual ruin is portrayed as simple justice for his sins. Portraying him as a black villain seems reasonable, but the "rightful" king who suceeded him took the name Henry VII. Henry VII of England was the first monarch from the House of Tudor, father to Henry VIII and grandfather to Elizabeth I. The play thus strengthens the legitimacy of Elizabeth's rule, which is not something the Spanish would be likely to allow even though there were other heirs who's legitimacy helped them. The Elizabeth connection would simply be too strong.

Chapter VII, Part 5: De Vega

quote:

Lope De Vega and Lucy Watkins stood among the other groundlings at the Theatre. The boy playing Mistress Page said,



"Good husband, let us every one go home,

And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;

Sir John and all."



Richard Burbage, who played Ford, replied,



"Let it be so. Sir John,

To Master Brook you shall hold your word;

For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford."



A flourish of horns announced the end of the play. The actors bowed. Despite the rain that had been coming down all day, the Theatre erupted in applause. Lope clapped his hands. Beside him, Lucy hopped up and down in the mud, squealing with delight. De Vega smiled. "I am glade it pleases thee," he said. He had to repeat himself to make her hear him through the din.

She nodded, her eyes shining. "Ay, it likes me well. My thanks for bringing me hither."

"El gusto es mío," Lope replied. And the pleasure was his; through the way The Merry Wives of Windsor enchanted her, he enjoyed it as he couldn't have if he'd come alone. The whelk-seller didn't try to pick it to pieces to see how it worked. She just let it wash over her, taking it as it came. Lope couldn't do that by himself. With her, he could.

As the play ends, Lope offers to introduce Watkins to the actors. She is delighted by the prospect, and he leads her toward the backstage.

quote:

Some small part of him knew that one day before too long he would spy another face, another form, that pleased him as much as Lucy's, or more. He would fall in love with the woman who had them, too. Maybe he would lose his love for the whelk-seller, maybe he wouldn't. He had no trouble staying in love with two or three women at once--till they found out about it. Then he had trouble. He tried to forget what had happened after the bear-baiting in Southwark.

Lucy helped by distracting him. "Look! A man guards the way. Will he give us leave to go forward?"

"Fear not, my sweet," Lope answered grandly. The tireman's helper had just turned a prosperous-looking merchant away from the door. De Vega pushed past the disgruntled Englishman, an anxious Lucy on his arm. "Good day to you, Edward," he said.

"Ah, Master Lope." The tireman's helper stood aside. "Go in, sir. I know they'll be glad to see you."

The look on Lucy Watkins' face was worth twenty pounds to him. "They'll be glad to see thee?" she whispered in what couldn't have been anything but awe.

"Certes," Lope said, and patted her hand. "They are my friends." Her eyes got wider still. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her on the spot, but didn't for fear of embarrassing her. She wasn't, and didn't act like, a trull, a woman of the town; if she gave herself to him when they were alone together, she behaved like a lady when in public.

"God give you good morrow, Master Lope," Richard Burbage called when de Vega and Lucy came into the tiring room. Lope bowed in return. Lucy's curtsy came a heartbeat slower than it might have, but was graceful as a duchess'. As if she were a noblewoman, Burbage made a leg at her.

"They are thy friends," she said in wonder, pressing closer to Lope.

Kemp is smoking a pipe, which he shares with Lope and Lucy. She hates it, which amuses both Kemp and De Vega, who briefly bond over their shared fondness for tobacco.

quote:

Before that agreement could shatter, as it was likely to do, de Vega led Lucy away from the clown and over to Shakespeare. She curtsied to the English poet. He bowed over her hand, saying, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."

"And I yours, sir," she said. "The play today--'twas a marvel. I all but split my sides laughing. When Falstaff hid amongst the washing--" She giggled.

Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. "That it like you delights me," he said. Without words, his face said something else to Lope, something like, You didn't choose her for her wit, did you?

"Her pleasure becomes mine," Lope murmured. Lucy, still gushing about The Merry Wives of Windsor, didn't notice. Shakespeare gave back a thoughtful nod, part understanding; part, Lope thought, something else. Here is a quirk worth remembering for a play, was likely going through the English poet's mind.

Shakespeare takes the opportunity to recite some of the latest lines from King Philip to De Vega.

quote:

Lope tasted the lines, then slowly nodded. "An honor to play so great a man. An honor to have such splendid words to say." Shakespeare nodded thanks for the compliment.

Lucy Watkins' eyes widened. "Thou'lt tread upon the stage, with Master Shakespeare here writing thee a part?"

"Even so, my beloved," Lope answered. Some women, especially those of higher blood, would have looked down their noses at him for it. To one who sold shellfish, though, the glamour of the theatre seemed perfectly real. Lope knew how tawdry a place it could be. In Lucy's eyes, it shone--and so, through her, it shone again for him, too, at least for a little while.

When he and Lucy left the Theatre a little later, they found the closest lodging they could. He never quite figured out whose arms first went around whom. Lucy had been less lively in bed than some women he'd known. No more. Up till then, he hadn't learned all that went into igniting her. He laughed at the moment they spent themselves together, something he'd hardly ever done despite all his many partners. The theatre had more enchantments than even he'd thought.

I'm surprised that De Vega isn't insulted by this. He's trading on reflected glory here.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Epicurius posted:

"Stay, Spanish brethren..." is from Titus Andronicus:


The "At thy uncle's bidding,, I spare thy life..." is from Portia's speech in the Merchant of Venice


"Nor can Rome task us with impossibilities, . . ." and "Set me to lead a handful of my men..."

are, as was mentioned before direct quotes from Beaumont and Fletcher's (although probably only Fletcher) "Bonduca", which was a play about Bouducca's revolt against Rome.

For those people who don't know who Fletcher was, he was actually Shakespeare's successor. He had become famous writing plays with Francis Beaumont, and then he actually wrote three plays in collaboration with Shakespeare, Henry VIII, Two Noble Kinsmen, and Cardenio, which was lost but was probably a romantic comedy, and which was possibly taken from a scene in Don Quixote, and which might have been the basis for an 18th century play called "Double Falsehood". Fletcher at that time also wrote a play called "The Woman's Prize" or "The Tamer Tamed", which was a sequel to The Taming of the Shrew (Petruchio remarries after Katherine dies, and his new wife refuses to have sex with him unless he changes his ways.) After Shakespeare died, Fletcher took over writing for the King's Men.

It's a little off topic here, but both "The Taming of the Shrew" and "The Woman's Prize" was part of a larger debate going on in literary circles in Jacobean England called "the gender question", about whether men were morally superior to women and whether men should have natural authority over women.

A belated thanks for tracking down the exact passages. The "gender question" would make for an interesting bit of research, but this is not the place.

Chapter 8, Part I: Shakespeare

quote:

ALONG WITH THE rest of the parishioners, Shakespeare came to the church of St. Ethelberge early on Easter morning, before the bells rang out that would have summoned them to Mass. As he walked into the church, deacons went up and down the aisles lighting candles and torches till the building blazed with light.

It is an Easter morning service.

quote:

Then, solemnly, yet another priest raised the crucifix from the sepulcher and carried it in triumph all around the church. The bells in the steeple clamored out joy. The choir sang Christus Resurgens: "Christ, rising again from the dead, dieth no more. Death shall have no more dominion over Him. For in that He liveth, He liveth unto God. Now let the Jews declare how the soldiers who guarded the sepulcher lost the King when the stone was placed, wherefore they kept not the rock of righteousness. Let them either produce Him buried, or adore Him rising, saying with us, Alleluia, Alleluia."

The crucifix was reverently placed on an altar on the north side of the church. Worshipers crept towards it, some on their knees, others on their bellies. Tears of rejoicing streamed down their faces as they adored the risen Christ.

Tears stung Shakespeare's eyes, too. His father had spoken of such ceremonies when he was a young man, and again in Mary's reign. Till the coming of the Armada, Shakespeare had never seen them himself. Elizabeth had suppressed them along with so much other Catholic ritual. They did have a grandeur, a passion (fitting word for this season of the year), missing from the Protestant liturgy she'd imposed on England.

Matins began. And my treason thrive, all this once more'll be cast down, Shakespeare thought. That saddened part of him, the part that responded to the drama of Catholic ceremonial. But the rest . . . Did we choose it of our own will, well and good. But the dons forced it down the throat, as a farmer'll force an onion up the arse of a sick ox. Let them keep it.

As mentioned repeatedly, the services of the Church of England were not the drab thing that Turtledove imagines them to be. If you forgive that error, however, this becomes an excellent little internal conflict for Shakespeare.


quote:

Often, when he left the church after Easter Mass, the green of new spring growth offered its own symbolic resurrection. Not this year. With Easter so early--only a day after the equinox--winter's grip still held the land. Trees and bushes remained bare-branched; the muddy ground was brown, with only the sickly yellow-gray of last year's dead grass showing here and there.

To his own surprise, he didn't much care. Maybe the Mass had inspired him. Or maybe . . . He stopped, a sudden delighted smile illuminating his face. Do I not work towards England's resurrection?

A nice turn of phrase here.

quote:

However much the thought pleased him, it did nothing for the fellow behind him, who bumped into him when he unexpectedly halted. "Here, pick up your feet, you breathing stone," the man grumbled.

"I pray pardon," Shakespeare said, and got out of the way. Still unhappy, the man who'd bumped him went up the street. Shakespeare followed more slowly. The glory of that notion still blazed in him. It struck him as a perfect cap for the day Christ rose from the dead.

Back at his boarding house, the landlady has prepared a large leg of pork to celebrate the day.

quote:

Widow Kendall nodded. "Yes, it could be. But now Lent too is passed away. Will you do me the honor of carving the leg of pork I took just now from the fire?"

"A rare privilege!" Shakespeare cried, and bowed over her hand as he'd seen Lope de Vega bow over that of his latest lady friend. Jane Kendall giggled and simpered, playing the coquette for all she was worth. Shakespeare's stomach rumbled. He'd gone without meat for a long time at a hard season of the year, which made it seem even longer. Spit flooded into his mouth at the thought of finally breaking the fast.

As he carved slice after slice from the leg of pork, a few odd bits--or perhaps more than a few--found their way into his mouth. His landlady looked on indulgently. No matter how indulgent she looked, he did try to be moderate, and evidently succeeded well enough. "Pleaseth you the flavor?" she asked.

He made sure he swallowed the morsel in his mouth before answering, "Ay." He had no trouble sounding enthusiastic. The Widow Kendall had been lavish with cloves and cinnamon and pepper, and the meat was so fresh, it hardly even needed the spices to taste good--an advantage of Easter's coming in a cool season of the year.

This seems to be a reference to the notion that meat in those days was often served slightly rotten because of the lack of refrigeration. This is a pretty discredited idea - pretty much all meat not eaten right after butchery was salted and smoked for preservation, keeping rot at bay. In the medieval era, pigs would have been slaughtered in December because they lose too much weight in the winter, and their fat was a vital addition to the diet. No source I can find describes the practice in this era.

quote:

Everyone ate pork and bread and boiled parsnips smothered in melted cheese and drank the Widow Kendall's fresh-brewed ale. Shakespeare wondered if he were the only one not only eating meat but making a point of eating it where others could see. Nobody, now, could claim he was continuing the Lenten fast and waiting for what the old calendar reckoned to be Easter.

A good notion, this. Really sells the notion of a conquered nation when even something as simple as a meal is a potential loyalty test

quote:

Jack Street patted his belly. "Oh, that's monstrous fine," the glazier said. "Would I were so full every day."

Sam King nodded. He still remained without steady work, so a feast like this had to be an even bigger treat for him than for the other man. Grinning at Street, he said, "So it's the emptiness within you, then, that roars forth when you sleep?"

That made everyone laugh--everyone but the glazier, who asked, "What mean you?"

"Why, your snoring, man," King said. "What else?"

"What?" Jack Street shook his head. "I snore not."

This results in an argument, with Street refusing to believe that he snores, and everyone else trying to convince him of the truth. Street gets very angry.

quote:

Shakespeare began to wish Sam King had kept his mouth shut. The silence that hovered round the feasters was distinctly uncomfortable. If Street didn't want to believe he snored, how could the rest of them persuade him? They couldn't, but they knew the truth too well to be content with his denials, no matter how vigorous. This quarrel was liable to fester and burst out again weeks from now.

Cicely Sellis drew out the chain she wore around her neck. It had a sparkling pendant at the end of it, one that had been hidden in the valley between her breasts. The pendant caught firelight and torchlight as she swung it in a small arc, back and forth, back and forth. "Be easy, Master Street," she said in a soft, soothing voice. "Be easy. No cause for wrath. Be easy."

"And why should I, when all mock and fleer at me?" the glazier said.

The cunning woman didn't answer directly. She kept swinging that pendant in the same slow, steady rhythm. Ever so slightly, she shook her head. "By no means, Master Street," she said, still quietly. "We are your friends here. We are all your friends here. No one seeks to do you harm."

"Methought otherwise," Street said, but less belligerently than he'd spoken before. His eyes followed the cheap glass pendant as it moved. His head began to go back and forth at the same rate. Shakespeare had trouble keeping his eyes off the pendant, too, but he managed. Jack Street didn't even try.

"No one seeks to do you harm," Cicely Sellis repeated.

Sam King made as if to speak. Shakespeare used his long legs to kick the young man under the table. Something out of the ordinary was going on here. He didn't know what, but he didn't want to see the spell broken. Not till that phrase crossed his mind did he wonder whether he'd been wise to kick King after all.

Cicely Sellis went on as she had before: "All's well, Master Street. Naught's amiss. No need for fury. Hear you me?"

"I hear." Street's voice came from far away, as if he heard with but half an ear. His eyes, his head, still followed the pendant's motion, though he didn't seem to know they were doing it. When he reached for his mug of ale, he did so without looking away from the sparkling glass.

"Good." The cunning woman let the shiny pendant go back and forth for another minute or so, then asked, "Hear you me?" once more as she kept on swinging it.

"I hear," Street said, even more distantly than before.

"Then hear also there's no cause for fuss, no reason to recall the warm words just past, no purpose to holding 'em in your memory."

"No cause for fuss," Jack Street echoed dreamily. "No reason to recall. No purpose to holding."

"E'en so." Cicely Sellis nodded. "Shall it be as I ask of you, then?"

"It shall be so." The glazier tried to nod, but the motion of the pendant still held him captive.

"Good. Let it be so, then, and fret no more on't." Cicely Sellis stopped swinging the bauble, and tucked it away again. When she spoke once more, her voice was loud and brisk: "Would you pass me the pitcher of ale, Master Street? I'm fain for another mug myself."

"Eh?" Street started, as if suddenly wakened. "Oh, certes, Mistress Sellis. Here you are." He gave her the pitcher. With a chuckle, he said, "Belike you'll hold it better than I, for what I drank mounted straight to my head. Methought I dozed at table. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was; man had as well snore as go about to expound this dream. Methought I was--there is no man can tell what. And methought I had--but man is but a sleepy fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had."

"I'd drink somewhat of ale myself, Mistress Sellis, when you have poured your fill," Shakespeare said. Nodding, the cunning woman passed him the pitcher. He filled his mug, too, then quickly emptied it. Jack Street gave no sign of remembering the argument over whether he snored. He talked, he laughed, he joked. How had Cicely Sellis managed that?

Sam King leaned forward to take the pitcher after Shakespeare finished with it. The young man's eyes were wide and staring as he poured golden ale into his mug. He mouthed something across the table at Shakespeare. The poet raised an eyebrow, not having got it. King mouthed the words again, more exaggeratedly than before: "She's a witch."

That was indeed the other name for a cunning woman. Even so, Shakespeare kicked King under the table again. Some names were better left unspoken. And King did keep quiet after that. But the fear never left his eyes.

After the feast, Shakespeare stooped to stroke Mommet. The cat arched its back and purred. "You please him," Cicely Sellis said.

"Haply he'll fetch me a mouse or rat, then, as token of's praise," Shakespeare answered. Mommet twisted to scratch behind one ear. Shakespeare thought he saw a flea fly free, but couldn't be sure: a flea on a rammed-earth floor simply disappeared. Mommet went on scratching.

With a smile, the cunning woman said, "You ken cats well." Shakespeare was the only lodger who spoke to her--or, for that matter, even acknowledged she was alive and in the house. If she noticed, she gave no sign of it.

In a low voice, he said, "You made them afeard." In an even lower voice, he added, "You made me afeard."

"Wherefore, Master Shakespeare?"

"Wherefore?" Shakespeare still held his voice down, but couldn't hold the anger from it--anger and fear often being two sides of the same coin. "Why else but for your show of witchery?"

"Witchery?" Cicely Sellis started to laugh, but checked herself when she saw how serious he was. "Thank you I be in sooth a witch?"

"I know not," he answered. "By my halidom, I know not. But this I know: no one else dwelling here hath the least doubt." He shook his head. "No, I mistake me. You are yet clean in Jack Street's eyes, for he recalleth naught of what you worked on him."

That got through to her. Her mouth tightened. The lines that ran to either corner of it filled with shadow, making her suddenly seem five years older, maybe more. Slowly, she said, "I but sought to forestall a foolish quarrel."

"And so you did--but at what cost?" Shakespeare's eyes flicked towards Sam King, who seemed to have set to work getting drunk. "Would you have the English Inquisition put you to the question?"

Cicely Sellis' gaze followed the poet's. "He'd not blab," she said, but her voice held no conviction.

"God grant you be right," Shakespeare said, wondering if God would grant a witch any such thing. "But you put me in fear, and I am a man who earns his bread spinning fables. Nay more--I am a man who struts the stage, who hath played a ghost, who hath known somewhat of strangeness. And, as I say, you affrighted me. What, then, of him?" His voice dropped to a whisper: "And what too of the Widow Kendall?"

"I pay her, and well." The cunning woman didn't try to hide her scorn. But her eyes, almost as green as her cat's, went back to Sam King. "I'd liefer not seek a new lodging so soon again."

"Again? Came you here, then, of a sudden?" Shakespeare asked.

Reluctantly, Cicely Sellis nodded. Shakespeare ground his teeth till a twinge from a molar warned he'd better do no more of that. Did the English Inquisition already know her name? Were inquisitors already poised to swoop down on this house? If they seized the cunning woman, would they seize her and no one else? Or would they also lay hold of everyone who'd had anything to do with her, to seek evidence against her and to learn what sort of heresy her acquaintances might harbor? Shakespeare didn't know the answer to that, but thought he could make a good guess.

"I meant no harm," Cicely Sellis said, "nor have I never worked none."

"That you have purposed none--that I believe," Shakespeare answered. "What you have worked . . ." He shrugged. He hoped she was right. He hoped so, yes, but he didn't believe it, no matter how much he wished he could.

This is obviously hypnosis, of an extremely effective sort. It makes perfect sense that this would be mistaken for witchcraft, and it was extremely foolish of Sellis to pull such a stunt.


Chapter 8, Part II: De Vega

quote:

CAPTAIN BALTASAR GUZMÁN looked disgusted. "I have just learned Anthony Bacon has taken refuge at the court of King Christian IV," he said.

Sure enough, that explained his sour expression. "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, then," Lope de Vega answered, "if its King will give shelter to a proved sodomite. He shows himself to be no Christian, despite his name--only a God-cursed Lutheran heretic."

Captain Guzmán nodded. "Yes, and yes, and yes. Every word you say is true, Senior Lieutenant, but none of your truth does us the least bit of good. Denmark and Sweden persist in their heresy, as they persist in being beyond our reach."

"Yes, sir," Lope agreed. "A pity he escaped us. If you like, though, we can always go back and arrest his younger brother."

There is not enough evidence against Francis Bacon to justify angering his powerful family, which Guzman regrets.

He cheers himself by imagining that Spain will be able to send Armadas against the Dutch and the Swedes once England is quieted in a generation or two, and then on to crush the Orthodox nation of Russia.

I would pay good money to see this campaign. An invasion of Sweden a generation or so from this book would put the Spanish up against Gustav II Adolf, renowned as one of the great captains of history, in his prime.

quote:

"Before I came to England, I'm not sure I'd ever even heard of Russia," Lope said. "Now I've talked to a few men who've been there. They say the weather in Russia is as much worse than it is here as the weather here is worse than Spain's. If that's so, God has already punished the Russians for their heresy."

"It could be," Guzmán said. "But it could also be that the men you talked to are liars. I don't think any place could have weather that bad."

"You may be right, your Excellency." Lope snapped his fingers, remembering something. "With Anthony Bacon in Denmark, is there any word that Tom, the boy actor from Shakespeare's company at about the same time, is with him?"

"Let me see." Baltasar Guzmán ran his finger down the report he'd received. He got close to the bottom before stopping and looking up. "He is accompanied by a handsome youth, yes. No name given, but . . ."

This wraps up the Tom portion of the storyline, and confirms that he fled with Bacon.

quote:

"Shakespeare continues to make good progress on King Philip," de Vega answered. "I wish your English were more fluent, sir. I'd quote you line after line that will live forever. The man is good. He is so very good, I find him intimidating when I sit down to write, even though he works in a different language."

"As things are, spare me the quotations," Guzmán said. "If anything's more deadly than listening to verses you don't understand, I can't imagine what it is." He steepled his fingertips and looked over them at Lope. "You are writing again, then? In spite of the intimidation, I mean?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"Part of me says I should congratulate you," Baltasar Guzmán observed. "Part of me, though, believes I'm not keeping you busy enough. With everything else you have to do, how do you find time to set pen to paper?"

Guzmán had a habit of asking dangerous questions. He also had a habit of asking them so they didn't sound dangerous unless his intended victim listened carefully. Otherwise, a man could easily launch into a disastrous reply without realizing what he'd done till too late. Here, Lope recognized the trap. He said, "I will answer that in two ways, your Excellency. First, a man who will write does not find time to do it. He makes time to do it, even if that means sleeping less or eating faster. And second, sir, lately I've had more help from Diego than I've been used to getting."

Guzman finds this suspicious, as Diego's laziness is well known. De Vega refuses to admit to his blackmail, and offers a few lazy explanations that Guzman sees through, but declines to pursue.

quote:

"It could be. The only way he was likely to see such a thing, though, it seems to me, was up the barrel of a pistol," Guzmán said. Lope didn't answer. His superior shrugged. "All right, if you want to keep a secret, you may keep a secret, I suppose. But do tell me, since you are writing, what are you writing about?"

By the way he leaned towards Lope, he was more interested than he wanted to let on. He'd always held his enthusiasm for Lope's plays under tight rein. Maybe, though, he really enjoyed them more than he showed. Lope said, "I'm calling this one El mejor mozo de España."

" ‘The Best Boy in Spain'?" Captain Guzmán echoed. "What's it about, a waiter?"

"No, no, no, no, no." Lope shook his head. "The best boy in Spain is Ferdinand of Aragon, who married Isabella and made Spain one kingdom. I told you, your Excellency--Shakespeare's rubbing off on me. He's writing a play about history, and so am I."

In actual history, Lope De Vega did not write El mejor mozo de España until the 1610s, but this is a reasonable departure. Over three centuries later, El mejor mozo de España was the title of a play by Alfonso Paso about the life of one Lope De Vega. Google Translate renders "El mejor mozo de España" as "the best waiter in Spain", the same thing Guzman renders it as, so there's a translation joke in here that I'm not getting.

quote:

"If this next one is as good, it should have a bigger audience than Spanish soldiers stranded in England," his superior said. "Write another good play, Senior Lieutenant, and I will do what I can to get both of them published in Spain."

"¡Señor!" Lope exclaimed. Baltasar Guzmán, being both rich and well connected, could surely arrange publication as easily as he could snap his fingers. Lope's heart thudded in his chest. He'd dreamt of a chance like that, but knew dreams to be only dreams. To see that one might come true . . . "I am your servant, your Excellency! And I would be honored--you have no idea how honored I would be--were you to become my patrón." He realized he was babbling, but couldn't help it. What would I do, for the chance to have my plays published? Almost anything.

Guzmán smiled. Yes, he knew what power he wielded with such promises. "Write well, Senior Lieutenant. Write well, and make sure the Englishman writes well, too. I cannot tell you to neglect your other duties. I wish I could, but I cannot."

"I understand, sir." De Vega was quick to offer sympathy to a man who offered him the immortality of print. He knew Captain Guzmán was saying, Do everything I tell you to do, and then do this on your own. Normally, he would have howled about how unfair that was. But when his superior dangled the prospect of publication before him . . .

I am a fish, swimming in the stream. I know that tempting worm may have a hook in it. I know, but I have to bite it anyway, for oh, dear God, I am so very hungry.

De Vega, like Shakespeare, spent a great deal of time fighting pirated copies of his plays. This is something different - an official, authorized copy straight from the author's words was something few playwrights achieved in this era . As it happens, the historical De Vega was one of them, with most of his works being published in his own lifetime (according to Spanish Wikipedia, which is more extensive than the English version on this subject, but machine translated.


Chapter 8, part III: Shakespeare

quote:

SHAKESPEARE LOOKED AT what he'd written. Slowly, he nodded. The ordinary was quiet. He had the place almost to himself, for most of the folk who'd eaten supper there had long since left for home. He had the ordinary so much to himself, in fact, that he'd dared work on Boudicca here, which he seldom did.

And now . . . Ceremoniously, he inked his pen one last time and, in large letters, wrote a last word at the bottom of the page. Finis.

" 'Sblood," he muttered in weary amazement. "Never thought I to finish't." Even now, he half expected the Spaniards or the English Inquisition to burst in and drag him away in irons.

Play's finished, so they can put it on tomorrow and be done with the plot! What do you mean that only half the work is done, and it gets even more dangerous now?

After explaining to Kate what he is talking about, and dodging her questions, he heads into the dark and foggy London night, expecting to get home purely by memory and smell.

quote:

His intention collapsed about a dozen paces outside the ordinary. Somebody came hurrying up from the direction of his lodging house. The fog muffled sound, too, so Shakespeare heard only the last few footfalls before the fellow bumped into him. "Oof!" he said, and then, "Have a care, an't please you!"

"Will! Is that you?" The other man's voice came out of darkness impenetrable.

Shakespeare knew it all the same. He wished he didn't. "Kit?" he replied, apprehension making him squeak like a youth. "Why come you hither?"

"Oh, God be praised!" Christopher Marlowe exclaimed--a sure danger sign, for when all went well he was likelier to take the Lord's name in vain than to petition Him with prayer. "Help me, Will! Sweet Jesu, help you me! They bay at my heels, closer every minute."

Ice ran through Shakespeare. "Who dogs you? And for what?" Is it peculiar to you alone, or hath ruin o'erwhelmed all?

"Who?" Marlowe's voice fluttered like a candle flame in a breeze. "The dons, that's who!"

The Spanish hunt for what they call "sodomites" may have begun with Anthony Bacon, but has not stopped there. Marlowe's flamboyance has made his preferences well known - and he's the next target.

quote:

Even on the brink of dreadful death, he struggled to justify himself. That constance left Shakespeare half saddened, half amused--and altogether frightened. "What would you of me?" he asked.

"Why, to help me fly, of course," the other poet answered.

"And how, prithee, might I do that?" Shakespeare demanded. "Am I Daedalus, to give thee wings?" He didn't know himself whether he used thee with Marlowe for the sake of intimacy or insult. Exasperated, he went on, "E'en had I wings to give thee, belike thou'dst fly too near the sun, another Icarus, and plummet into the briny sea."

Marlowe continues to try to justifying himself, quoting his own Dido Queen Of Carthage. Shakespeare mocks him by quoting the same play.

quote:

Marlowe hissed like a man trying to bear a wound bravely. "And here, Will, I thought you never paid my verses proper heed. Would I had been wrong."

"Would you had . . ." Shakespeare shook his head. "No, never mind. 'Tis of no moment now. You must get hence, if they dog you for this. Want you money?"

"Nay. What I have sufficeth me," Marlowe answered.

"Then what think you I might do that you cannot for yourself?" Shakespeare asked. "Hie yourself down to the river. Take ship, if any ship there be that sails on the instant. If there be none such, take a boat away from London, and the first ship you may. So that you outspeed the hue and cry at your heels, all may yet be well, or well enough."

This settles Marlowe down enough to accept that this is his wisest course, however much he might hate it. He leaves, and Shakespeare heads to his bording house. After arguing with his landlady about firewood, he goes to bed.


quote:

When he woke the next morning, Jack Street's bed was empty. Sam King was dressing for another day of pounding London's unforgiving streets looking for work. "God give you good morrow, Master Will," he said as Shakespeare sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"And a good morrow to you as well," Shakespeare answered around a yawn.

"I'm for a bowl of the widow's porridge, and then whatever I can find," King said. The porridge was liable to be the only food he got all day. He had to know as much, but didn't fuss about it.

Shakespeare couldn't help admiring that bleak courage. "Good fortune go before you," he said.

King laughed. "Good fortune hath ever gone before me: so far before me, I see it not. An I run fast enough, though, peradventure I'll catch it up." He bobbed his head in a shy nod, then hurried out to the Widow Kendall's kitchen for whatever bubbled in her pot this morning.

Shakespeare broke his fast on porridge, too. Having eaten, he went up to the Theatre for the day's rehearsal. He worried all the way there. If inquisitors came after Cicely Sellis, would they search everywhere in the house? If they opened his chest and saw the manuscript of Boudicca, he was doomed. And another question, one that had been in the back of his mind, now came forward: even with Boudicca finished, how could the company rehearse it without being betrayed? The players would have to rehearse. He could see that. When word of Philip's death reached England, they would--they might--give the play on the shortest of notice. They would have to be ready. But how? Yes, he saw the question clearly. The answer? He shook his head.

When he reaches the theatre, Burbage is dashing around the stage to get in character as Alexander The Great. The day's play is one of Marlowe's works, giving Shakespeare an oddly convenient opening.

The text specifically mentions Alexander pursuing Darius, suggesting a play set in the great conquerer's lifetime. So far as I can tell, there is no known Marlowe work in such a setting, but it would be a reasonable subject for him to have used.

quote:

Shakespeare nodded. "Beyond doubt, you speak sooth. But come you down." He gestured. "I'd have a word with you."

"What's toward?" Burbage sat at the edge of the stage, then slid down into the groundlings' pit.

In a low voice, Shakespeare said, "Marlowe is fled. I pray he be fled. Anthony Bacon, belike, was but the first boy-lover the dons and the inquisitors sought. An Kit remain in England, I'd give not a groat for his life."

"A pox!" Burbage exclaimed, as loud as ever--loud enough to make half a dozen players and stagehands look toward him to see what had happened. He muttered to himself, then went on more quietly: "How know you this?"

"From Kit's own lips," Shakespeare answered. "He found me yesternight. I bade him get hence, quick as ever he could--else he'd not stay quick for long. God grant he hearkened to me."

"Ay, may it be so." Burbage made a horrible face. "May it be so indeed. But e'en Marlowe fled's a heavy blow strook against the theatre. For all his cravings sodomitical--and for all his fustian bombast, too--he's the one man I ken fit to measure himself alongside you."

Fitting of Burbage to think of the Theatre first, and how sore a loss the second-greatest playwright in England would be.

Shakespeare tells Burbage that he sent Marlowe to the river, at which point Burbage seems to see another danger.

quote:

"Boatmen there aplenty, regardless of the hour." Richard Burbage seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Shakespeare. After a moment, he added, "What knows Kit of . . . your enterprise now in train?"

"That such an enterprise is in train, the which is more than likes me," Shakespeare answered. It was also less than the truth, he realized, remembering the copy of the Annals Marlowe had given him. But he said no more to Burbage. What point to worrying the player? If the Spaniards or the English Inquisition caught Marlowe, he knew enough to put paid to everyone and everything. And what he knew he would tell; he had not the stuff of martyrs in him.

"They seek him but for sodomy." Yes, Burbage was trying to reassure himself. Sodomy by itself was a fearsome crime, a capital crime. Next to treason, though, it was the moon next to the sun.

"The enterprise"--Shakespeare liked that bloodless word--"goes on apace. Last night, or ever I saw Marlowe, I wrote finis to Boudicca."

"Good. That's good, Will." Burbage set a hand on his shoulder. "Now God keep Boudicca from writing finis to us all."


Chapter 8, Part IV: De Vega

De Vega is hunting Marlowe with a squad of soldiers, primarily by interrogating boatmen on the Thames. After one such cons him out of a coin, the squad begins to get annoyed.

quote:

A couple of Lope's troopers knew some English. One of them said, "We ought to give that bastard a set of lumps for playing games with us."

Maybe the boatman understood some Spanish. He pointed to the next fellow with a rowboat, saying, "Haply George there knows somewhat of him you seek."

"We shall see," Lope said in English. In Spanish, he added, "I wouldn't waste my time punishing this motherless lump of dung." If the boatman could follow that, too bad.

The trooper who'd suggested beating the fellow said, "This river smells like a motherless lump of dung." He wrinkled his nose.

Since he was right, Lope couldn't very well disagree with him. All he said was, "Come on. Let's see what George there has to say." Let's see if I can waste another sixpence.

Gulls soared above the Thames in shrieking swarms. One swooped down and came up with a length of gut as long as Lope's arm in its beak. Half a dozen others chased it, eager to steal the prize. De Vega's stomach did a slow lurch. A pursuing gull grabbed the gut and made away with it. The bird that had scooped it from the water screeched in anger and frustration.

Boats of all sizes went up and down the river. "Westward ho!" shouted the wherrymen bound for Westminster or towns farther up the Thames. "Eastward ho!" shouted the men heading towards the North Sea. Westbound and eastbound boats had to dodge those going back and forth between London and Southwark. Sometimes they couldn't dodge, and fended one another off with oars and poles and impassioned curses.

"Consumption catch thee, thou gorbellied knave!" a boatman yelled.

"Jolt-head! Botchy core! Moon-calf! Louse of a lazar!" returned the fellow who'd fallen foul of him. Instead of trying to hold their boats apart, they started jabbing at each other with their poles. One of them went into the river with a splash.

"Not the worst sport to watch," a Spanish soldier said.

"Sí," Lope said, and then went back to English, calling, "You there, sirrah! Be you George?"

"Ay, 'tis the name my mother gave me," the wherryman answered. "What would you, señor?" He pronounced it more like the English word senior.

De Vega asked him about Marlowe. He waited for the vacant stare he'd seen so many times before. To his surprise, he didn't get it. Instead, George nodded. "I carried such a man, yes," he said. "What's he done? Some cozening law, an I mistake me not. A barrator, peradventure, or a figure caster. Summat shrewd."

De Vega feels the thrill of the hunt, despite his dislike of hunting Marlowe in the first place. After encouraging George with yet another sixpence, George gets on with a long explanation.

quote:

"Why, then, sir, I bethought myself, should I hie me home, for that it was a foggy night and for that curfew would come anon, or should I stay yet a while to see what chance might give? Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered, they say. And my boat--the wight whereof I speak, you understand--"

"Yes, yes." Lope fought to hide his impatience. Did this ignorant wherryman think him unable to grasp a metaphor? "Say on, sirrah. Say on."

"I'll do't," George said. "This wight came along the river seeking a boat. ‘Whither would you?' I asked him. I mind me the very words he said. He said, ‘You could row me to hell, and to-night I'd thank you for't.' Then he made as if to shake his head, and laughed a laugh that left me sore afeard, for meseemed 'twas a madman's laugh, and could be none other. And he said, ‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.' I thought him daft, but--I see you stir, your honor. Know you these words?"

"I do. I know them well. They are from a play, a play writ by the man I seek. That your man spake them proves him that very man. Were he mad or not, you took his penny?"

The boatman nodded. "I did, for a madman's penny spends as well as any other. He bade me take him to Deptford, to the Private Dock there, and so I did. A longer pull than some I make, for which reason I told him I'd have tuppence, in fact, not just the single penny, and he gave it me."

"To Deptford, say you?" That was a shrewd choice. It was close to London, but beyond the city's jurisdiction, lying in the county of Kent. Till the Armada came, it had been a leading English naval yard; even now, many merchant ships tied up at the Private Dock. Lope knew he would have to go through the motions of pursuit, but any chance of catching Marlowe was probably long gone.

"Ay, sir. Deptford. He was quiet as you please in the boat--even dozed somewhat. I thought I'd judged too quick. But he was ta'en strange again leaving the boat. He looked about him, and he said, ‘Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed in one self place; for where we are is hell, and where hell is there must we ever be.' I had a priest bless the boat, sir, the very next day, to be safe." He crossed himself.

Had he been a Catholic while Elizabeth ruled England? Maybe, but Lope wouldn't have bet a ha'penny on it. He also made the sign of the cross. "I think you need not fear," he told the wherryman. "Once more, Marlowe but recited words he had earlier writ." He wasn't surprised Marlowe had quoted his own work. He would have been surprised--he would have been thunderstruck--had Marlowe quoted, say, Shakespeare. The man was too full of himself for that.

De Vega writes out the statement, and has the illiterate George make a mark. George is a bit wary of why Marlowe is being hunted, but loses all misgivings when informed that he is being hunted for sodomy.

quote:

"Oh." Whatever regrets the Englishman might have had disappeared. "God grant you catch him, then. A filthy business, buggery."

"Yes." De Vega nodded. He meant it, too. And yet, all the same, no small part of him did mourn the pursuit of Marlowe. True, the man violated not only the law of England and Spain but also that of God. But God had also granted him a truly splendid gift of words. Lope wondered why the Lord had chosen to give the same man the great urge to sin and the great gift. That, though, was God's business, not his.

While he spoke in English with the wherryman, the soldier who'd witnessed the man's statement told the other troopers what was going on. One of them asked, "Sir, do we go down the river to this Deptford place?"

The Spanish troops get a lot of looks in Deptford - as it was no longer an important naval yard, the Spanish have mostly ignored it during the occupation.

quote:

Lope hadn't been asking questions along the wharfs for very long before a sheriff came up to question him. The fellow wore a leather tunic over his doublet to keep it clean, a black felt hat with a twisted hatband, slops, hose dyed dark blue with woad, and sturdy shoes. The staff of office he carried could double as a formidable club. He introduced himself as Peter Norris.

After Lope explained whom he sought, and why, Norris shrugged and said, "I fear me you'll not lay hands on him, sir: he's surely fled. These past two days, we've had a carrack put to sea bound for Copenhagen, a galleon bound for Hamburg, and some smaller ship--I misremember of what sort--bound for Calais. An he had the silver for to buy his passage, he'd be aboard one or another of 'em."

"I fear me you have reason, Sheriff," Lope said. No, he wasn't altogether sorry, however much he tried to keep that to himself.

"It sorrows me he hath escaped you. A bugger's naught but gallows-fruit," Norris said. "And you have come from London on a bootless errand, which sorrows me as well."
Peter Norris seems to be entirely fictional


quote:

"Certes. I'll send 'em in a letter," Peter Norris said. Lope nodded. Maybe the sheriff would, maybe he wouldn't. Either way, de Vega had enough for a report that would satisfy his own superiors. Norris hesitated, then asked, "This Marlowe . . . Seek you the poet of that name?"

" 'Tis the very man, I fear me," Lope replied.

"Pity," Norris said. "By my halidom, sir, his art surpasseth even Will Shakespeare's."

"Think you so?" Lope said. "I believe you are mistook, and right gladly will I tell you why." He and Sheriff Norris spent the next couple of hours arguing about the theatre. He hadn't expected to be able to mix business and pleasure so, and was sorry when at last he did have to go back to London.

This is De Vega being industrious?



Chapter 8, Part V: Shakespeare

quote:

SHAKESPEARE HAD NEVER imagined that one day he might actually want to find Nicholas Skeres, but he did. Skeres had a way of appearing out of thin air, most often when he was least welcome, and throwing Shakespeare's days, if not his life, into confusion. Now Shakespeare found himself looking for the smooth-talking go-between whenever he went outside, looking for him and not seeing him.

Skeres found him one day when spring at last began to look as if it were more than a date in the almanac, a day when the sun shone warm and the air began to smell green, a day when redbreasts and linnets and chaffinches sang. He fell into stride beside Shakespeare as the poet made his way up towards Bishopsgate. "Give you good morrow, Master Will," he said.

"And you, Master Nick," Shakespeare told him. "I had hoped we might meet."

"Time is ripe." Skeres didn't explain how he knew it was, or why he thought so. Shakespeare almost asked him, but in the end held back. Skeres' answer would either be evasive or an outright lie. Smiling, the devious little man went on, "All's well with you, sir?"

"Well enough, and my thanks for asking." Shakespeare looked about. If Skeres could appear from nowhere, a Spanish spy might do the same. That being so, the poet named no names: "How fares your principal?"

"Not so well. He fails, and knows himself to fail." The corners of Nick Skeres' mouth turned down. "Despite his brave spirit, 'tis hard, sore hard--and as hard for his son, who shall inherit the family business when God's will be done." He too was careful of the words he spoke where anyone might hear.

After discussing Cecil's approaching death, the get down to business. Shakespeare informs Skeres that the play is finished.

quote:

Nicholas Skeres nodded. "Yes. They know. 'Twas on that account they sent me to you. I ask again: what need you of them, or of me?"

"The names of certain men," Shakespeare said, and explained why.

"Ah." Skeres gave him another nod. "You may rely on them, and on me." He hurried away, and soon vanished into the crowd. Shakespeare went on towards Bishopsgate. He knew he could rely on the Cecils; they would do all they could for him. Relying on Nick Skeres? Shakespeare shook his head at the absurdity of the notion and kept on walking.

Come on, Will! Just because somebody's constantly sneaking around and popping up out of the shadows, and people tend to die or have their lives ruined when he hears you complain about them is no reason to think they are not trustworthy!

quote:

At the Theatre that day, Lord Westmorland's Men offered The Cobbler's Holiday, a comedy by Thomas Dekker. It was a pleasant enough piece of work, even if the plot showed a few holes. Most of the time, Shakespeare--a good cobbler of dramas himself--would have patched those holes, or found ways for Dekker to do it himself, before the play reached the stage. He hadn't had the chance here, not when he was busy with two of his own.

It might have gone off well enough even so. Such plays often did. Good jests (even more to the point, frequent jests) and spritely staging hid flaws that would have been obvious on reading the script.

Not this time. Among the groundlings were a dozen or more Oxford undergraduates, come to London on some business of their own and taking in a play before or after it. The university trained them to pick things to pieces. They jeered every flaw they found and, as undergraduates were wont to do, went from jeering flaws to jeering players. Even by the rough standards groundlings set, they were loud and obnoxious.
Can't help but think this may be Turtledove venting about critics in general here, as authors are wont to do.

Burbage, the consumate actor, has a thick enough skin to ignore them. Will Kemp, however, is driven into a fury.

quote:

"Tomorrow they'll be gone," Shakespeare said. "Never do they linger."

"Nay--only the stink of 'em," Kemp said. But Shakespeare thought he'd soothed the other man's temper before Kemp had to go out again.

And then one of the university wits noticed an inconsistency Dekker had left in the plot and shouted to Kemp: "No, fool, you said just now she'd gone to Canterbury! What a knavish fool thou art, and the blockhead cobbler, too!" His voice was loud and shrill. The whole Theatre must have heard him. Giggles and murmurs and gasps rose from every side.

Burbage started into his next speech. Will Kemp raised a hand. Burbage stopped, startled; the gesture wasn't one they'd rehearsed. Kemp glared out at the undergraduates. "Is it not better," he demanded, "to make a fool of the world as I have done, than to be fooled of the world as you scholars are?"

Their jeers brought the play to a standstill, as he must have known they would. "Wretched puling fool!" they shouted. "Thou rag! Thou dishclout! Spartan dog! Superstitious, idle-headed boor!"

Kemp beamed out at them, a smile on his round face. "Say on, say on!" he urged them. "Ay, say on, you starveling popinjays, you abject anatomies. Be merry my lads, for coming here you have happened upon the most excellent vocation in the world for money: they come north and south to bring it to our playhouse. And for honors, who is of more report than Dick Burbage and Will Kemp?"

He bowed low. A moment later, Burbage swept off his hat and did the same. The groundlings whooped and cheered them. A couple of the university wits kept trying to mock Kemp and the other players, but most fell silent. They lived a hungry life at Oxford. Had it been otherwise, they would have paid more than a penny each to see The Cobbler's Holiday.

Will Kemp bowed again. "Have we your leave, gentles, to proceed?"

"Ay!" the groundlings roared. The same shout came from the galleries.

Definately an authorial fantasy, if a harmless one.

The hecklers routed, Kemp returns to the play effortlessly. For once, Kemp is the company darling instead of the source of discord. Shakespeare finds this little improvement.

quote:

The noise made Shakespeare's head ache. He soaped his face and splashed water on it from a basin. The sooner he could leave the Theatre today, the happier he would be. He wanted to work on King Philip. The sooner that piece was done, the sooner he could start thinking of his own ideas once more. They might bring less lucre than those proposed by English noble or Spanish don, but they were his.

The new tireman and prompter seeks his attention while this is going on, wishing to discuss the latest play.

quote:

"A scribe shall make your foul papers into parts the players shall use to learn their lines," the prompter said.

"Certes." Shakespeare nodded. "My character, I know, can be less than easy to make out."

Thomas Vincent nodded, too, relief on his face. "I would not offend, sir, not for the world, but . . . You knowing of the trouble, I may speak freely."

"By all means," Shakespeare said. Vincent was more polite about it than poor Geoff Martin had been. Had Shakespeare believed all the late prompter's slanders, he would never have presumed to take pen in hand.

Even if Vincent was polite, he pressed ahead: "And, were your hand never so excellent, your latest still causeth . . . ah, difficulties in choosing a scribe."

Every time a new pair of eyes saw Boudicca, the risk of betrayal grew. Vincent did his best to say that without actually saying it. Shakespeare didn't need it spelled out. He knew it all too well, as he had since Thomas Phelippes first drew him into the plot. If a scribe writing out fair copies for the players took them to the Spaniards . . . If that happened, everyone in Lord Westmorland's Men would die the death.

But the poet said, "Fear not." Hearing those words coming from his mouth almost made him laugh out loud. Only when he was sure he wouldn't did he go on, "Haply I may name you a name anon."

"May it be so," Vincent said, and Shakespeare had to remember not to cross himself to echo that sentiment.

Obviously, these are the "certain men" he asked Skeres to seek. Finishing the play is no resolution, only a step toward greater danger. The plot thickens.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter IX, Part 1: De Vega




quote:

It was the middle of a fine, bright morning. When Lope de Vega walked into his rooms in the Spanish barracks, he found his servant curled into a ball under the covers, fast asleep. De Vega sighed. Diego had been almost unnaturally good and obedient these past few weeks. More surprising than his backsliding was how long it had taken.

Lope shook him, not at all gently. "Wake up! By God and St. James, you're not the best boy in Spain." Diego muttered something that had no real words in it. Lope shook him again, even harder this time. "Wake up!" he repeated.

His servant yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, hello, señor. I didn't--"

De Vega wants Diego to be awake and acting. Diego wants to be asleep and not acting. De Vega gets what he wants, after some arguing and more insinuations about Lope's boss.

quote:

That sat none too well with Diego. Lope could see as much. But the servant put on a pair of shoes and accompanied him to the courtyard where his makeshift company was rehearsing El mejor mozo de España. Even in Spain, it would have made a spartan rehearsal ground. Here in England, where de Vega could compare it to the luxury of the Theatre and the other halls where plays were presented, it seemed more austere yet.

Austere? Lope laughed at himself. What you really mean is cheap, makeshift, shabby. He wondered what Shakespeare would think, seeing what he had to work with. Shakespeare was a gentle, courteous man. He would, without a doubt, give what praise he could. He would also, and equally without a doubt, be appalled.

As Lope had expected, Enrique was already there. He sat on the ground, his back against a brick wall, as he solemnly studied his parts. He was to play several small roles: a Moor, a page, and one of Ferdinand's friends. When he saw Lope, he sprang to his feet and bowed. "Buenos días, señor." Polite as a cat, he also bowed to Diego, though not so deeply. "Buenos días."

"A good day to you as well," Lope replied, and bowed back as superior to inferior. Diego, still grouchy, only nodded. Lope trod on his foot. Thus cued, he did bow. Lope didn't want Captain Guzmán's servant offended by anyone connected to him.

Enrique didn't seem offended. He seemed enthusiastic. He waved sheets of paper in the air. "This is an excellent play, señor, truly excellent. No one in Madrid will see anything better this year. I'm sure of that."

"You are too kind," Lope murmured. He was no more immune to flattery than anyone else--he was less immune to flattery than a lot of people. When he bowed again to show his pleasure, it was almost as equal to equal. Diego looked disgusted. De Vega debated stepping on his foot again.

Before he could, Enrique asked, "Tell me, señor, is it really true what the soldier over there says? A real woman, a real Spanish woman, is going to play Isabella? That will be wonderful--wonderful, I tell you. The wife of an officer who could afford to bring her here, he told me."

De Vega shot Diego a look that said, Would he be so happy about a woman if he didn't care for them? His servant's sneer replied, All he cares about is the play. If she makes it better, that's what matters to him. With a scowl, Lope turned back to Enrique. "A woman, yes. A Spaniard, of course--could an Englishwoman play our great Queen? The wife of an officer? No. Don Alejandro brought his mistress--her name's Catalina Ibañez--to London, not his wife. And a good thing, too, for the play. A nobleman's wife could never appear on stage. That would be scandalous. But his mistress? No trouble there."

"Ah. I see." Enrique nodded. "I did wonder. But it is Don Alejandro de Recalde's woman, then? Corporal Fernandez had that right?"

"Yes, he did," Lope said.

Diego guffawed. "If I had a choice between bringing my wife and my mistress to this miserable, freezing place, I'd bring the one who kept me warmer, too."

"Be careful, or you'll be sorry," Enrique whispered through lips that hardly moved. "Here she comes."

Don Alejandro's mistress knew how to make an entrance. She swept into the courtyard with a couple of serving women in her wake. They were both pretty, but seemed plain beside her. She was tiny but perfect. No, not quite perfect: she had a tiny mole by the corner of her mouth.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry. De Vega knew Enrique hadn't been talking to him, and hadn't meant that kind of care when he was talking to Diego. But the servant's words might have been meant for Lope. He couldn't take his eyes off Catalina Ibañez . . . and where his eyes went, he wanted his hands and his lips to follow.


I think we all know where this is going by now. Putting De Vega near a woman never ends well. At least he knows it is a bad idea for once, not that that's going to matter.


Fantasies and flattery of Catalina distract him a great deal, but the play trumps even a woman.


quote:

Later. Not yet. El mejor mozo de España came first. Even set beside his love affairs, the words, the rhymes, the verses in his head counted for more. What had Shakespeare said in Prince of Denmark? The play's the thing--that was the line. "Take your places, then, ladies and gentlemen," Lope said. "First act, first scene. We'll start from where Rodrigo the page enters with his guitar and speaks to Isabella."

Rodrigo was played by the strapping Spanish corporal named Joaquin Fernandez. He was tall as a tree, blond as an Englishman, handsome as an angel--and wooden as a block. He stumbled through his lines. Catalina Ibañez replied,



"Tres cosas parecen bien:

el religioso rezando,

el gallardo caballero

ejercitando el acero,

y la dama honesta silando."



She wasn't just pretty. She could act. Unlike poor Fernandez (whose good looks still worried Lope), when she spoke, you believed three things seemed good to her--a monk praying, a gallant knight going to war sword in hand, and an honest woman spinning.

That had to be acting. De Vega couldn't imagine Catalina Ibañez caring about monks or honest women spinning--gallant knights were liable to be a different story. But, listening to her, you believed she cared, and that was the mystery of acting. If the audience believed, nothing else mattered.

On they went. Joaquin Fernandez had at least learned his lines. He might get better--a little. Catalina sparkled without much help. Lope knew how hard that was. No matter who surrounded her, this play would work as long as she was in it. De Vega felt that in his bones.

I wish Shakespeare had Spanish enough to follow this, he thought as the scene ended. I wish he could see the difference using actresses makes, too. He shrugged. The Englishman would just have to bumble along in his own little arena with its own foolish conventions. If that meant his work never got the attention it deserved in the wider world, well, such was life.

I'm not sure if De Vega's critique of Joaquin is cribbed from somewhere, or is Turtledove's own work. Whichever it is, it approaches brilliance. More on subject, I like how the English and Spanish theatre's being contrasted here, and I think everything is historically correct here. Female parts were played by women in Spanish plays, where England used boys. This is a culture clash that would almost certainly happen if Spain had taken England, and it is good to have it visited. I only wish we saw more of an English point of view, so that the other side could make claims. It would probably have been difficult to come up with any, though.

quote:

"All right," Lope said. "Let's go on." He might have been speaking to the assembled players. People shifted, getting ready for the next scene.

Or he might have been speaking to Catalina Ibañez alone, all the rest of them forgotten. By the way her red, full lips curved into the smallest of smiles, she thought he was. Her eyes met his again, just for a moment. Yes, let's, they said.

Turtledove's version of Lope De Vega is an absolute IDIOT.


Chapter IX, Part 2: Shakespeare


quote:

KATE POURED BEER into Shakespeare's mug. "I thank you," he said absently. He'd eaten more than half of his kidney pie before noticing how good it was--or, indeed, paying much attention to what it was. Most of him focused on King Philip. He'd stormed ahead the night before, and he couldn't wait to get to work tonight. The candle at his table was tall and thick and bright. It would surely burn till curfew, or maybe even a little longer.

The door to the ordinary opened. Shakespeare didn't look up in alarm, as he'd had to whenever it opened while he was working on Boudicca. He'd seldom dared write any of that play here, but even having it at the forefront of his thoughts left him nervous--left him, to be honest, terrified. If Spaniards or priests from the English Inquisition burst in now, he could show them this manuscript with a clear conscience.

But the man who came in was neither don nor inquisitor. He was pale, slight, pockmarked, bespectacled: a man who'd blend into any company in which he found himself. The poet hardly heeded him till he pulled up a stool and sat down, saying, "Give you good den, Master Shakespeare."

"Oh!" Shakespeare stared in surprise--and yes, alarm came flooding back. He tried to hide it behind a nod that was almost a seated bow. "God give you good even, Master Phelippes."

Phillppes is here because he knows that Shakespeare is seeking a scribe. After some banter, he explains that he is qualified for the job. Shakespeare is wary, and also concerned that he might not be capable of the job.


quote:

He would never be a hero on the battlefield, nor, Shakespeare judged, with the ladies, and so had to make do with what he knew. Twitting him about it would only make an enemy. "Ken you a scribe, then?" Shakespeare asked. "A scribe who can read what's set before him, write out a fair copy, and speak never a word of't thereafter?"

"I ken such a man, but not well," Phelippes said with a small smile.

"That will not serve," Shakespeare said. "If you cannot swear he be trusty--"

Phelippes held up a hand. That small smile grew bigger. "You mistake me, sir. I but repeat a Grecian's jest when asked by someone who knew him not if he knew himself. I am the man."

"Ah?" Shakespeare was not at all convinced Phelippes was trusty. After all, he worked at the right hand of Don Diego Flores de Valdés. And yet, plainly, Don Diego's was not the only right hand at which he worked. Wanting very much to ask him about that, Shakespeare knew he couldn't: he would get back either no answer or whatever lie seemed most useful to Phelippes. But he could say, "I'd fain see your character or ever I commend you to Master Vincent."

"Think you my claim by some great degree outdoth performance?" Thomas Phelippes sounded dryly amused. His mirth convinced Shakespeare he likely could do as he claimed. Even as Shakespeare started to say he needed no proof after all, the pockmarked little man cut him off: "Have you pen and paper here?"

"Ay." Shakespeare left them on the floor by his feet while he ate, to keep from spilling gravy on them. He bent now, picked them up, and set them on the table.

"Good. Give them me, I pray you," Phelippes said. "I shall see what I make of your hand, and you will see what you make of mine." He looked at some of what Shakespeare had written, then up at the poet himself. "This is Philip, sending forth the Armada?"

"It is," Shakespeare answered. "But for myself, you are the first to see't."

"A privilege indeed," Phelippes murmured, and then began to read:



" ‘Rough rigor looks outright, and still prevails:

Let sword, let fire, let torments be their end.

Severity upholds both realm and rule.

What then for minds, which have revenging moods,

And ne'er forget the cross they boldly bear?

And as for England's desperate and disloyal plots

Spaniards, remember, write it on your walls,

That rebels, traitors and conspirators

Shall feel the flames of ever-flaming fire

Which are not quenched with a sea of tears.' "



Looking up again, he nodded. " 'Twill serve--'twill serve very well. And a pretty contrast you draw 'twixt his Most Catholic Majesty's just fury here and the mercy of her life he grants Elizabeth conquered."

"Gramercy," Shakespeare said automatically, and then, staring, "How know you of that?"

Phelippes clicked his tongue between his teeth. "Your business is to write, the which you do most excellent well. Mine, I told you, is to know. Think you . . ."--the pause was a name he did not say aloud--"would choose me, would use me, did I not know passing well?"

Had he named that name, would it have been Sir William Cecil's or that of Don Diego Flores de Valdés? Or might he have chosen one as readily as the other? Shakespeare wished the question hadn't occurred to him. Phelippes openly avowed being a tool. Might not any man take up a tool and cut with it?

Phelippes tore off the bottom part of the sheet of paper on which Shakespeare had been writing. Shakespeare stifled a sigh. The other man surely would not pay him for the paper. Phelippes inked a pen. He began to write. Shakespeare's own hand was quick and assured, if not a thing of beauty. But his eyes widened as he watched Phelippes. The bespectacled little man's talents weren't showy, but talents he unquestionably had. The goose quill raced over the paper at a speed that put Shakespeare's best to shame.

"Here." Phelippes handed him the scrap he'd torn off. "Will it serve, think you?"

This text is drawn from The Misfortunes Of Arthur by Sir Thomas Hughes, and is several lines picked out of context. The only direct changes here are substituting "England" where the original has "Mordred" and "Spainiards" where the original says "Britain".

quote:

He'd copied out the bit of King Philip's speech he'd read before. Shakespeare stared. He himself used the native English hand he'd learned in school back in Stratford; his writing had grown more fluid over the years because he did so much of it, but had never changed its essential nature. Phelippes' studied Italian script, by contrast, was so very perfect, an automaton might have turned it out. And he'd written in haste here, not at leisure.

English and Itialian script were different things in this era, but deriving meaning from them is a matter for an expert. For the purpose of the story, it suffices that Phelippes has excellent handwriting

Phelippes departs, stating that he will make himself known to Thomas Vincent.


quote:

When he went to the Theatre the next day, he told Thomas Vincent of Phelippes. The prompter nodded, but asked, "Hath he the required discretion?"

"Of discretion he hath a surplusage," Shakespeare answered. "He wants some of the goodly qualities framing a man of parts, but discretion? Never."

"I rely on your judgment, as I needs must here," Vincent said. "An you be mistook--" He broke off, as if he didn't even want to think about that.

Neither did Shakespeare, but he said, "Therein, I am not."

"God grant it be so," Vincent said. "And when may I look for King Philip?"

He was as pushy as a prompter should be. "Anon," Shakespeare told him. "Anon."

"Anon, anon," Thomas Vincent echoed mockingly. "Are you then metamorphosed into a drawer at the Boar's Head, ever vowing to cure ails with ale and never bringing the which is promised?"

"You'll have't, and in good time," the poet said, letting a little irritation show. "King Philip breathes yet, mind you. We stray close to treason, treating of his mortality ere it be proved."

"Don Diego hath given you his commission," Vincent said. "That being so, treason enters not into the question."

"The question, say you?" Shakespeare shivered, though the day was mild enough. When he thought of the question, he thought of endless hogsheads of water funneled down his throat, of thumbscrews, of iron boots thrust into the fire, of all the fiendish ingenuity Spaniards and home-grown English inquisitors could bring to bear in interrogating some luckless wretch who'd fallen into their clutches.

Note that Turtledove seems to rank waterboarding with thumbscrews and foot roasting.

After some discussion of the possiblility of betrayal, Vincent leaves Shakespeare alone.



quote:

He wished the same would have been true of the players. He'd had to sound them out, one by one, knowing a wrong word in the wrong ear would bring catastrophe down upon them all. He felt as if he were defusing the Hellburner of Antwerp each time he spoke to one of them. At his nod, Richard Burbage had eased a couple of devout Papists from the company--both of them hired men, fortunately, and not sharers whom the other sharers would have had to buy out. Some of those who remained, and who knew what was toward, seemed to think it certain no one not of their persuasion was left in the Theatre. They were careless enough with what they said to make Shakespeare flinch several times a day--or, when things were bad, several times an hour.

It would have been even worse had they seen their parts for Boudicca and begun throwing around lines from the play. That would come soon enough--all too soon, Shakespeare feared. Even now, a robustious periwig-pated fellow named Matthew Quinn got a laugh and a cheer by shouting out that all Jesuits should be flung into the sea.

"Only chance, only luck, Lieutenant de Vega came not this morning, else he had been here to catch that," Shakespeare said to Burbage in the tiring room after the company gave the day's play.

"I have spoke to Master Quinn," Burbage answered grimly. "The rascally sheep-biter avouches he shall not be so spendthrift of tongue henceforward."

Will Kemp came up to the two of them puffing on a pipe of tobacco. Still nervous and irritable, Shakespeare spoke more petulantly than he might have: "How can you bear that stinking thing?"

"How?" Kemp, for a wonder, took no offense. "Why, naught simpler--it holds from my nostrils the reek of yon affectioned rear end." He pointed with his chin towards Matt Quinn. "And they style me fool and clown." He rolled his eyes.

"They call you by the names you have earned," Burbage said. "The names Master Quinn hath earned for this day's business needs must be named by Satan himself, none other having the tongue to withstand the flames therefrom engendered."

"Better Quinn were disgendered," Shakespeare said. "The fright he gave me, I'd not sorrow to see him lose both tongue and yard."

"You're a bloody kern today," Kemp said.

"Nay." Shakespeare shook his head. "I thirst for no blood, nor want none spilled--most especially not mine own."

"Master Quinn will attend henceforth," Burbage promised. "He stakes his life upon't."

"The game hath higher stakes than that," Shakespeare said, "for his I reckon worthless, but I crave mine own to keep."

"And they style me fool and clown," Will Kemp repeated. Shakespeare left--all but fled--the tiring room a moment later. He knew this plot was all too likely to miscarry, but wished Kemp hadn't reminded him of it quite like that.

This is not the way to keep a plot secret. Loose lips sink ships!


Chapter IX, Part 3: De Vega

quote:


"AH, MY LOVE, I must go," Lope de Vega murmured regretfully.

Lucy Watkins clung to him. "Stay with me," she said. "Stay with me forever. Till I met thee, I knew not what love was."

"Thy lips are sweet," he said, and kissed her. But then he got out of the narrow bed and began to dress. "Still, I must away. Duty calls." Duty would consist of more rehearsals for El mejor mozo de España. Lope knew he would go back to his games with Catalina Ibañez. The more he saw of Don Alejandro de Recalde's mistress, the more games he wanted to play with her. That didn't mean he despised Lucy, but the thrill of the chase was gone.

Softly, Lucy began to weep. "Would thou gavest me all thy duty."

"I may not. What I may give thee, I do." What I don't give to Catalina, Lope thought. Lucy knew nothing of the other woman. Lope dabbed at her face with the coverlet. "Here, dry thine eyes. We'll meet again, and soon. And when we do meet, let it be with gladness."

"I always come to thee with gladness," the Englishwoman said. "But when thou goest . . ." She shook her head and snuffled. At last, though, she too sat up and reached for the clothes she'd so carelessly let fall to the floor a little while earlier.

By then, Lope was pulling on his boots. He'd had plenty of practice dressing in a hurry. He didn't urge Lucy to move faster. Better--more discreet--if they weren't seen coming down the stairs together from the rooms above this alehouse. He kissed her again. "Think of me whilst we are parted, that the time until we meet again might seem the shorter."


De Vega, you are an unmitigated rear end in a top hat

He heads off to his rehearsal, where Catalina is waiting. Also waiting is her patron, Don Alejandro de Recalde, so De Vega's plans of seduction have to be put on hold.

quote:

If the nobleman knew what was in de Vega's mind, he gave no sign of it. With another friendly nod, he said, "I've been listening to Catalina practicing her lines these past few days, and I have to tell you I'm impressed. I heard a good many dreary comedies in Madrid that couldn't come close to what you're doing here in this godforsaken wilderness."

Slightly dazed, Lope murmured, "You're far too kind, your Excellency." He scratched his head. He wasn't impervious to guilt. Here was this fellow praising his work, and he wanted to sleep with the man's mistress? He took another look at Catalina Ibañez, at her sparking eyes, the delicate arch of her nose, her red lips and white teeth, the sweetly curved figure her brocaded dress displayed. Well, as a matter of fact, yes, Lope thought. The game is worth the candle.

Correction: De Vega, you are a very slightly mitigated rear end in a top hat

After a little more chatter, Don Alejandro asks to see a rehearsal performance, which De Vega cannot deny. He has Diego kicked awake, and proceeeds.

quote:

"Places! Places!" Lope shouted, submerging would-be lover so playwright and director could come forth. Being all those people at once, he sometimes felt very crowded inside. Were other people also so complex? When he thought of Diego, he had his doubts. When he thought of Christopher Marlowe . . . I won't think of Marlowe, he told himself. He's gone, and I don't have to worry about seizing him any more. But oh, by God, how I'll miss his poetry.

This is an interesting reflection, and I like the way De Vega strains under mixed admiration and loathing for Marlowe

quote:

When the play ended, Catalina Ibañez curtsied to him. Then, deliberately, as if she really were Queen Isabella, she curtsied to Lope, too. He bowed in return, also as if she were the Queen. Don Alejandro de Recalde laughed and cheered for them both. Catalina's eyes lit up. She smiled out at the nobleman--but somehow managed to include Lope in that smile, too.

She's trying to see how close to the wind she can sail, he realized, playing games with me right under Don Alejandro's nose. He'll kill her--and likely me, too--if he notices. But if he doesn't--oh, if he doesn't . . .

Lope slid closer to her. As softly as he could, he murmured, "When can I see you? Alone?"

Had she shown surprise then, surprise or offense, he would have been a dead man. But she, unlike most of her companions here, really was an actress; Lope had had that thought before. "Soon," she whispered back. "Very soon." Her expression never changed, not a bit.

She's going to betray Don Alejandro, Lope thought. How long before she betrays me, too? His eyes traveled the length of her again. For the life of him--and he knew it might be for the life of him--he couldn't make himself worry about that.

This will be trouble. De Vega knows it will be trouble. He's going to do it anyway.


Chapter IX, Part 4: Shakespeare

quote:

Thomas Vincent held sheets of paper under Shakespeare's nose. " 'Steeth, Master Vincent, mind what you do," Shakespeare said. "None should look on those who hath not strongest need."

"Be you not amongst that number?" the prompter returned. "Methought you'd fain see our scribe his work."

"I have seen his work," Shakespeare said. "Had I not, I had given you the name of another."

But he took a sheet from Vincent even so. Thomas Phelippes had had to work like a man possessed to copy out all the parts of Boudicca so quickly. However fast he'd written, though, his script hadn't suffered. It remained as clear as it had been when he'd demonstrated it in Shakespeare's ordinary.

"You could get no better," Shakespeare said, and Thomas Vincent nodded. The poet gave back the part. "Now then--make this disappear. Place it not where any sneaking spy nor prowling Spaniard might come upon't."

"I am not so fond as you hold me," the prompter said. "None shall see it but he whose part it is--and him I shall not suffer to take it from the Theatre."

"Marry, I hope you do not," Shakespeare said. "Yet will even that suffice us? For know you, we may also be done to death by slanderous tongues."

"I know't well, sir: too well, by Jesu," Vincent replied. "Here I am come unto a fear of death, a terrible and unavoided danger."

"Let only the fear thereof be unavoided, the thing itself passing over us like the Angel of Death o'er the children of Israel in Egypt. From this nettle, danger, may we pluck the flower, safety."

This last line is from Act 2 of Henry IV: Part 1

They are interrupted by a bawdy song being whistled from the roof of the theatre - a warning sign. The dangerous sheets are hidden as Lope De Vega approaches. They discuss King Phillip and King Phillip.

quote:

"How fares King Philip?" Lope asked.

"Passing well," Shakespeare repeated, adding, "or so I hope." The commission he had from Don Diego Flores de Valdés was far safer than the one Lord Burghley had given him. Part of him hoped Lord Westmorland's Men would offer their auditors King Philip, not Boudicca. That would pluck safety from the nettle of danger. It would be a craven's safety, but safety nonetheless. Let Boudicca once see the light of day, and. . .

Let Boudicca once see the light of day, and God grant I get free of England, as Kit hath done, Shakespeare thought. England had lain under the Spaniards' boots for almost ten years now. Could she rise up and cast them out? If she could, why hadn't she long since?

"How fares King Philip himself?" he inquired.

Lope de Vega frowned. "Not well, I fear me: not well at all. Late word from Spain hath it he waxeth dropsical, his belly and thighs now much distended whilst his other members waste away."

He crossed himself. Shakespeare did the same. He couldn't quite hide a shudder. He'd seen the horrid bloating of dropsy, seen it rob its victims of life an inch at a time. They'd had to press a board against one luckless player's belly to help him make water, as if they were squeezing the juice from grapes in a wine press. Next to that, the swift certainty of the gallows seemed a mercy. But you'd have no swift end, not now. . . .

Interesting thoughts here. Shakespeare's desire for the safety of his Spanish commission is understandable compared to the danger of his English one, but foolish. The plot is clearly long advanced, and too many know he is involved. His only road to safety is in success. Note also his genuine empathy for the plight of his enemy Phillip.

De Vega bids Shakespeare to finish the play, and notes the need for scribes. Also noting that Shakespeare's prompter is new due to Marten's death, he decides to be helpful.

quote:

But, for now, Lope de Vega's attention focused on King Philip and the problems involved in producing it. "An he have trouble finding scribes fit for the matter, I ken a man who'd suit it."

"Ah?" Shakespeare said: the most noncommittal noise he could make.

Lope nodded. "Ay, sir: an Englishman already in the employ of Don Diego, and thus acquainted with all you purpose here. I have seen his writing, and know him to have an excellent character, most legible. He is called Thomas . . . ah . . . Phelippes."

He pronounced the name in the Spanish manner, as if it had three syllables. That kept Shakespeare from recognizing it for a moment. When he did, he felt as if a thunderbolt had crashed to earth at his feet. Lope knew Phelippes well enough to know what sort of scribe he made? Did the Spanish officer have a fair copy of Boudicca? Had he got it before Thomas Vincent got his?

This would be a magnificent source of tension, had Turtledove not already shown Phillipes deflecting suspicion from the plot and hinted that he was discreetly removing obstacles. There's no real tension because we know which side Phellippes is on.

Shakespeare deflects the inquiry by stating that it was a matter to be taken up with the tireman, and proceeds to the day's play.

quote:

Shakespeare had only a small part in the day's production, Marlowe's Caligula. The poet was fled, but his plays lived on. Shakespeare would have been glad with more to do; he might have worried less. As things were, he'd never been so glad to escape the Theatre once the show was done.

He hadn't gone far towards London before Richard Burbage fell into step with him. "Give you good even," the other player said, and then, "It went right well, methought."

He'd played the title role, and milked it for all it was worth. Still, Shakespeare nodded; as Marlowe had written it, the role was worth milking. "This was the frightfullest Roman of them all," Shakespeare said.

"In sooth, he is a choice bit of work," Burbage said. "And, in sooth, could we but show more of what he did, he'd seem frightfuller yet."

"It wonders me the Master of the Revels gave Kit leave to present e'en as much as the play offers," Shakespeare said.

"Come the day, we'll show more than Sir Edmund wots of," Burbage observed.

"Come the day," Shakespeare echoed. "And, by what the Spaniard saith, the day comes soon: Philip hath declined further." He walked along for a few paces, then added, "Or, come the day, we'll give the auditors King Philip, and all will weep for fallen glory."

Burbage was also silent for a little while. "Peradventure we will," he said at last. "But ere I sleep each night, I pray God they'll see the other." Here in Shoreditch High Street, he named no names. Who could tell which jade or ragamuffin might take some incautious word to the dons or the English Inquisition?

"Well, Dick, your prayer, at least, is to the purpose," Shakespeare said wearily. "When I petition the Lord, it is that He let this cup pass from me. I fear me, though, He hears me not." He threw his hands in the air. " 'Swounds, why fled I not this madness or ever it laid hold of me?"

"The heart hath its reasons, whereof reason knoweth naught," Burbage said.

Shakespeare stopped in surprise. "That is well said. Is't your own?" When Burbage nodded, Shakespeare set a hand on his shoulder. "When next Will Kemp assails you as being but the mouthpiece for other men, cast defiance in's teeth."

I can find no Marlow play concerning Caligula, and it would be a very odd choice for the Spanish to allow - this entire book is about using Evil Romans to stand in for the occupying Spanish! The line attributed to Burbage here appears to actually be a quote from Blaise Pascal about religious belief, penned sometime in the middle of the next century. It is an interesting turn of character for Burbage here - earlier he was pretty blatantly unconcerned about which play got performed - his company makes money either way. Now he prays for the dangerous one, the treasonous one, the one that can set his homeland free.


They continue, Shakespeare deeming the line fit for inclusion in some light romance and lamenting that he cannot work on any such piece. After some discussion, Burbage decides to lighten the mood.

quote:

Burbage might have sensed as much. Instead of going on with the argument, he pointed ahead. "Bishopsgate draws nigh. Spring at last being arrived, it likes me having daylight left once we've strutted and fretted our two hours upon the stage."

"Why, it doth like me as well," Shakespeare said in surprise. He clapped a hand to his forehead. "By my troth, Dick, I've scarce noted proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, putting a spirit of youth in everything. Goose quill and paper have compassed round my life."

"Belike, for it's April no moe," Burbage told him. "These are May's new-fangled shows, and far from the best of 'em."

"May?" Shakespeare cried. "Surely not! Surely they'd have decked the streets with greenery, as is the custom, and burnt bonfires, and run up maypoles for that they might dance round 'em."

"Surely they would have. Surely they did. Surely you never marked it." Richard Burbage eyed him with amused pity.

"Wait!" Shakespeare snapped his fingers. "I mind me we gave the groundlings The Taming of the Shrew on the day. There! D'you see? I had some knowledge of it after all." That felt very important to him just then.

Burbage's expression changed not a jot. "And so we did. But why know you of it? Only for that it came to pass within the Theatre's bourne. Otherwise . . ." He shook his head.

As usual, Irishmen with long, hungry faces and fiery eyes stood guard at Bishopsgate. The gallowglasses glowered at Shakespeare and Burbage: the two players were big enough and young enough to seem dangerous no matter how mildly they behaved. One of the guards said something in his own musical language, of which Shakespeare understood not a word. Another started to draw his sword. But their sergeant--distinguishable only because he was a few years older and a little more scarred--shook his head. He waved the Englishmen into London, saying, "Pass through. Quick now, mind."

"Lean raw-boned rascals," Burbage muttered, but he made sure the gallowglasses couldn't hear him.

"I do despise the bloody cannibals," Shakespeare agreed, also in a low voice. "May they prove roast meat for worms."

"God grant it!" Burbage said. "That the dons lord it over us is one thing--they earned the right, having beaten us in war. But these redpolled swashbucklers?" He shook his head. "Men who'd never dare rise against the Spaniards will run riot to cast out Irish wolves."

"Ay, belike." Shakespeare wondered if Sir William Cecil had thought of inflaming Londoners against the savages from the western island. Likely he will have, the poet thought. He sees so much; would he have missed that? Still, he resolved to speak of it to Lord Burghley when next he saw him, or to Nick Skeres or Thomas Phelippes if he didn't see the noble soon.

How very appropriate for an author to completely lose track of the calendar while writing. Of greater interest is the bit with the Irish - Shakespeare is going back and forth from reluctant tool to active and eager collaborator, seeing a flaw in the plot and resolving to correct it.

Chapter 9, Part V: De Vega

quote:

"COME ON, DIEGO," Lope de Vega said impatiently from horseback. "You have only a donkey to mount. The two of you must be close cousins."

"Señor, I would never mount my cousin. The Good Book forbids it--and besides, she's ugly," his servant answered. As Lope blinked at such unexpected wit, Diego swung up into the saddle. The rear end brayed pitifully at his weight.

"You have your costume?" Lope demanded. Diego set a hand on a saddlebag. De Vega nodded. "Good. To Westminster, then. They say England's Isabella may come to watch the play, to see Castile's performed on stage. She could make your fortune, Diego." She could make mine, he thought.

Diego said, "A servant playing a servant won't make much of a mark. You should have cast me as Ferdinand."

They rode away from the Spanish barracks at the heart of London and west toward the court center. Lope had to rein in to keep his horse, a high-spirited mare, from leaving Diego's donkey behind. "Ferdinand!" Lope said. "What mad dream is that? You're not asleep now, not so I can tell."

"But am I not the perfect figure of a king?" Diego said.

Surveying his rotund servant, de Vega answered, "You are the perfect figure of two kings--at least." Diego sent him a venomous glare.

Lope paid no attention. On such a day, he was happy enough to be outdoors. As always, spring had, to a Spaniard's reckoning, come late to England, but it was here at last. The sun shone brightly. The only clouds in the sky were small white ones, drifting slowly from west to east on a mild breeze. It had rained a couple of days before--not hard, just enough to lay the dust without turning the road into a bog.

Everything was green. New grass grew exuberantly: more so than it ever did in drier, hotter Castile. Trees and bushes were in new leaf. The earliest spring flowers had begun to brighten the landscape. Birdsong filled the moist air. Robins and chaffinches, cuckoos and larks, waxwings and tits all made music. They left England sooner and came back later than they did in Spain. Each spring, when they returned, Lope discovered anew how much he'd missed them and how especially empty and barren the winter had seemed without them.

Diego smiled to hear those songs, too. "Mesh nets," he murmured. "Birdlime. By all the saints, there's nothing can match a big plate of songbirds, all nicely roasted on spits or maybe baked in a pie. I don't think much of English cookery, but they make some savory pies. Beefsteak and kidney's mighty tasty, too, and you can get that any season of the year."

De Vega's being abusive to his servant again... but this time it is kind of funny.

They walk through the city of Westminster, noticing that they are passing Drury Lane, where so many troublesome but problematic Englishmen live. Diego suggests setting it on fire, to De Vega's amusement.


quote:

The Thames bent towards the south. The road followed it. De Vega and Diego rode past a tilt-yard and several new tenements before coming to a large area on their left enclosed by a brick wall. Over the top of the wall loomed the upper stories of some impressive buildings. "What's that?" Diego asked, pointing to the enclosure.

"That? That is Scotland," Lope said.

Diego scornfully tossed his head. "You can't fool me, boss. You've been scaring me with Scotland for a while now. I know what it is--that kingdom up north of here, the one where the wild men live."

"Some of the wild men," Lope amended. "But that yard, that too is Scotland." He crossed himself to show he was telling the truth. "When the King of the wild men comes to visit England, he is housed there, and so it took its name." He wished the present King of Scotland would come to visit England. But, despite honeyed invitations, Protestant James VI was too canny to thrust his head into the Catholic lion's mouth. Lope continued, "And there beyond lies Whitehall, where the company shall perform."

"Oh, joy," Diego said.

Whitehall had formerly been a noble's residence. Henry VIII, having taken it for his own, had enlarged it, adding tennis courts, bowling alleys, and another tilt-yard, with a second-story gallery from which he and his companions might observe the sport. Elizabeth had also watched jousts from that gallery, but neither Isabella nor her consort Albert much favored them. A wooden stage, not much different from that of the Theatre, had gone up on the tilt-yard, in front of the gallery. The highest-ranking English and Spanish grandees would view El mejor mozo de España from the comfort of the gallery. The rest, prominent enough to be invited but not enough to keep company with the Queen and King, would impersonate the groundlings who packed the theatres out beyond London's walls. They didn't have to pay a penny for the privilege, though.


The Scotland Yard joke is way too perfect. The Palace of Whitehall was the royal residence from 1530 (when the previous royal residence (the Palace Of Westminster) burned down) to 1698 (when the Palace of Whitehall burned down and the royal residence was moved to Kensignton Palace). Only the central hall of the building survives today.

De Vega takes the opportinuty to encourage Catalina with a casual kiss before the performance, which goes quite well.

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From the tiring room, Lope heard Catalina Ibañez call, "And here is the man who gave us these golden words to say: Senior Lieutenant Lope Félix de Vega Carpio!"

More applause as Lope, who felt as if he were dreaming himself, came out onto the stage and bowed to the audience--especially to the central gallery, where Isabella and Albert of England sat. How had Catalina learned his full name? No time to wonder about that now; Queen Isabella was calling, "Well done, Señor de Vega. You are a very clever fellow." Lope bowed again. Isabella tossed him a small leather purse. He caught it out of the air. It was heavy, heavy enough to be stuffed with gold. He bowed once more, this time almost double. Dazedly, he followed the company offstage.

Back in the tiring room, he went over to Catalina Ibañez and said, "How can I thank you for calling me out there?"

Her eyes were as warm with promise as an early summer morning. "If you're as clever as Queen Isabella says, Señor de Vega, I'm sure you'll think of something," she purred. Only later did he wonder whether she was really looking at him or at the purse he'd just got.

Turtledove likes to do this "only later did he..." bit. Often, as now, it is fairly annoying because it takes the character out of the moment.


Chapter 9, Part VI: De Vega

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SAM KING CAME up to Shakespeare in the parlor of the lodgings they shared. A little shyly, he said, "I have somewhat for you, Master Will." He held out his hand and gave Shakespeare three pennies--two stamped with the visages of Isabella and Albert, the third an older coin of Elizabeth's.

"Gramercy," Shakespeare said in surprise. Up till now, King hadn't had enough money for himself, let alone to pay back anyone else. Shakespeare had almost forgotten the threepence he'd given the younger man for a supper, and certainly hadn't expected to see it again.

But, a touch of pride in his voice, King said, "I pay what I owe, I do."

"Right glad am I to hear't," Shakespeare answered. "You've found work, then?"

"You might say so." But King's nod seemed intended to convince himself at least as much as to convince Shakespeare. "Ay, sir, you might say so."

"And what manner of work is't, pray tell?"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Shakespeare wished he had them back. Had Sam King landed an apprenticeship with a carpenter or a bricklayer, he would have shouted the news to the skies, and would have deserved to. As things were . . . As things were, he turned red. "I am . . . stalled to the rogue," he replied at last.

"Are you?" Shakespeare tried to sound happy for the man who slept in the same room as he did. For someone on his own and hungry in London, even being formally initiated as a beggar had to seem a step up. Carefully, the poet went on, "God grant men be generous to you."

He wondered how long they would stay generous. King was young and healthy, even if on the scrawny side. A beggar with one leg or a missing eye or some other injury or ailment that inspired pity might have a better chance at pennies and ha'pennies and farthings. But King smiled and said, "There are all manner of cheats to pry the bite from a gentry cove, or from your plain cuffin, too. I've a cleym, now, fit to make a man spew an he see it."


King continues to explain the new craft, which he proudly proclaims brings in five shillings a week.

There are 12 pence to a shilling, and 20 shillings to the pound. This makes King's five shillings equal to sixty pence. By the prices Turtledove gives, this is a tolerable living - a threepenny supper such as Shakespeare habitually takes each day would consume only a third of it, allowing for some other food and his rent. This does, however, put into some proportion how much Shakespeare is actually getting payed for his two plays. Between the English and the Spanish, he is being paid two hundred pounds - at twenty shillings to the pound this makes 4000 shillings.

King's lessons attract the landlady, who is eager to hound him away until she realizes he is one of her tenants instead of some random beggar.

quote:

"We'll say no more about it, then." The Widow Kendall heaved a sigh. "This place is not what it was--by my halidom, it is not. That I should have lodging here, all at the same time, a beggar and a witch and a poet . . ." She shook her head.

Shakespeare resented being lumped together with Sam King and Cicely Sellis. A moment's reflection, though, told him they might resent being lumped together with him. He said, "So that we pay what you require on the appointed day, where's your worry, Mistress Kendall?"

"So that you do, all's well," she answered. "But with such trades . . . Sweet Jesu, who ever heard of a rich poet?"

She could imagine a rich beggar. She could imagine a cunning woman with money. A poet? No. Shakespeare was tempted to brag of the gold he'd got from Lord Burghley and Don Diego. He was tempted, for a good half a heartbeat. Then common sense prevailed. The best way to keep from being robbed or having his throat slit was not to let on he had anything worth stealing.

It is somewhat amusing that she considers the author and poet (by far the most respectable of the three professions, by modern standards) to be the most likely to run out of cash. Not an inappropriate concept for the era, though.

Sellis's cat enters and begins to rub on Shakespeare. King decides to play with the cat -he gets a mug of ale, and pours some on the ground to try getting the cat drunk. The landlady is furious at the waste of her ale - and Sellis is furious at the treatment of her cat.


quote:


Mommet sniffed at the ale slowly soaking into the rammed-earth floor. The cat's head bent. Ever so delicately, it lapped at the puddle. Then it looked up. It eyes caught the firelight from the hearth and glowed green.

"What game play you at?"

Sam King started violently and made the sign of the cross. Shakespeare jerked in surprise, too. But it wasn't the cat that had spoken. It was Cicely Sellis, standing in the doorway to her room, hands on hips, her face furious.

"What play you at?" she asked again. "Tell me straight out, else I'll make you sorry for your silence."

"N-N-N-Naught, Mistress Sellis," King stammered, his face going gray with fear. "I was but, ah, giving your cat, ah, somewhat to drink."

"You play the palliard," the cunning woman said. "Play not the fool, sirrah, or you'll find more in the way of foolery than ever was in your reckoning. Hear you me?"

"I--I do," King answered in a very small voice.

"See to't, then," Cicely Sellis snapped. She made a small, clucking sound. "Come you here, Mommet."

Cats didn't come when called. Shakespeare had known that since he was a little boy in Stratford. Cats did as they pleased, not as anyone else pleased. But Mommet trotted over to Cicely Sellis like a lapdog. The cat's contented buzz filled the parlor.

That frightened Sam King all over again. "God be my judge, mistress, I meant no harm," he whispered.

The look the cunning woman gave him said she would judge him, and that God would have nothing to do with it. "Some men there are that love not a gaping pig," she said, "some, that are mad if they behold a cat. As there is no firm reason to be rendered why he cannot abide a harmless necessary cat, so he were wiser to show mercy, and pity, than to sport with a poor dumb beast that knoweth naught of sport. Or think you otherwise?"

"No." King's lips shaped the word, but without sound. He vanished into the bedchamber he shared with Shakespeare. Jane Kendall disappeared almost as quickly.

That left Shakespeare all alone with Cicely Sellis--and with Mommet. He could have done without the honor, if that was what it was. As she stroked the cat's brindled coat, he asked, "Go you to the arena to see bears baited, or bulls, or to the cockfights?"

To his relief, she didn't take offense, and did take the point of the question. Shaking her head, she answered, "I go not to any such so-called sports. I cannot abide them. I am of one piece in mine affections and opinions, Master Shakespeare. Can you say the same?"

"Me, lady? Nay, nor would I essay it, for my wits are all in motley, now of one shade, now another. And which of us is better for't?" Shakespeare asked. Cicely Sellis thought, then shrugged, which struck him as basically honest.

Sellis is correct to be outraged. Due to low body mass, even a tiny amount of alcohol is extremely dangerous to cats.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter 10, Part I: De Vega

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A SHARP COUGH BROUGHT Lope de Vega up short. He looked back towards Shakespeare, who advanced across the stage of the Theatre. "You attend not, Master de Vega," Shakespeare said severely. "That was your cue to say forth your lines, and it passed you by. I had not known you as such an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put besides his part."

"Nor am I such." Lope bowed apology. "You pardon, sir, I pray you. 'Twas not fear put me out."

"What then?" Shakespeare asked, still frowning. "Whate'er the reason, you must improve, else you'll appear not. Would you have the groundlings pelt you with marrows and beetroots and apples gone all wormy? Would you have them outshout the action, crying, ‘O Jesu, he does it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see'?" The Englishman's voice climbed to a mocking falsetto.

"No and no and no." Lope shook his head. That harlotry struck too close to the mark. "I fear me I find myself distracted--a matter having naught to do with yourself or with your most excellent King Philip."

He wondered how much more he would have to say. But Shakespeare, after cocking his head to one side, got to the nub of it in two words: "A woman?"

"Yes, a woman," Lope answered in some relief. "She hath made promises, made them and then kept them not. And yet she may. This being so, I am torn 'twixt hope and fury."

Lope's angry because he hasn't yet managed to sleep with the mistress of a superior officer. This can't possibly go wrong.

quote:

"I understand," Lope said contritely. "You have reason, señor. My private woe should not unsettle this your play."

"As for the wench, a boot in the bum may haply work wonders, as hath been known aforetimes," Kemp said. "And if you cannot cure her by the foot, belike you'll do't by the yard."

He leered. Shakespeare snorted. So did the rest of the Englishmen in earshot. Lope scratched his head. He spoke English well, but every so often something flew past him. He had the feeling this was one of those times.

"I do know my lines," he said, ignoring what he couldn't follow. "Hear me, if you will:



‘This cardinal,

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one:

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;

Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not,

But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

And, to add greater honours to his age

Than man could give him, he died fearing God.' "



"In sooth, you have them," Shakespeare agreed. "It were better, though, to bring them forth when called for."

"And so I shall," Lope promised. "Before God, I shall."

"Before God, ay--we are ever before God," Will Kemp said. "But can you stand and deliver before the groundlings? There's the rub."

He couldn't mean he thought the groundlings a more important and more difficult audience than God . . . could he? No one could be that blasphemous. The English Inquisition would get its hooks into a man who dared say anything of the sort--would get them in and never let go again. An ordinary man, fetched before the inquisitors, would have no defense. But a player, Lope realized, just might. He could say he'd put the thought of his craft ahead of his soul for a moment. He probably wouldn't escape scot-free, but might avoid the worst.

The lines here are taken straight from Act IV, Scene 2 of Shakespeare's Henry VIII without edits, although several lines from the historical play are elided.

One thing that Turtledove does well in this book is these little philosophical interludes on the relationship between God and actors/playwrights. In an age where religion holds so much sway, such comparisons are appropriate. I am not enough of an early modern scholar to know of any, but it seems inevitable that such things were.

Also note Kemp's joke here.


quote:

"Let us try again," Shakespeare said. "The more we work afore ourselves alone, the better we shall seem when the Theatre's full."

"Or not, an God will it so," Kemp said. "The best-rehearsed company will now and again make a hash of things."

"I have myself seen the same, more often than I should wish," Lope agreed.

"Ay, certes. So have we all," Shakespeare said. "But a company less than well rehearsed will make a hash of things more than now and again. Thus I tell you, once more into the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the show up with our bungled lines. Disguise fair nature with hard-summoned art. When the trumpet's blast blows in your ears, then imitate the action of the Spaniard."

"I need not imitate," Lope pointed out.

Shakespeare made a leg at him. "Indeed not, Lieutenant. But as for you others, I'd see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. Follow your spirit, and upon your cue cry, ‘God for Philip! Sweet Spain and Saint James!' "

Richard Burbage had left the stage, probably for the jakes. Returning, he clapped his hands and said, "By God, Will, I've gone off to war with words less heartening ringing in my ears."

"Never mind war," Shakespeare said. "Let us instead piece together this King Philip. Take your places. We shall once more essay the scene."

Rehersal begins to go well, and is followed by unusually friendly banter between De Vega and Will Kemp. This culminates in a most interesting exchange.

quote:

The players laughed. Will Kemp's grin showed uneven teeth. "By my troth, no," he answered. "D'you take me for Kit Marlowe?"

More laughter arose, the baying laughter of men mocking one another's prowess. "I am wounded," de Vega said, and clapped both hands over his heart.

"Which only shows you know not where Kit'd wound you," Kemp said, and clapped both his hands over his backside. That coarse, baying laughter redoubled.

Lope joined it. He'd admired--still did admire--Marlowe the poet. It was as if Marlowe the sodomite were some different creature, divorced from the other. Life would have been simpler were that true. But they both made up different parts of the same man. De Vega wondered, not for the first time, how God could instill such great gifts and such a great sin into the same flesh and spirit. He sometimes thought God did such things to keep mortals from believing they understood Him and getting an exaggerated notion of their own cleverness.

Does Marlowe's fall, then, save other men from sins of their own? he wondered. If that be so, does it not make Marlowe like our Lord? Lope shook his head. There was one bit of speculation his confessor would never hear. If it should reach an inquisitor's ears . . . No, Lope didn't want to think about that.

More philosophizing. The real Lope De Vega spent his last 21 years as a Catholic priest, so having him ruminate this much on religious matters is fitting. Again, I regret a lack of knowledge here - this feels very much like Turtledove is cribbing from some period source.

As De Vega is heading into Bishopsgate after the rehersal, there is a most fateful meeting.

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Not far inside the gate, he was struck by the spectacle of a handsome woman coming out of an ordinary with a cat perched on her left shoulder as if it were a sailor's bird. He reined in. "Give you good day, my lady," he said, "and why, I pray you, sits the beast there?"

She gave him a measuring look. "Good day to you, sir," she answered. Lope realized then she was a few years older than he; he hadn't noticed at first glance, as he would have with most women. Her smile held a certain challenge. "As for Mommet here--well, porqué no?"

Of course she would know him for a Spaniard by his dress, his looks, his accent. He laughed. "Why not indeed? What an extraordinary beast, though, to stay where you choose to set it."

The cat--Mommet--sent him a slit-eyed green stare a good deal more dismissive than its mistress'. Its yawn displayed needle teeth and a pink tongue. The woman said, "What cat is not an extraordinary beast? Come to that, what man is not an extraordinary beast?"

Lope blinked. He was in love with Lucy Watkins. He was also in love with Catalina Ibañez, a love that tormented his soul--among other things--all the more because it remained as yet unconsummated. Even so, a woman who spoke in riddles could not help but intrigue him. Love of the body, yes. Love of the spirit--yes, that, too. But also love of the mind, especially for a man with a leaping, darting mind like Lope's, a love neither of his two present amours returned.

"Who are you?" he asked urgently.

He wondered if she would tell him. A modest woman wouldn't have. But then, a modest woman wouldn't have spoken to him in the street at all. "I'm called Cicely Sellis," she answered, with no hesitation he noted. "And you, sir, are . . . ?"

With another woman, or with a woman of another sort, he would have given his rank and the rolling grandeur of his full name. To this one, he said only, "I am known as Lope de Vega." He couldn't help bowing in the saddle and adding, "Very much at your service, Mistress Sellis."

Mommet yawned again, as if to say how little his service meant. Cicely Sellis dropped him a token curtsy, careful not to dislodge the cat. "You are Master Shakespeare's friend," she said.

He started to cross himself--it hadn't been a question, but a calm statement of fact. Arresting the gesture, he demanded, "How know you that?"

"No mystery." Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "His lodging-house and mine own are the same, and full many a time hath he spoke your name."

"Oh." Lope wanted to ask what Shakespeare had said about him. Regretfully, he decided that wouldn't be a good idea. With a nod, he urged his horse forward. "I hope to see you again, Mistress Sellis."

"May it be so," she said, and English spring truly came home to Lope.

Surely we can't have a named female character that De Vega doesn't make a pass at, unless he never meets her.

Chapter 10, Part II: Shakespeare

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Jack Hungerford showed Shakespeare a row of cheap, rusty helmets somewhat brightened by splashes of silver paint. "With feather plumes, Master Will, they serve passing well for Roman casques," the tireman said. "See you how the cheek pieces I've added help give 'em the seeming of antiquity?"

Shakespeare reached out and touched one of those cheek pieces. It was, as he'd expected, nothing but cut tin, hardly thicker than a leaf of paper. That didn't matter. It would look all right to the audience. What the players wore and what the groundlings saw--or imagined they saw--were two very different things. He knew that. No one who'd ever gone on up on stage could help knowing it. Still . . .

"Can we not make it plainer who these Romans are, whom they personate?" he inquired.

Hungerford frowned. "They are Romans, not so?" He scratched his head.

"Ay, certes, they are Romans." Shakespeare drummed the fingers of his right hand on his hose. The tireman, who dealt in things, cared nothing for symbols. "But bethink you, Master Jack. They are Romans, yes. They are invaders, come to Britain to conquer her, to change for their own her ancient and ancestral usages. In the doing, they have cast down a Queen. . . ." How many examples would he have to string together? How long before Jack Hungerford saw where he aimed? Would the tireman ever see it?

Scratching again, this time at the side of his chin, Hungerford spoke in thoughtful tones: "They fair put you in mind o' the dons, not so?"

"Even so, Master Jack! Even so!" Shakespeare wanted to kiss him. Hungerford had seen where he was going after all. "Can you devise somewhat wherewith they have at once the seeming of Romans and Spaniards both?"

Hungerford figures out how to adapt Spanish-style helmets to look Roman, and rig appropriate armor to enhance the effect. One more matter remains.

quote:


"Indeed--it pleases me greatly." Shakespeare nodded. "Now, one thing more. What have we here of queenly regalia?"

"Queenly . . . ?" Even with bit between his teeth, Hungerford didn't change gaits quickly; he needed a moment to shift his thoughts from one path to another. But then he snapped his fingers. "Ah! I follow! For the lad who is to play . . ." He snapped his fingers again, this time in annoyance. "Beshrew me if I recall the name."

"Boudicca," Shakespeare said patiently. How many people these days knew of the Queen of the Iceni, defeated and dead more than fifteen hundred years? Only those who'd fought through the Annals. Maybe his tragedy would change that. Then again, maybe it would never take the stage. But he had to go on as if he thought it would.

"Boudicca," Hungerford echoed. "A heathen appellation, if ever such there be. Well, what would you in aid of the garb purposed for that part, Master Will?"

"That it resemble a certain other deposed Queen's, as close as may be," Shakespeare answered.

He would not say the name. He didn't know why not. This conversation was already so manifestly treasonous, the name couldn't make it worse. But no one ever said it in today's England without a shiver of fear, without wondering who might be listening. He wondered if any girl child born after the summer of 1588 bore it. He had his doubts. He knew he wouldn't have given it to a little girl, not in an England ruled by Isabella and Albert. Maybe some folk were braver than he. No: certainly some folk were braver than he. But were any that brave, or that reckless?

Again, the tireman needed a heartbeat or two to catch up with him. "A certain other . . . ?" Hungerford said, and then nodded. "Oh. Elizab . . ." He stopped. He would not say all of the name, either. His eyes widened. "I take your drift. Whatsoever we may lack, I can get for barter from other companies. They need not know our veritable intent, only that it is to garb a Queen."

"You may say Queen Mary, an't please you," Shakespeare said. "She hath some small part in King Philip."

"As she had some small part in King Philip his life," said Hungerford, who was old enough to remember when Mary and Philip had briefly shared the English throne. He nodded. "Ay, that will suit well enough, should any presume to make inquiry. Are you fain to have me give him a red wig and powder his face white, as was . . . her custom for some years?"

"However your wit may take you," Shakespeare answered. "The greater the semblance, though, the more likely the play to seize the auditors."

After impressing the need for silence on Hungerford, Shakespeare ruminates a bit.


quote:

He still had no guarantee Boudicca would come off well, or that it would do as Sir William Cecil hoped and help rouse England against the Spanish occupiers. He had no guarantee the play would even appear on stage. (That gave rise to a new worry. If Boudicca didn't appear, if King Philip did, how could he reclaim the written parts? Any of those, should a Spaniard see it, would be plenty to get him dragged to Tower Hill, hanged, cut down, drawn, quartered, and burnt. His danger didn't end if Boudicca failed to play. If anything, it got worse.) But if his tragedy of the British Queen did reach the stage, Jack Hungerford would do everything in his power to make it look the way it should. And the tireman took it seriously. He understood the stakes for which they were playing.

Rember this passage, because this concern is effectively forgotten. This won't be the last time they consider putting on King Philip instead.

After some more conversation, he heads to the stage where rehersal is underway for his treasonous play.

quote:

He left the tiring room and went out on stage, where rehearsal for Boudicca went on. Burbage, as Boudicca's brother-in-law Caratach, traded barbs with Will Kemp, who played Marcus, a Roman soldier now captured by the Iceni, and with Peter Baker, the boy playing Caratach's nephew, Hengo.



"Fill 'em more wine; give 'em full bowls.--

Which of you all now, in recompense of this good,

Dare but give me a sound knock in the battle?"



Burbage boomed the words: Caratach was a fierce, blustering soldier.



"Delicate captain,

To do thee a sufficient recompense,

I'll knock thy brains out,"



Kemp replied. Marcus' talk was far bolder than his performance. He mimed gobbling down food in front of him.

"By the gods, uncle, If his valour lie in's teeth, he's the most valiant," the boy playing Hengo jeered. He shook his fist at Will Kemp.



"Thou dar'st as well be drat'd: thou knock his brains out,

Thou skin of man!--Uncle, I will not hear this."



"Tie up your whelp," Kemp told Burbage, exactly as if he were a proud Roman in barbarous hands.

Peter Baker capered about in a well-acted transport of fury.



"Thou kill my uncle! Would I

Had but a sword for thy sake, thou dried dog!"



"What a mettle this little vermin carries," Will Kemp muttered.

"Kill mine uncle!" the boy screeched.

"He shall not, child," said Burbage, as Caratach.



"He cannot; he's a rogue,

An only eating rogue: kill my sweet uncle!

Oh, that I were a man!"



Peter Baker cried.

Will Kemp smirked.



"By this wine, which I

Will drink to Captain Junius, who loves

The Queen's most excellent Majesty's little daughter

Most sweetly and most fearfully, I will do it."



"Uncle, I'll kill him with a great pin," the youngster playing Hengo squeaked.

"No more, boy," Richard Burbage began. Before he could go on and drink to Kemp's Marcus in turn, the tireman's helper started whistling the bawdy tune of which he was so fond. Instantly, Peter Baker ran off the stage. Burbage went from fierce Caratach to majestic Philip by leaning forward a little, letting his belly droop down, and dropping his voice half an octave. Will Kemp was as quick to turn, chameleonlike, into a cardinal hounding the Mahometans of southern Spain: the drunken, lecherous Roman he had been was forgotten in the wink of an eye.

These lines are from Act II, Scene 3 of John Fletcher's Bonduca, with only one alteration - Turtledove states in his endnotes that he felt the name "Judas" to be too unsubtle for the very different purpose of the fictional play, and substituted "Marcus" instead. This play was performed by Shakespeare's company in 1613, the same year that Shakespeare himself wrote his last works. John Fletcher served as Shakespeare's successor with the company, and aided the Bard with at least two plays before writing a great many of his own.

quote:

By the time Lope de Vega walked into the Theatre, what had been a rehearsal for Boudicca had metamorphosed into a rehearsal for King Philip. "Good morrow, gentles," the Spaniard called as he walked towards the stage. He waved to Shakespeare. "Give you good morrow, Master Will. You go on without me, is it not so?"

"A good day to you, Lieutenant," Shakespeare answered. "All of us must take our parts."

"That is so." Lope nodded. "Tell me something, an't please you."

"If I do know it, you shall know it," Shakespeare said. It sounded like a promise. But it was one he had no intention of keeping if de Vega wanted to know anything he shouldn't.

All Lope said, though, was, "Whensoever I come hither of late, some fellow in yon topmost gallery whistles the selfsame song. What is't? The music thereof quite likes me. Be there accompanying words?"

Shakespeare coughed. Richard Burbage kicked at the boards of the stage. Will Kemp guffawed. Still, Shakespeare could answer safely, so he did: "An I mind me aright, the ditty's named ‘A Man's Yard.' "

"Not a tailor's yard, nor a clothier's yard," Burbage added, perhaps helpfully. "Any man's yard."

"Ah?" Lope looked unenlightened. "Can you sing somewhat of't for me?"

That made Shakespeare cough again, cough and hesitate. Very little made Will Kemp hesitate. He sang out in a ringing baritone:



" ‘Rede me a riddle--what is this

You hold in your hand when you piss?

It is a kind of pleasing sting,

A pricking and a pleasant thing.

It is a stiff short fleshly pole,

That fits to stop a maiden's hole;

It is Venus' wanton staying wand

That ne'er had feet, and yet can stand.' "



He would have gone on, but Lope, grinning, held up a hand. "Basta," he said. "Enough; that sufficeth me. And now, por Dios, I take your jape of a few days past. We have such songs also in Spanish." He too began to sing. Shakespeare followed a little of it; he knew Italian and French, which were cousins to Spanish, and had picked up some of the conquerors' tongue itself during their ten years in England. From what he got of it, it was indeed of the same sort as "A Man's Yard."

Although most searches for this verse bring up the novel, there are books of folk songs that include it and predate this book. By all appearances, this is a genuine bawdy song from this era. Also note the payoff to Kemp's joke earlier - De Vega not perfectly grasping English idiom is a good touch.

De Vega is here with no particular purpose, inciting yet another round of wordplay and argument involving Will Kemp

quote:

De Vega's gaze went from one of them to the next in turn. "You give a better show now than when the groundlings spend their pennies."

"I say two things to that," Will Kemp declared. "Imprimis, say I, piss on all those who spend their pennies here." Shakespeare and Burbage both groaned. Lope de Vega only looked puzzled again, as he had at the title of "A Man's Yard." Before anyone could explain the English phrase to him, Kemp went on, "And secundus, say I, 'tis no wonder we're better now. Come the play, he writes all the lines." He pointed at Shakespeare by thrusting his thumb out between his first two fingers, and added, "I care not a fig for him."

"Thou knew'st not what a fig meant, till thy mother taught it thee," Shakespeare retorted, giving back the gesture. "And would thou wert a figment now." Kemp flinched. Burbage clapped his hands. De Vega sat at the edge of the stage, smiling and waiting for the next exchange.

And here we have another "De Vega doesn't get the crude joke" instance. This suffers badly for being so close to the resolution of the previous one, but even worse for being called out.



Chapter 10, Part III: De Vega

quote:

"BY THE VIRGIN and all the saints, my dear, I wish you had been there and understood the English," Lope told Catalina Ibañez. "They might have been fighting with rapiers, save only that their words pierced again and again without slaying, however much they might make a man wish he were dead."

Catalina shrugged. Her low-cut, tight-fitting bodice made a shrug worth watching. "From everything I've seen, actors are always bitchy," she said.

"No." He shook his head. "You make it less than it is. Could I have written this down as it was spoken, and then rendered it into Spanish--"

"It would probably sound petty and foolish," she broke in. "Such things always do, when they're not fresh." She looked at him from under lowered lashes. "Besides, Senior Lieutenant, did you bring me here to babble about mad Englishmen?"

"Certainly not, my beautiful one," Lope answered. "Oh, no. Certainly not." They sat side by side on a taffeta coverlet in the leafy shade of a small grove of willows in the yard by Whitehall, the yard given over to the Kings of Scotland whenever they chose to visit. No visit from King James seemed imminent, however much the Spaniards would have liked to see him fall into their hands. But the English kept up the yard and the buildings inside even so. Lope lifted a bottle. "More wine?"

"Why not?" Catalina answered. As he poured, a bird began to sing. She frowned. "What's that? I don't recognize the song."

"A seed warbler, I think," he answered. The name, necessarily, came out in English. "The bird does not dwell in Spain. I never heard it before I came here, either."

After some conversation, one of Turtledove's trademark awkward sex scenes ensues.


quote:

Her mouth twisted in regret when he pulled out of her. But she quickly started putting herself to rights. De Vega got dressed, too. He reached out to pat her bare backside as she pulled up her drawers. "Even more than I imagined," he told her.

"Imagined?" She raised a hand to her face, as if to hide a blush, as if to say she couldn't imagine a man hungrily imagining making love to her.

"It was all I could do," he said. "It was. But no more." Had he been a few years younger, he would have laid her down on the taffeta coverlet and taken her again then and there. He sighed for lost youth. There would be other chances, though, and soon. And he would be seeing Lucy Watkins again before long. It wasn't as if he'd fallen out of love with her when he fell in love with Catalina Ibañez.

And what might that Englishwoman with the cat be like between the sheets? Lope hadn't thought about finding a lover older than himself since he was eighteen. For that one, he thought he would make an exception.

This scene is oddly placed - this chapter opens with De Vega moping about not getting anywhere with Catalina, only for his very next POV segment landing here. Also, he's barely gotten dressed and he's thinking about adding another conquest. He's a bit of an rear end.

On their way out, they are interrupted by the guy Catalina's supposed to be doing this with.

quote:

"¡Ay, madre de Dios!" Catalina Ibañez yelped. She dropped Lope's hand as if it were on fire. Under her paint, her face went white as milk. "It's Don Alejandro!"

Lope let the coverlet fall to the grass. The wine bottle clanked against the honey pot. He hoped they didn't break, but that was the least of his worries right now. His right hand fell to the hilt of his rapier. He'd worn it as much for swank as on the off chance of trouble. Without it, he'd be a dead man now.

I may be a dead man anyhow. Don Alejandro went from purposeful walk to thudding trot. His rapier leaped free of its sheath. The long, slim, deadly blade glittered in the sun. "De Vega!" the nobleman bellowed. "Ten thousand demons from hell, de Vega, what are you doing with my woman?"

Had de Recalde come in a few minutes earlier, he would have seen for himself what Lope was doing. By Catalina's delighted response, the nobleman would have learned something, too. This seemed neither time nor place for that discussion. Lope drew his own sword. But he gave as mild an answer as he could: "Talking about the theatre."

"Liar! Dog! Son of a dog!" Don Alejandro shouted, and roared down on him like an avalanche. Steel clattered from steel. Sparks flew. Catalina screamed. "Shut up, you little puta!" Don Alejandro shouted. "You're next!"

His first long, abrupt thrust almost pierced Lope's heart; de Vega barely managed to beat the blow aside. He couldn't counter. Fast as a striking serpent, Don Alejandro thrust for his belly. Only a hasty backwards leap saved him from owning a second navel. And any puncture a couple of inches deep probably meant death, either from bleeding or, more slowly and painfully, from fever.

Don Alejandro de Recalde was a picture fencer, with a style as pure as any Lope had ever seen. He kept his blade in front of his body and poised to strike at every moment, and he was quick and strong. He might have stepped out of a swordmaster's school and straight into the King of Scotland's yard. For their first few exchanges, Lope wondered how he could possibly come through the fight alive. And then, as he managed a thrust at Don Alejandro's belly and the nobleman beat his blade aside with a perfect parry, he suddenly smiled a most unpleasant smile.

His next thrust wasn't at Don Alejandro's midriff--it was at his face. Catalina's keeper turned that one, too, but not so elegantly, and he jerked his head back in a way no fencing master would have approved. Lope's smile grew wider and nastier. "Don't do a lot of real righting, you say?" he panted.

"I say nothing to you, de Vega," de Recalde snarled, and bored in again. "Nothing!" Clang! Clang! Clang! went their swords, as if they were battling it out up on stage.

But swordplay in real fighting was different from what went on with the groundlings cheering down below. It was different from what the fencing masters taught, too. Lope thrust at Don Alejandro's face again. This time, his foe didn't jerk away fast enough. The point pierced his cheek. The nobleman howled in pain. Blood ran down the side of his jaw. Catalina Ibañez shrieked.

"They don't show you that in school, do they?" Lope jeered. He knew perfectly well they didn't. Nobody included blows to the face in fencing exercises. They were too dangerous. Swordmasters who slaughtered their students or scarred them for life weren't likely to get much new business.

Don Alejandro tried to answer him, but blood poured from his lips instead of words. De Recalde was game. He kept on doing his best to skewer Lope. His best was alarmingly good--but not quite good enough.

Lope thrust at his head again, this time pinking his left ear. More blood flew. Don Alejandro shook his head and kept fighting. Both he and Lope ignored Catalina's screams.

Once more, Lope thought. He gave this thrust all the arm extension he had. His point pierced his opponent's right eye, pierced the flimsy bone behind, and penetrated deep into de Recalde's brain. With a grunt that seemed more surprise than pain, Don Alejandro toppled to the grass like a kicked-over sack of clothes. His rapier fell from fingers that could hold it no more. His feet drummed briefly, then were still. A sudden stench said his bowels had let go. Catalina screamed one last time. She gulped to a stop, tears streaming down her face.

"Stupid bastard," Lope said wearily, tugging his sword free and plunging it into the ground to cleanse it. "You never really tried to kill anyone before, did you? Well, by God, you won't try again, that's certain sure."

Quoted in full because we get so few action scenes in this book. This one's vivid and quite believable - Don Alejandro is a better fighter in pure technique, but De Vega wins with some dirty tricks.

quote:

He turned to Catalina Ibañez. "Come on," he told her. "We have to let the authorities know what happened here. You are my witness I slew in self-defense."

She nodded. "You are my hero, my champion." she said. "You killed for my sake, for . . . for me." Tears still wet on her cheeks, she gave him a glance full of animal heat. Lope had never had a woman look at him that way for that reason. He hoped to heaven he never would again.

((Chapter split here for length))

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 04:32 on Sep 3, 2020

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




If I can ever manage to get past this book (hoping for an update later this week), that's much of the criticism that I'd have for the 191 series. War that came early is actually much less so.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Epicurius posted:

I found The War that Came Early forgettable. I mean, I remember reading it, I just don't remember anything that happened in it except that that one member of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade sniped Franco, I think? And there was a Czech with an anti-Tank rifle who joined the French Army, maybe?. It just didn't leave an impression on me.

The Czech with an AT rifle is the guy who sniped Franco and Sanjurjo, single-handedly winning the Spanish Civil War

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Epicurius posted:

So I think he's the only character I remember. Unless...was there also a Midwestern tourist stuck in Germany and a Soviet pilot?

Socialite tourist, and a couple of Soviet pilots.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




I'm thinking about restarting this and skipping to Guns of The South. It turned out that Ruled Britannia is a very boring book to dissect because of the large number of chapters where nothing much happens.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Lawman 0 posted:

Honestly if you were sending out an interstellar expedition, even with FTL or something I would simply bring a factory ship or something to make whatever you needed instead bringing along a bunch of obsolete crap you don't need. :v:

They actually so that - the conquest fleet has organic manufacturing capability. They just need way more than any reasonable person would expect when bringing T-72s to fight knights on horseback.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




For anybody wondering how the other book turned out, Shakespeare's play set off a rebellion, they kicked out the Spanish. Shakespeare got knighted, divorced, and lived happily ever after with his barmaid girlfriend.




Going to get started on The Guns Of The South this weekend.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




The ending of Timeline 191 where Confederate Hitler gets shot by a black resistance fighter who lost his entire family in the Population Reduction comes off as pretty blatant wish fulfillment.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme






The Guns of The South begins in an Army Of Northern Virginia camp in January of 1864. The previous year, Lee's second invasion of the North met a spectacular end at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and fallen back into Virginia. Attempts to inflict a matching defeat by exploiting General Meade's indifferent pursuit failed, as did Meade's belated attempt to catch and destroy Lee's forces at the Battle of Mine Run, less than a month before the novel begins. Our point of divergence here comes right at the beginning of the novel, while Lee is composing letters.

Chapter 1: Robert E. Lee

quote:

Headquarters
January 20, 1864
Mr. President:
I have delayed replying to your letter of the 4th until the time arrived for the execution of the attempt on New Berne. I regret very much that the boats on the Neuse & Roanoke are not completed. With their aid I think success would be certain. Without them, though the place may be captured, the fruits of the expedition will be lessened and our maintenance of the command of the waters in North Carolina uncertain.


Robert E. Lee paused to dip his pen once more in the inkwell. Despite flannel shirt, uniform coat, and heavy winter boots, he shivered a little. The headquarters tent was cold. The winter had been harsh, and showed no signs of growing any milder. New England weather, he thought, and wondered why God had chosen to visit it upon his Virginia.
With a small sigh, he bent over the folding table once more to detail for President Davis the arrangements he had made to send General Hoke’s brigade down into North Carolina for the attack on New Berne. Re had but small hope the attack would succeed, but the President had ordered it, and his duty was to carry out his orders as best he could. Even without the boats, the plan he had devised was not actually a bad one, and president Davis reckoned the matter urgent..

In view of the opinion expressed in your letter, I would go to North Carolina myself But I consider my presence here always necessary, especially now when there is such a struggle to keep the army fed & clothed.



Lee here is describing preparations for the attempt to recapture the town of New Bern (no "e") North Carolina. There's one great problem here, on page 1 of the book. The New Bern campaign had nothing to do with Lee. Lee was never the commander of the entire Confederate Army - just the Army of Northern Virginia. The attack on New Berne was led by General George Pickett and supported by General Robert Hoke's 21st North Carolina. Neither Pickett or Hoke were under Lee's command, which does largely shield him from blame for the result. The Battle of New Bern was a Union victory, with little bloodshed. The most significant result came afterward, when Pickett discovered that 22 Union prisoners were born in North Carolina and had them shot as deserters..

Lee continues his letter before being interrupted by gunfire.

quote:

A gun cracked, quite close to the tent. Soldier’s instinct pulled Lee’s head up. Then he smiled and laughed at himself. One of his staff officers, most likely, shooting at a possum or a squirrel. He hoped the young man scored a hit.
But no sooner had the smile appeared than it vanished. The report of the gun sounded--odd. It had been an abrupt bark, not a pistol shot or the deeper boom of an Enfield rifle musket. Maybe it was a captured Federal weapon.
The gun cracked again and again and again. Each report came closer to the one before than two heartbeats were to each other. A Federal weapon indeed, Lee thought: one of those fancy repeaters their cavalry like so well. The fusillade went on and on. He frowned at the waste of precious cartridges--no Southern armory could easily duplicate them.
He frowned once more, this time in puzzlement, when silence fell. He had automatically kept count of the number of rounds fired. No Northern rifle he knew was a thirty-shooter.

There were two famous repeaters used by Union troops during the Civil War, most of which were privately purchased by soldiers or officers. The Henry Repeating Rifle (the design of which would form the basis for the famous Winchester line of leverguns) was a lever action rifle firing the .44 Henry cartrige from a 15-round tubular magazine located under the barrel. The primary weakness of the Henry was that .44 Henry is a relatively low-powered round - far closer to the rounds fired from a Colt 1860 revolver than to those fired by the standard Springfield carbine or rifle.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofGnRSE7lpI

The other famous repeater of the war was the Spencer. Also a lever design, the Spencer fired .56-56 Spencer cartridges from a 7-round magazine located in the buttstock. Less reliable than the Henry, and with lower magazine capacity, the primary advantage of the Spencer was the cartridge - .56-56 Spencer was on par with the standard muzzleloaders in both bullet weight and muzzle velocity.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8eQmTUHzeU

As Lee helpfully explains, neither is a thirty-shooter.



Lee returns to his letter, only to almost immediately hear another burst of gunfire, this one being a large number in very close succession. Lee hastily begins to exit his tent, running right into an aide bearing a letter.

quote:

Bureau of Ordnance, Richmond
January 17, 1864
General Lee:
I have the honor to present to you with this letter Mr. Andries Rhoodie of Rivington, North Carolina, who has demonstrated in my presence a new rifle, which I believe may prove to be of the most significant benefit conceivable to our soldiers. As he expressed the desire of making your acquaintance & as the Army of Northern Virginia will again, it is likely, face hard fighting in the months ahead, I send him on to you that you may judge both him & his remarkable weapon for yourself. I remain,
Your most ob’t servant,
Josiah Gorgas,
Colonel


Lee folded the letter, handed it back to Taylor. As he returned his glasses to their pocket, he said, “Very well, Major. I was curious before; now I find my curiosity doubled. Take me to Mr.--Rhoodie, was it?”
“Yes, sir. He’s around behind the tents here. If you will come with me--”
Breath smoking in the chilly air, Lee followed his aide-decamp. He was not surprised to see the flaps from the other three tents that made up his headquarters were open; anyone who had heard that gunfire would want to learn what had made it. Sure enough, the rest of his officers were gathered round a big man who did not wear Confederate gray.

The big man did not wear the yellow-brown that was the true color of most home-dyed uniforms, either, nor the black of the general run of civilian clothes. Lee had never seen an outfit like the one he had on. His coat and trousers were of mottled green and brown, so that he almost seemed to disappear against dirt and brush and bare-branched trees. A similarly mottled cap had flaps to keep his ears warm.


Rhoodie is very polite, well fed, and speaks with an odd accent. After exchanging pleasantries, he gets down to business.

quote:


“I thank you for your patience with me,” he said now in that not-quite-British accent. “Tell me this, then: what do you make of the Confederacy’s chances for the coming year’s campaign and for the war as a whole?”
“To be or not to be, that is the question,” Marshall murmured.
“I hope our prospects are somewhat better than poor Hamlet’s, Major,” Lee said. His staff officers smiled. Rhoodie, though, simply waited. Lee paused to marshal his thoughts. “Sir, since I have but so briefly had the honor of your acquaintance, I hope you will forgive me for clinging to what may be plainly seen by any man with some knowledge and some wit: that is, our enemies are superior to us in numbers, resources, and the means and appliances for carrying on the war. If those people”--his common euphemism for the Federals--”use their advantages vigorously, we can but counterpoise to them the courage of our soldiers and our confidence in Heaven’s judgment of the justice of our cause. Those have sufficed thus far. God willing, they shall continue to do so.”
“Who said God is for the big battalions?” Rhoodie asked.
“Voltaire, wasn’t it?” Charles Venable said. He had been a professor of mathematics before the war, and was widely read.
“A freethinker if ever there was one,” Marshall added disapprovingly.
“Oh, indeed,” Rhoodie said, “but far from a fool. When you are weaker than your foes, should you not take the best advantage of what you do have?”
“That is but plain sense,” Lee said. “No one could disagree.”
Now Rhoodie smiled, or his mouth did; the expression stopped just short of his eyes. “Thank you, General Lee. You have just given much of my sales talk for me.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, sir, you have. You see, my rifle will let you conserve your most precious resource of all-your men.”
Walter Taylor, who had seen the gun in action, sucked in a long, deep breath. “It could be so,” he said quietly.
“I await the demonstration, Mr. Rhoodie,” Lee said. “You will have it.” Rhoodie unslung the weapon. Lee had already noted it was of carbine length, stubby next to an infantry musket. Because it was so short, its socket bayonet seemed the longer. Rhoodie reached over his shoulder into his haversack. That was made of mottled cloth like his trousers and coat, and looked to be of finer manufacture than even a Union man carried. Most of Lee’s soldiers made do with a rolled-up blanket.
The tall stranger produced a curved metal object, perhaps eight inches long and an inch and a half or two inches wide. He clicked it into place in front of the carbine’s trigger. “This is the magazine,” he said. “When it’s full, it holds thirty rounds.”
“In fine, the rifle now has bullets in it,” Taylor said.” As all of you will no doubt have noticed, it is a breechloader.” The other aides nodded. Lee kept his own counsel.

An odd uniform, equipment of extremely high quality, and this marvelous rifle. Where could this guy have come from?

Rhoodie pulls sheets of paer from his bag, which prove to be targets bearing a life-size sillohette of a man's torso and head. He requests that these be put up to demonstrate accuracy, out to 4 or 5 hundred yards.

quote:

When the aides were through, a ragged column of thirty targets straggled southeast toward Orange Court House a couple of miles off. The knot of tents that was Lee’s headquarters lay on a steep hillside, well away from encamped troops or any other human habitations. The young men laughed and joked as they came back to Rhoodie and Lee. “There’s General McClellan!” Charles Marshall said, stabbing a thumb in the direction of the nearest target. “Give him what he deserves!”
The others took up the cry: “There’s General Burnside!” “General Hooker!” “General Meade!” “Hancock!” “Warren!” “Stoneman!” “Howard!” “There’s Honest Abe! Give him his deserts, by God!”
Lee turned to Rhoodie. “At your convenience, sir.” The aides fell silent at once.
“One of your men might want to look at a watch,” Rhoodie said.
“I will, sir.” Charles Venable drew one from his waistcoat pocket. “Shall I give you a mark at which to begin?” Rhoodie nodded. Venable held the watch close to his face so he could see the second hand crawling around its tiny separate dial. “Now!”
The rifle leaped to the big stranger’s shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. Craack! A brass cartridge case flipped up into the air. It glittered in the sun as it fell. Craack! Another cartridge case. Craack! Another. This was the same sort of quick firing as that which had interrupted Lee’s letter to President Davis.
Rhoodie paused once for a moment.” Adjusting the sights,” he explained. He was shooting again as soon as the last word left his mouth. Finally the rifle clicked harmlessly instead of blasting out another round.
Charles Venable looked up. “Thirty aimed shots. Thirty-two seconds. Most impressive.” He looked from the rifle to Rhoodie, back again. “Thirty shots,” he repeated, half to himself. “Where is the smoke from thirty shots?”
“By God!” Walter Taylor sounded astonished, both at the lack of smoke and at himself. “Why didn’t I notice that before?”
Lee had also failed to notice it. Thirty closely spaced shots should have left this Andries Rhoodie in the middle of a young fogbank. Instead, only a few hazy wisps of smoke floated from the breech and muzzle of his rifle. “How do you achieve this, sir?” he asked.

The answer is unhelpful - Rhoodie just explains that he uses a different powder than normal. The targets are brought in, and 28 out of 30 targets have been struck - impressive by any standard. After reloading, he demonstrates a second feature.

quote:

“Sorry. The Yankees, I mean. What if the Yankees are too close for aimed fire?” Below the handle was a small metal lever. Rhoodie clicked it down so that, instead of being parallel to the handle’s track, its front end pointed more nearly toward the ground. He turned away from Lee and his staff officers. “This is what.”
The rifle roared. Flame spurted from its muzzle. Cartridges flew out of it in a glittering stream. The silence that followed the shooting came hard and abrupt as a blow. Into it, Lee asked, “Major Venable, did you time that?”
“Uh, no, sir,” Venable said, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Never mind, It was quite rapid enough.”
Rhoodie said, “Except at close range or into big crowds, full automatic fire isn’t nearly as effective or accurate as single shots. The weapon pulls up and to the right.”
“Full automatic fire.” Lee tasted the words. “How does this repeater operate, if I may ask, sir? I have seen, for example, the Spencer repeating carbines the enemy cavalrymen employ, with a lever action to advance each successive bullet. But you worked no lever, save to chamber your first round. The rifle simply fired, again and again.”

Rhoodie's rifle, as he helpfully explains, uses the gas from each shot to push the bolt back. Lee is impressed, but fears that this is all pointless - after all, how many of these wonder weapons can he acquire, when the Confederacy is unable to produce even conventional arms in quantity.

quote:

Rhoodie smiled broadly. “How many would you like?”
“I would like as many as you can furnish,” Lee said. “The use to which I might put them, however, would depend on the number available. If you can provide me with, say, a hundred, I might furnish them to horse artillery batteries, so they might protect themselves against attacks by the enemy infantry. If, on the other hand, you are fortunate enough to possess five hundred or so--and the requisite ammunition--I would consider outfitting a cavalry regiment with them. It would be pleasant to have our horsemen able to match the firepower those people are able to bring to bear, rather than opposing them with pistols and shotguns.”
Andries Rhoodie’s smile grew wider still, yet it was not the smile of someone sharing something pleasant with friends. Lee was reminded instead of the professional grimace of a stage magician about to produce two doves from inside his hat. Rhoodie said,” And suppose, General Lee, suppose I am able to get you a hundred thousand of these rifles, with their ammunition? How would you--how would the Confederacy--use them?”
“A hundred thousand?” Lee kept his voice low and steady, but only with a distinct effort. Rather than pulling two doves out of his hat, the big stranger had turned loose a whole flock. “Sir, that is not a piker’s offer.”
“Nor a likely one, if you will forgive my saying so,” Charles Marshall said. “That is nearly as many weapons as we have been able to realize from all of Europe in three years of war. I suppose you will deliver the first shipment by the next northbound train?” Irony flavored every word.
Rhoodie took no notice of it. “Close enough,” he said coolly. “My comrades and I have spent some time getting ready for this day. General Lee, you will be sending General Hoke’s brigade down to North Carolina over the next couple of nights--am I right?”
“Yes, that is so,” Lee said without much thought. Then all at once he swung the full weight of his attention to Rhoodie. “But how do you know of it, sir? I wrote those orders just today, and was in the process of informing President Davis of them when interrupted by you and your repeater. So how can you have learned of my plans for General Hoke’s movements?”
“My comrades and I are well informed in any area we choose,” Rhoodie answered. He was easy, even amused; Lee abstractly admired that; he knew his own presence overawed most men. The stranger went on, “We do not aim to harm you or your army or the Confederacy in any way, General. Please believe me when I say that. No less than you, we aim to see the South free and independent.”

So this guy not only has wonderous equipment, he knows all kinds of information that he shouldn't.

The proposal is to have Holk's trains stop at the town of Rivington, North Carolina on their way back from delivering the troops. There, they can take on the first shipment of 25,000 rifles with a supply of ammunition, and can repeat this until the initial order is filled. 100,000 rifles is more than the Army of Northern Virginia requires, but the Confederacy has other commands. A point which Rhoodie makes clear.

quote:

“The Confederacy has more armies than yours. Don’t you think General Johnston will be able to use some when General Sherman brings the whole Military Division of the Mississippi down against him come spring?”
“General Grant commands the Military Division of the Mississippi,” Walter Taylor said: “all the Federal troops between the Alleghenies and the river.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right, so he does, for now. My mistake,” Rhoodie said. He turned back to Lee, this time with a hunter’s intent expression on his face. “And don’t you think, General, that Nathan Bedford Forrest’s troopers would enjoy being able to outshoot the Federals as well as outride and outfight them?”
“What I think, sir, is that you are building mighty castles in the air on the strength of a single rifle,” Lee answered. He did not care for the way Andries Rhoodie looked at him, did not care for the arrogant way the man spoke, did not care for anything about him...except for his rifle. If one Southern man could deliver the fire of five or ten Unionists, the odds against which Confederate armies had to fight in every engagement might all at once be set at naught.
Rhoodie still studied him. Lee felt his cheeks go hot, even on this icy winter’s day, for he knew the stranger could see he was tempted. The book of Matthew came into his mind: Again the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.
But Rhoodie did not ask for worship, and he was no devil, only a big, tough man, who was not too tough to wear a cap with flaps to keep his ears warm. For all that Lee had not taken to him, he spoke like a reasonable man, and now said, reasonably, “General, I will stay here and guarantee with my person that what I say is true. Give the order for the train to stop and pick up the rifles and ammunition. If they do not come as I say they will, why, you can do whatever you please with me. Where is your risk in that?”

Lee can find no trap here, and no risk to him. He decides to accept Rhoodie's offer. This leaves only one matter in need of resolution.

quote:

Walter Taylor asked, “Mr. Rhoodie, what do you call this rifle of yours. Is it a Rhoodie, too? Most inventors name their products for themselves, do they not?”
“No, it’s not a Rhoodie.” The big stranger unslung the title, held it in both hands as gently as if it were a baby. “Give it its proper name, Major. It’s an AK-47.”

The Автома́т Кала́шникова (Avtomat Kalashnikova, or "Kalishnikov's Automatic Rifle"), more commonly known as the AK or AK-47, is a rifle developed in the Soviet Union immediately after the end of the Second World War. Although the designer took lessons from existing weapons - primarily the American M1 Garand, the German Sturmgewer 44, and the Soviet SKS - the final desing was entirely his own work. Perhaps the most famous firearm on the planet, the AK and derived designs have seen combat service on five continents and played a part in just about every war since Korea. Some estimates suggest that one out of every five firearms worldwide is an AK or derivative.

The AK-47 fires the 7.62x39mm cartridge from a thirty-round detachable box magazine, is extremely accurate out to 500 meters, and is extremely robust. Not, perhaps, as robust as the gun's reputation suggests, but robust nontheless.


After finishing his letter, Lee heads back outside. Rhoodie is boiling water, and it is growing time for Lee to eat as well.

quote:

Lee’s servant came up. “Supper be ready soon, Marse Robert.”
“Thank you, Perry. What do we have tonight?”
“Possum soup, all nice and thick with peanuts,” the black man answered.
“That sounds very fine.” Lee walked over to Rhoodie. “Would you care to share supper with me, sir? Perry has not much to work with here, but one would never know it by the meals he turns out.”
Rhoodie’s eyes flicked toward Perry. “Your slave?”
“He’s free,” Lee answered.
Rhoodie shrugged. Lee could see he did not approve. The stranger started to say something, then evidently thought better of it, which was just as well. When he did speak, it was about supper: “Will you let me add to the meal? I know you’re on short rations here.”
“I wouldn’t want to deprive you. Times are hard everywhere.”
“It’s no trouble. I have plenty.” Rhoodie peered into the pot. “Ah, good; it’s boiling.” He set it on the ground. “Excuse me.” He went back into the tent. When he came out, he was holding a couple of packages whose sides and bottoms reflected the firelight metallically. He peeled a lid off each of them. The insides of the lids looked metallic, too. He set down the packages, poured hot water into each of them. Instantly, savory steam rose.
Lee watched--and sniffed--with interest. “Is that desiccated stew you have there? The Federals use desiccated vegetables, but I did not know anyone was preparing whole meals that way.”
“Desiccated stew it is, General.” The tall stranger’s voice was oddly constrained, as if he’d expected Lee to be more surprised. He passed him one of the packages and a spoon. “Before you eat, stir it about a little.”
Lee stirred, then tasted. His eyebrows rose. “This is excellent. Were they to taste it, the wits in the army wouldn’t joke so about’ desecrated’ vegetables.” He ate another couple of spoonfuls; “Very good indeed. Now I find myself embarrassed at. having nothing better than possum soup to offer in exchange.”
“Don’t fret about it, General,” Rhoodie said. He held out his metal packet as a bowl when Perry came by a couple of minutes later with the kettle. Perry ladled the container full. He smiled. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your black is a fine cook.”

Note Rhoodie's treatment of Perry here. Among everything else, he compliments Lee on Perry's cooking, not the man himself.

Lee's immediately requests that Rhoodie start supplying these magic rations along with the magic rifles. Rhoodie hems and haws, but allows that he might be able to provide some, given time. After eating, he begins to boil more water to Lee's surprise.

quote:

“I was going to boil water for coffee. Would you like some?”
“Real coffee?” Lee asked. Rhoodie nodded. With a rueful smile, Lee said, “I almost think real coffee might be too potent for me, after so long drinking chicory and scorched grain masquerading under the name. Still, I will gladly hazard the experiment, provided you have enough for my staff as well. I would not see them deprived of what I enjoy.”
“They’re welcome,” Rhoodie said. “They need their own mugs, though.”
“By all means,” Lee called his aides, gave them the good news. They exclaimed in delight and hurried back to their tents. Lee went off to fetch his own mug.
By the time everyone converged, mug in hand, on Rhoodie’s shelter, he had his pot back over the fire. With his free hand, he passed each Confederate officer a small, flat packet. Rhoodie said, “Tear it open and pour it into the bottom of your cup.”
FOLGER’S INSTANT COFFEE, Lee read on the packet. Below that, in much smaller print, was something he could not make out. He put on his glasses. The words came clear: MADE IN U.S.A. He returned the glasses to his pocket, thinking he should have been able to guess that without reading it.
As Rhoodie had directed, he poured the contents of the packet into his cup. The stuff did not look like ground coffee. “Is this another of your desiccations?” he asked.
“You might say so, yes, General. Now if you’ll hold out your cup--” Rhoodie filled it to the brim with hot water. All at once, it smelled like coffee. “Stir it about to dissolve it all,” Rhoodie said as he filled the aides’ mugs in turn.
Lee raised the cup to his lips. It was not the best coffee he’d ever had. But coffee it unmistakably was. He took a long, slow sip, closed his eyes with pleasure. “That is most welcome,” he said. One after another, the staff officers echoed him.
“I’m glad you enjoy it,” Rhoodie said. Charles Venable had been examining his packet, too. “Instant coffee,” he said musingly.” An apt description, though not one I’ve heard before. Is this little envelope made of tinfoil, Mr. Rhoodie?”
“I think so,” the big stranger answered after a slight hesitation, which Lee believed he recognized; it sounded like the pause of a man who was not telling everything he knew. Andries Rhoodie seemed to know a fair number of things he wasn’t telling. The things he had already spoken of and shown were quite remarkable enough. Lee wondered what secrets he still kept.
Walter Taylor pointed to Rhoodie’s coffee mug. “What is that emblem your cup bears, sir, if I may ask? At first, seeing the red background and the white, I took it for a Confederate symbol, but now I see it is not.”
Rhoodie held the mug close to the fire to give Taylor a better view of it. Lee looked, too. Inside a white circle on the red background was a spiky, black emblem that reminded him of a caltrop:



Under the emblem stood three letters: AWB. Rhoodie said, “It is the sign of my organization.” He was good at appearing to answer while actually saying little.
Lee asked, “What do the initials signify?”
“Our motto,” Rhoodie replied with a smile: “America Will Break.”

AWB does NOT stand for America Will Break. The Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging (AWB) began as a political party in South Africa devoted to the preservation of apartheid and other white-supremacy laws. Better armed and more vicious than the American Ku Klux Klan, and using a distinctive three-armed swastika as their symbol, they eventually rallied around the cause of seceeding from the South African government on the grounds that it wasn't racist enough, and were the primary opponent of groups such as Nelson Mandela's African National Congress. By the time this book was written in 1992, the AWB was still strong but the writing on the wall was clear. The group fell into a sharp decline after majority rule came to South Africa in 1994, and today they are just another group of bitter and virulent neo-Nazi leftovers.

Later that evening, Lee encounters Rhoodie reading the Bible by firelight while making a call of nature, and finds it easy to sleep despite the coffee. This act of devotion gives Lee more reason to trust the man.


A few days later, after having to order the army's rations reduced due to supply issues, Lee recieves a telegram from the trains. Many crates were loaded in Rivington, and inspection found them to be filled with rifles and cartridges of unknown design. This does not wholly alleviate Lee's suspicions.

quote:

“Yes, sir.” Venable hesitated, then went on, “May I ask, sir, what you think of Mr. Rhoodie?”
“Well, I certainly think a good deal better of him now that I know for a fact he is not a solitary charlatan with a solitary, if marvelous, carbine,” Lee said at once. Then he too paused. “But that wasn’t the whole of what you asked, was it, Major?”
“No, sir.” Normally a fluent speaker, Venable seemed to be struggling to put what he thought into words: “I do believe he is the most peculiar man I’ve ever met. His carbine, his gear, even the food he eats and the coffee he drinks...I’ve not seen nor heard of their like anywhere.”
“Nor have I, and with their uniform excellence and convenience, I should hope I would have, the better to wage this war,” Lee said. “There is also more to it than that. The man knows more than he lets on. How could he have learned of my orders sending General Hoke south? That still perplexes me, and worries me no small amount as well. Had he been exposed ‘as a fraud, I would have had some hard questions to ask him about it, and asked them in as hard way as need. As is--” Lee shrugged. “He is manifestly a good Southern man. How long do you suppose we could have lasted, Major, had he chosen to go north and sell his rifles to the enemy?”
Venable made a sour face, as if disliking the taste of that idea. “Not long, sir.”
“I quite agree. They outweigh us enough as is. But he chose our cause instead, so for the time being the hard questions can wait. And he is a pious man. No one who was not would read his Testament late at night where nobody could be expected to see him.”

Some time later, Lee meets the train carrying the rifles himself.

quote:

A plume of woodsmoke announced a train heading up the Orange and Alexandria Railroad to the little town of Orange Court House. Lee pointed to it with the eagerness of a boy who spies his Christmas present being fetched in. “If I have calculated rightly, gentlemen, that will be the train from Rivington. Shall we ride to meet it, and see this first consignment of Mr. Rhoodie’s rifles?”

The slaves unloading the train are supervised by Confederate soldiers as well as more men in the strange mottled clothes. All are big men, with the same accent as Rhoodie. Attempts to get information from Rhoodie about this are deflected.

quote:

Lee dismounted. His aides and Rhoodie followed him to the ground; Venable hitched Traveller to the rail. A soldier with two bars on either side of his collar walked up to them. His face, Lee thought, was too thin for the whiskers he’d chosen, which were like those of the Federal general Burnside. He saluted. “Asbury Finch, sir, 21st Georgia.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I received your telegram.”
“Yes, sir.” Finch sent a glance to Andries Rhoodie, who had gone over to greet his comrades. “So you’ve already met one of these all-over-spots fellows, have you, sir? They’ve purely done wonders for Rivington, that they have.”
“I commanded in North Carolina a couple of years ago, Lieutenant, but I must confess I do not remember the town,” Lee said
“A couple years ago, General Lee, sir, wasn’t nothin’ worth remembering, just a town barely big enough for the train to bother stoppin’ at it. But it’s growin’ to beat the band now, thanks to these folks. A big bunch of ‘em done settled there, bought a raft o’ n*****s, and run up new houses and warehouses and I don’t know what all. And all in the last three, four months, too; I heard that from one of the folks who’s lived there all his life while we were takin’ on these crates. They pay gold for everything, too, he says.”
“No wonder they’re welcome, then,” Lee said. Confederate paper money had weakened to the point where a pair of shoes cost a private soldier three or four months’ wages. That was one reason so many men in the Army of Northern Virginia went barefoot even in winter. Another was that there were not enough shoes to be had at any price.
“Pity they couldn’t have come a year ago,” Walter Taylor said. “Think what we might have done with those rifles at Chancellorsville, or up in Pennsylvania.”
“I have had that thought myself a fair number of times the last few days, Major,” Lee said. “What’s past is past, though, and cannot be changed.”
“The guns, they’re as fine as all that, sir?” Finch asked. “They are indeed, Lieutenant,” Taylor said. “With them, I feel we truly may hold in our hands the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Or it holds us,” Charles Marshall said, his voice sour.

Lee considers this a valid concern. He promptly issues orders to have the head of the Bureau of Ordnance to investigate copying the weapon, and to send a rifle (with a supply of cartridges) to the Army's expert on gunpowder. Detailed plans on how to disperse the new arms are made.

quote:


Lee thought about that. At last he said, “With the cavalry spread out on the countryside as it is, the more efficient course would appear to be convening General Stuart and his divisional and brigade commanders here at Orange Court House so they can judge your repeaters for themselves.”
“Fine,” Rhoodie said. “When we shoot, though, better we go back up to your headquarters, to keep word of what these guns can do from reaching the enemy.”
“A sensible plan,” Lee agreed.
Talking to himself as much as to Lee, Rhoodie went on, “Since this will be the center from which we give out guns to your army, we ought to rent quarters here, and warehouse space, too. We have a lot of work to do before spring, getting your men ready.”
“The officers of the Army of Northern Virginia should prove of some assistance to you,” Lee said drily.
Irony bounced from Andries Rhoodie like solid shot off an ironclad’s armored hull. He looked Lee full in the face and said, “Some will help us, General; I don’t doubt it. But if I were on the other side of the Rapidan and dealing with the Federals, say with General Burnside or General Sigel, they might not even have given me a hearing. They have their Springfields, after all, and once a routineer settles in with something, it’s hard to boot him loose from it.”
“You will be treating with better men in this army than the two you named,” Lee said. “I should certainly hope so, at any rate.”
“You vouch for every brigadier, every colonel?” Rhoodie persisted. “My comrades and I haven’t enough manpower to do more than show the basics of how to shoot and clean the AK-47, regiment by regiment. Getting your soldiers to use it afterwards will be up to those commanders. Some of them will mistrust anything new and different.”
“I see what you are saying, sir,” Lee admitted. There was some truth to it, too. The Confederate States themselves had banded together in the hope of preserving their old way of life against the growing numbers and growing factories of the North. But here--”You get my men these repeaters, Mr. Rhoodie, and I shall undertake to see they are used,”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, General Lee.”
“You have heard it.”
Singing as they worked, slaves carried long crates with rifles in them and square crates of ammunition out of the freight cars and stacked them beside the railroad tracks. The stacks grew higher and higher and higher.

Note here how Rhoodie talks to the white Confederates. He isn't nearly as dismissive of them as he was Perry, but he still has an air of arrogance and superiority.

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 06:18 on Sep 13, 2021

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




The letter is historical, but the narration implies that Lee was the guy who came up with the plan of attack, which I don't think is accurate.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter 2: Nate Caudell

quote:

“What else, Alsie?” First Sergeant Nate Caudell asked patiently.
Private Alsie Hopkins furrowed his brow, as well as a man in his early twenties could. “Tell ‘em I feel good,” he said at last. “Tell ‘em the arm where I got shot at Gettysburg don’t hurt no more, and the diarrhea ain’t troublin’ me, neither.”
Caudell’s pen scratched across the page. Actually, it wasn’t a proper page, but the back of a piece of old wallpaper. He wrote around a chunk of paste that still clung to it. He was sure he wrote more letters than anyone else in Company D--maybe more than anyone else in the whole 47th North Carolina. That went with being a schoolteacher in a unit full of farmers, many of whom--like Alsie Hopkins--could neither read nor write for themselves.
Caudell continues the letter for the illiterate private until a bugle blows for an officer’s assembly, which turns out to center around a man with mottled clothing and a strange carbine on his back.

quote:

Excitement ran through Caudell. The cavalry had got itself new rifles the past couple of weeks. So had Major General Anderson’s infantry division, whose winter quarters were even closer to Orange Court House than those of Henry Heth’s division, of which the 47th North Carolina was a part. If half--if a tithe--of the stories about those rifles were true
The new man is Benny Lang, and is here to teach the officers how to use the new AK-47

quote:

Lang jumped lightly down from the wagon. He was about five-ten, dark, and on the skinny side. His clothes bore no rank badges of any sort, but he carried himself like a soldier. “I usually get two questions at a time like this,” he said. “The first one is, why don’t you teach everyone yourself? Sorry, but we haven’t the manpower.

Immediately, Caudell notices something is wrong - he's from Nash County, North Carolina. This is where the fictional town of Rivington - where the rifles are supposed to be coming from - is located, and the man's accent doesn't match. Lang opens with a demonstration, and asks the best shot with a rifle-musket to give him a baseline.

quote:

Watching the ordnance sergeant handle his rifle, Nate Caudell thought, was like being back on the target range at Camp Mangum outside of Raleigh, hearing the command, “Load in nine times: load!” Hines did everything perfectly, smoothly, just as the manual said he should. To load, he held the rifle upright between his feet, with the muzzle in his left hand and with his right already going to the cartridge box he wore at his belt.
Caudell imagined the invisible drillmaster barking, “Handle cartridge!” Hines brought the paper cartridge from the box to his mouth, bit off the end, poured the powder down the muzzle of his piece, and put the Minié ball in the muzzle. The bluntly. pointed bullet was about the size of the last joint of a man’s finger, with three grooves around its hollow base which expanded to fill the grooves on the inside of the rifle barrel.
At the remembered command of “Draw rammer!” the long piece of iron emerged from its place under the rifle barrel. Next in the series was “Ram,” which the ordnance sergeant did with a couple of sharp strokes before returning the ramrod to its tube. At “Prime,” he half-cocked the hammer with his right thumb, then took out a copper percussion cap and put it on the nipple.
The next four steps went in quick sequence. “Shoulder” brought the weapon up. At “Ready” it went down again for a moment, while Hines took the proper stance. Then up it came once more, with his thumb fully cocking the hammer. “Aim” had him peering down the sights, his forefinger set on the trigger. “Fire,” and the rifle roared and bucked against his shoulder.
He set the butt end of the piece on the ground, repeated the process without a single changed motion. He fired again. Another cloud of fireworks-smelling smoke spurted from his rifle. The two shots were less than half a minute apart. He scrubbed at the black powder stain on his chin with his sleeve, then turned with quiet pride to face Lang. “Anything else, sir?”
“No, Ordnance Sergeant. You’re as good with a rifle musket as any man I’ve seen. However--” Lang brought up his own rifle, blazed away at the white paper target. The sharp staccato bark, repeated again and again and again, was like nothing Caudell had ever heard. Silence fell again in less time than Hines had needed to fire twice. Lang said, “That was thirty rounds. If I had this weapon and the ordnance sergeant that one, whose chances would you gentlemen like better?”

The regulation and expected rate of fire for a Springfield or Enfield rifle musket was three rounds a minute. Two aimed shots in thirty seconds, or four rounds a minute, is a good time. The standard cartridge box held forty rounds - enough for around 13 minutes of fire at the standard rate. This video demonstrates the described procedure, albeit at a sedate pace.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCAYXQ1Z6q4

The men are organized into training groups for the two dozen rifles that Lang brought with him.

quote:

“Here you go, First Sergeant.” Ben Whitley handed Caudell a repeater. He held it in both hands, marveling at how light it was compared to the Springfield that hung from pegs on the wall back in his cabin. He slung it as Lang had done. It seemed to weigh next to nothing on his shoulder. Toting this kind of rifle, a man might march forever before he got sore.
“Let me have a turn with it, Nate,” Edwin Powell said. With a twinge of regret, Caudell passed him the carbine. He brought it up to firing position, looked down the barrel. “Fancy kind of sight,” he remarked. His grin turned rueful. “Maybe I can nail me a Yankee or two without get tin’ hit my own self.”
“Goin’ up to the firin’ line without your ‘shoot me’ sign’d probably be a good idea, too, Edwin,” Dempsey Eure said. The sergeants all laughed. So far as anybody knew, Powell was the only man in the regiment who’d been wounded at three different fights.
Ben Whitley came by again a few minutes later. This time, he gave Caudell a curved, black-painted metal object. Caudell had no idea what it was until he turned it and saw that it held brass cartridges. “Talk about your fancy now, Edwin,” he said, handing it on to Powell. “This looks to beat Minié balls all hollow.”
“Sure does, if there’s enough of these here bullets so as we don’t run out halfway through a battle,” Powell answered--anybody who’d been shot three times developed a certain concern about such things.

Depending on the exact version, an unloaded AK weighs between 6.5 and 7.7 pounds. The most common variant, the AKM, is also the lightest due to stamped construction. The magazine adds another .7 pounds or so, giving a loaded weight of 7.2 pounds for an AKM. An 1861 Springfield rifle-musket (the weapon Caudell is using as a reference) is 9 pounds, while the 1851 Enfield (common in Confederate forces) tops the scales at a hefty 9.5. 2 pounds may not seem like an enormous amount, but it matters quite a bit. Powell's comment is a bit anachronistic. The 1861 Springfield had simple flip up sights with two "leaves" (both flipped down - 100 yards, flip up one for 300 yards, and the other for 500), the 1851 Enfield had a fairly complicated ladder sight system that was adjustable from 100 yards to 400, with a flip-up option finely adjustble to 900. The AK uses a ladder sight system very similar to that of an Enfield. The sights were not particularly important to Civil War troops - neither side trained their men in proper use of the sights, focusing instead on steady rate of fire.

The standard ammunition for a rifle musket was the .58" diameter "Minié ball", a pointed soft lead projectile with an open base. When the gun was fired, the cavity at the rear of the bullet expands to engage the rifling in the barrel, imparting spin and forming a tight gas seal. This revolutionary invention is what made rifled muzzle-loaders practical for military use, because you could now load a rifle as easily and quickly as you can a smoothbore musket. This bullet would be around 500 grains, and was propelled by 60 grains of black powder, giving a velocity in the range of 900-1200 FPS. This works out to around 1300-1400 foot-pounds of muzzle energy. This would be provided in the form of a pre-loaded paper cartridge, and a seperate percussion cap would be added to the lock before firing.

The standard bullet fired by an AK is a 7.62mm (.30") jacketed 7.9 gram (123 grains) bullet propelled by 1.6 grams of smokeless powder. This gives a muzzle velocity of around 730 meters/second (2400 feet per second) and a muzzle energy of ~2000 joules (~1500 foot pounds). This is provided in a ready-to-use paper cartridge that contains a primer at the rear. All that is needed to fire is placing it in the gun. In addition to being easier to load, the slimmer bullet loses less energy to air resistance (meaning it retains velocity longer), and the much higher velocity results in far less bullet drop. At any relevant range, the bullet might as well be going straight, while a Minié ball is performing a parabolic arc due to the need to significantly elevate the muzzle. This ammunition does, in fact "beat Minié balls all hollow.”



quote:

“Does every group have an AK-47 and a banana clip?” Lang asked. He waited to see if anyone would say no. When no one did, he continued: “Turn your weapon upside down. In front of your trigger guard, you’ll see a catch. It holds the clip in place.” He pointed to it on his own carbine. “Everyone finger that catch. Pass your weapon back and forth. Everyone needs to put hands on it, not just watch me.”
When the AK-47 came back to him, Caudell obediently fingered the catch. Lang had the air of a man who’d taught this lesson many times and knew it backwards and forwards. As a teacher himself, Caudell recognized the signs.
The man in the patchwork-looking clothes went on, “Now everyone take turns clicking the clip into place and freeing it. The curved end goes toward the muzzle. Go ahead, try it a few times.” Caudell inserted the clip, released the catch, took it away. Lang said, “This is one place where you want to be careful. Warn your other ranks about it, too. If the lips of the magazine are bent, or if you get dirt in there, it won’t feed rounds properly. In combat, that could prove embarrassing.”
He let out a dry chuckle. The laughs that rose in answer were grim. A rifle that wouldn’t shoot hundreds of rounds a minute was less use than one that would shoot two or three.
In the group next to Caudell, his captain stuck up his hand. “Mr. Lang?”
“Yes, Captain, ah--?”
“I’m George Lewis, sir. What do we do if the lips of this--banana clip, you called it?--somehow do get bent? I’ve been shot once, sir”--he was only recently back to the regiment himself--”and I don’t care a drat to be, ah, embarrassed again.”
“Don’t blame you a bit, Captain. The obvious answer is, switch to a fresh clip. If you haven’t but one good one left, you can load cartridges into it one at a time, in two staggered rows, like this. As I said when I fired, the clip holds thirty rounds.” He pulled a clip and some loose cartridges from his haversack and demonstrated. “We’ll come back to that later. You’ll all have a chance to do it. Now, though, let whoever’s holding the gun put that magazine in place.”
Caudell was holding the AK-47. He carefully worked the banana clip into position, listened for the click that showed it was where it belonged. “Good,” Lang said. “Now you’re ready to chamber your first round. Here, pull this handle all the way back.” Again, he demonstrated. Caudell followed suit. The action worked with a resistant smoothness that was unlike anything he had ever felt before.
“Very good once more,” Lang said. “All of you with rifles come forward and form a firing line. Take aim at your target and fire.” Caudell pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. No one else’s carbine went off, either. The instructor chuckled. “No, they’re not defective. Look at the short black lever under the handle you just pulled. See how it’s parallel to the muzzle. That little lever is called the change lever. When it’s in the top position, it’s on safety, and the weapon can’t fire. That’s how you’ll carry it on march, to avoid accidents. Now move it down two positions--make sure it’s two, mind--then aim and fire again.”
Caudell peered down the sights. They seemed close together; he was used to a longer weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked and spat out a cartridge case. Compared to what he was used to, the kick was light. “Lordy,” someone halfway down the line exclaimed, “I could fire this piece right off my nose.” The kick wasn’t that light, but it wasn’t far away, either.
“Fire another round,” Lang said. “You don’t have to do anything but pull the trigger again.” Caudell pulled. The repeater fired. Intellectually, he had expected it would. Intellectually expecting something, though, was different from having it happen. The chorus of whistles and low-voiced exclamations of wonder that went up from the firing line showed he was not alone.
“Thirty rounds to this thing?” somebody said. “Hell, just load it on Sunday and shoot it all week long.”
The 7.62x39 round is a slightly unusual shape, with a distinct taper to the cartridge. This is intended to reduce friction when chambering and ejecting and thus prevent jams. The effect of this is that the cartridges don't stack neatly like other rounds, giving the AK's detachable box magazine a pronounced and distinct curve. This results in the slang term "bannana clip". I don't know if Turtledove is using the slang term deliberately, or if that's the term he heard and it stuck. The instruction on how to load said magazine is somewhat strangely placed - perhaps because of the question being asked - and would fit better in a different section. Turtledove's description here is a little confusing, so here's an animation of AK operation.

The last line is a somewhat clever reference - "That damned Yankee rifle that they load on Sunday and shoot all week!" is a complaint about the Henry rifle often attributed to Confederate soldiers.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUq2yd1Nc_s

After everybody has had three rounds of fire, Lang decides to demonstrate one more thing.

quote:

Lang kept at it until everyone had had a turn shooting an AK-47. Then he said, “This weapon can do one other thing I haven’t shown you yet. When you move the change lever all the way down instead of to the middle position, this is what happens.” He stuck a fresh clip in the repeater, turned toward the target circle, and blasted away. He went through the whole magazine almost before Caudell could draw in a startled breath.
“Good God almighty,” Rufus Daniel said, peering in awe at the brass cartridge cases scattered around Lang’s feet “Why didn’t he show us that in the first place?”
An AK in full-auto mode burns through ammunition extremely quickly. Not quite as quickly as this implies, but still fast. This video should serve as a demonstration.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5vh3dsbCRJs&t=224s

Lang tells them exactly why – it isn’t accurate, and uses a ton of ammunition quckly. Training proceeds to disassembly and cleaning. The Confederates are not happy with the complexity of the weapon.

quote:

“Reassembly procedure is the exact reverse of what we’ve just done. The bolt goes on the carrier”--he deftly matched action to words--”and they both go into the receiver. Then the recoil spring and its guide fit in back of the bolt carrier. Push ‘em forward till the rear of the guide clears the back of the receiver, then push down to engage the guide. Then you put the receiver plate in place, push in on the spring guide, and push the plate down to lock it.” He grinned at the North Carolinians. “Now you try it. Don’t bother cleaning your weapon this first time. Just get it apart and back together.”
“That don’t look too hard,” Edwin Powell said. Caudell wasn’t so sure. He didn’t trust the look on Benny Lang’s face. The last time he’d seen a look like that, Billy Beddingfield of Company F had been wearing it in a poker game. Billy had also had an extra ace stuck up his sleeve.
The spring, gleaming with gun oil, went back where it belonged with no particular argument. The bolt was something else again. Powell tried to fit it into place as Lang had. It did not want to fit. “Shitfire,” Powell said softly after several futile tries. “Far as I’m concerned, the drat thing can stay dirty.”
He was far from the only man having trouble. Lang went from group to group, explaining the trick. There obviously was a trick, for people looked happier once he’d worked with them. After a while, he came to Caudell’s group, where Powell was still wrestling with the bolt. “It goes on the carrier like--this,” he said. His hands underscored his words. “Do you see?”
“Yes, sir, I think so,” Powell answered, as humbly as if speaking to one of the Camp Mangum drill sergeants who had turned the 47th North Carolina from a collection of raw companies into a regiment that marched and maneuvered like a single living creature. Lang carried the same air of omniscience, even if he didn’t display it so loudly or profanely.

I can't find the relevant tweet, but Turteldove mentioned on his Twitter at some point that he prepared for this by finding a friend who owned an AK and asking to be shown how take it apart and put it back together. Anything he had trouble with, that's where his Confederates were going to have trouble. A sound method. I'm not actually sure what the "trick" is that they need to learn, as none of the AK guides I'm finding emphasize trouble with this step, and I don't own one myself.

As training finishes, Lang prepares to end things, asking for questions.

quote:

“Yeah, I got one,” somebody said immediately. Heads turned toward him as he took a swaggering step out of his group. “You got your fancy-pants rifle there, Mr. Benny Lang, kill anything that twitches twenty miles away; What I want to know is, how good a man are you without it?” He gazed toward Lang with insolent challenge in his eyes.
“Beddingfield!” Captain Lankford of Company F and Colonel Faribault barked the name in the same breath. Caudell said it, too, softly.
“How’d Billy Beddingfield ever make corporal?” Rufus Daniel whispered. “He could teach mean to a snapping turtle.”
“You don’t want to get on his wrong side, though,” Caudell whispered back. “If I were a private in his squad, I’d be more afraid of him than of any Yankee ever born.”
“You got that right, Nate,” Daniel said, chuckling.
“Back in ranks, Beddingfield,” Captain Lankford snapped.
“I don’t mind, Captain,” Benny Lang said. “Let him come ahead, if he cares to. This might be--instructive, too. Come on, Corporal, if you‘ve the stomach for it.” He set down his repeater and stood waiting.
“Is he out of his mind?” Edwin Powell said. “Billy’ll tear him in half.”
Looking at the two men, Caudell found it hard to disagree. Lang was taller, but on the skinny side. Built like a bull, Beddingfield had to outweigh him by twenty pounds. And, as Rufus Daniel had said, Beddingfield had a mean streak as wide as he was. He was a terror in battle, but a different sort of terror in camp.
He grinned a school bully’s nasty grin as he stepped forward to square off with Lang. “That man’s face is made for a slap,” Caudell said to Allison High.
“Reckon you’re right, Nate, but I got ten dollars Confed says Lang ain’t the one to slap it for him,” High answered.
Ten dollars Confederate was most of a month’s pay for a private. Caudell liked to gamble now and then, but he didn’t believe in throwing away money. “No thanks, Allison. I won’t touch that one.”
High laughed. Edwin Powell said, “I’ll match you, Allison. That there Lang, he looks to have a way of knowin’ what he’s doin’. He wouldn’t’ve called Billy out if he didn’t expect he could lick him.”
One of Caudell’s sandy eyebrows quirked up toward his hairline. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms. “Can I change my mind?” he asked High.
“Sure thing, Nate. I got another ten that ain’t doin’ nothin’. I--”
He shut up. Big knobby fists churning, Beddingfield rushed at Benny Lang. Lang brought up his own hands, but not to hit back. He grabbed Billy Beddingfield’s right wrist, turned, ducked, threw. Beddingfield flew over his shoulder, landed hard on the frozen ground.
He bounced to his feet. He wasn’t grinning anymore. “Bastard,” he snarled, and waded back in. A moment later, he went flying again. This time he landed on his face. His nose dripped blood onto his tunic as he got up. Lang wasn’t breathing hard.
“You fight dirty,” Beddingfield said, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Now Lang smiled, coldly. “I fight to win, Corporal. If you can’t stand it, go home to your momma.”

Beddingfield tries more blind attack, is put down just as easily, and savagely beaten while on the ground as well. The Colonel is not upset by this, as Beddingfield just attacked a valuable ally for no reason.

quote:

The other sergeants from Company D solemnly nodded: Caudell said, “Talk has it, he and his people are from Rivington, right in our home county.”
“You cut out that ‘our’ and speak for your own self, Nate,” Allison High said; unlike his messmates, he was from Wilson County, just south of Nash.
Rufus Daniel said, “I don’t give a drat how talk has it; and that’s a fact. Here’s two more facts--Lang don’t talk like he’s from Nash County”--he exaggerated his drawl till everyone around him smiled--”and he don’t fight like he’s from Nash County, neither. I wish he’d learn me that fancy rasslin’ of his along with this here repeater. Old Billy Beddingfield, he never knew what hit him. Look, he’s still lyin’ there cold as a torch throwed in a snowbank.”
The wagon started out of camp, harness jingling, wheels squeaking, and horses’ hooves ringing against the ground. It swung off the camp lane onto the road north. Billy Beddingfield still did not move. Caudell wondered if Lang had hurt him worse than he thought.
So, evidently, did Colonel Faribault. He limped over to the fallen corporal, stirred him with his stick. Bedtlingfield wiggled and moaned. Nodding as if satisfied, Faribault stepped back. “Flip water in his face, somebody, till he revives. Then, Captain Lankford, along with whatever punishment details you give him, have the stripes off his sleeves. A raw brawler like that doesn’t deserve to wear them.”
Note that even the raw privates aren't buying the Rivington act. Granted that these are from the area and know what the accent sounds like, but these strange men really aren't trying to hard to hide that they don't belong in the Confederate States of 1864.

The Confederates are absolutely delighted with the new weapon, with the only drawback being that it isn't great for hand-to-hand. There are concerns about the shipment arriving on time, and of ammunition supply.

quote:


“That’s so,” Daniel allowed. “Well, we’ll use ‘em hard these next couple of months till we break camp. That’ll tell us what we need to know. And if they ain’t to be trusted, well, George Hines can put Minié balls in the ammunition wagons, too. We still got our old rifles. Be just like the first days of the war again, when the springfields and Enfields was the new guns, and a lot o’ the boys just had smoothbore muskets, an’ we needed t’carry bullets for both. I don’t miss my old smoothbore, and that’s a fact, though I did a heap o’ missin’ with it when I carried it.”
“You got that right,” Dempsey Eure said. “Dan’l Boone couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a goddam smoothbore, an’ anybody who says different is a goddam liar.”
“Goddam right,” Rufus Daniel said.
Before the war, Caudell would have boxed the ears of any boy who dared swear in his hearing. Now, half the time, he didn’t even notice the profanity that filled the air around him. These days he swore, too, when he felt like it, not so much to fit in as because sometimes nothing felt better than a ripe, round oath.
He said, “Can’t be sure, of course, but I have a notion we’ll get all the cartridges we need. That Benny Lang, he knows what he’s doing. Look at the way he handled Billy. Like Edwin said, he knew he could take him, and he did. If he says we’ll have repeaters here tomorrow, I’m inclined to believe him. I expect he and his people can manage cartridges, too.”
“Double or nothin’ on our bet that them guns don’t come tomorrow,” High said.
“You’re on,” Caudell replied at once.
“I want my ten now,” Edwin Powell said.
High turned around as if to punch him, then looked back to the parade ground. He pointed. “See, Nate, there’s one man who doesn’t know if you’re right about them cartridges.” Caudell turned too. George Hines was on his hands and knees, picking up spent cartridge cases.
“He’s a good ordnance sergeant,” Caudell said. “He doesn’t want to lose anything he doesn’t have to. Remember after the first day at Gettysburg, when they told off a couple of regiments to glean the battlefield for rifles and ammunition, both?”
“I remember that,” Powell said. His long face grew longer. “I wish they could have gleaned for men, too.” He’d taken his second wound at Gettysburg.
Note the bolded line for later. The supply concerns are extremely valid - the Confederate forces never had enough of anything, and their logistics were garbage. Railroads were scarce in the 19th century south, and wagons thus had to take up much more of the slack than in the Union forces. Even when food, ammunition, and weapons were available in country, getting them to the troops was extremely difficult. The comment about gleaning for men is a somber one - the Army of Northern Virginia suffered heavy casualties at that battle, with some estimates reaching an appalling 37%, including six generals killed, 4 badly wounded (2 of which were also captured) and 1 captured unwounded. Union forces suffered almost as badly, with a solid 28% and 4-5 generals killed, 4 more severely wounded. While Antietam was the bloodiest single day of the war, Gettysburg was the bloodiest battle by a signficant margin.

Practice continues until and through the evening meal.

quote:

“What do you have, Edwin?” Dempsey Eure demanded when Powell returned. Caudell’s stomach growled like a starving bear. He’d known some lean times before the war--what man hadn’t, save maybe a planter like Faribault? --but he’d never known what real hunger was till he joined the army.
Powell said; “Got me some cornmeal and a bit o’ beef. Likely be tough as mule leather, but I won’t complain till after I get me outside of it. We still have any o’ that bacon your sister sent you, Dempsey?”
“Little bit,” Eure answered. “You thinkin’ o’ makin’ up some good ol’ Confederate cush?”
“I will unless you got a better notion,” Powell said.” Ain’t none of us what you’d call fancy cooks. Why don’t you get out that bacon and toss me our fryin’ pan? Here, Nate, you cut the beef small.” He handed Caudell the meat, the hairy skin still on it.
The pan had once been half a Federal canteen; its handle was a nailed-on stick. Powell tossed in the small chunk of bacon and held the pan over the tire. When he had cooked the grease out so it bubbled and spattered in the bottom of the pan, Caudell added the cubed beef. After a minute or two, he poured in some water. Meanwhile, Allison High used more water to make the cornmeal into a tin of mush. He passed the mush to Caudell, who upended the tin over the frying pan. Powell stirred the mixture together, then kept the pan on the tire until the mush soaked up all the water and a brown crust began to form along the sides.
He took the pan off the fire, set it down. with his knife, he sliced the cush into five more-or-less-equal pieces. “There you go, boys. Dig in.”
“I hate this goddam slosh,” Rufus Daniel said. “When I get home from this drat war, I ain’t goin’ to eat nothin’ but fried chicken and sweet-potato pie and ham and biscuits and gravy just as thick as you please. Aii, that goddam pan’s still hot.” He stuck a burned knuckle into his mouth. While he’d been complaining, he’d also been using belt knife and fingers to get his portion of supper out of the frying pan.
Caudell tossed his slab of cush from hand to hand till it was cool enough to bite. He wolfed it down and licked his fingers when he was through. It wasn’t what he would have eaten by choice--it was as far as the moon from the feast Rufus Daniel had been imagining--but cornmeal had a way of sticking to the ribs that made a man forget he was hungry for a while.
Dempsey Eure lit a twig at the fire, got his pipe going. Daniel did the same. Caudell lit up a cigar, tilted his head back, and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. The cabin filled with fragrant smoke. “Glad we’re not short of tobacco, anyhow,” he said.
“Not in this regiment,” Eure said. The 47th drew its men from the heart of North Carolina’s tobacco country; half a dozen soldiers had been tobacconists before the war.
“Almost makes me wish I was on picket duty up by the Rapidan,” Powell said, shifting a chaw from one cheek to the other. “Might could be I’d find mea friendly Yank on the other side, trade him some tobacco for coffee and sugar and maybe some o’ them little hard candies they have sometimes.”


Before widespread canning, it was most common to issue raw ingredients and have food prepared much like this. This often resulted in improvised dishes like this one, which tend to have long-standing cultural associations.

The next morning is bright and cold.

quote:

“Yes, sir.” Caudell took from his pocket a much-folded piece of paper. After so many repetitions, he hardly needed to look at it as he called the men’s names: “Bailey, Ransom...Barnes, Lewis D. W…. Bass, Gideon...” He finished a few minutes later: “Winstead, John A....Winstead, William T.” He turned back to Lewis with a salute.” All present, sir.”
“Very good. Sick call?”
“Sick call!” Caudell said loudly. A couple of men took a step forward. “What’s your trouble, Granbury?” he asked one of them.
“I got the shits--beggin’ your pardon, First Sergeant, the runs--again,” Granbury Proctor said.
Caudell sighed. With the bad food and bad water the regiment got, diarrhea was a common complaint. This was Proctor’s third bout this winter. Caudell said, “Go see the assistant surgeon, Granbury. Maybe he can do something for you.” Proctor nodded and walked off. Caudell turned to the other sufferer. “What about you, Southard?”
“Don’t rightly know, First Sergeant,” Bob Southard answered. His voice cracked as he answered; he was only eighteen or so. He bent his head and coughed. “I’m feelin’ right poorly, though.”
Caudell put a skeptical hand on the youngster’s forehead. Southard had already deserted the regiment once; he was a shirker. “No fever. Get back in line.” Dejectedly, the private went back into his slot. The cook banged on his pan. Caudell said, “Dismissed for breakfast.”
Breakfast was corn bread. The meal from which it had been made was ground so coarse that some kernels lay in wait, intact and rock-hard, to ambush the teeth. Caudell plucked at his beard to knock crumbs loose. He heard a wagon--no, more than one--rolling down from Orange Court House. “You don’t suppose--?” he said to Rufus Daniel.
“This early? Naah,” Daniel said.
But it was. The wagon train turned off the road and rumbled toward the regimental parade ground. Benny Lang rode beside the lead wagon’s driver. Slaves accompanied the others. Caudell held out his hand, palm up, to Allison High. “Pay up.”
“Hell.” High reached into his hip pocket, drew out a wad of bills, and gave two of them to Caudell. “Here’s your twenty. Who’d’ve thought anybody’d move so quick? Hell.” He walked off scowling, his head down.
“Easy there, Allison,” Caudell called after him. “It’s only. twenty dollars Confederate, not like before the war when that was a lot of money.

In the American Civil War, sickness was a far greater killer than the enemy, no matter which side you happened to be on. Bad food, bad water, and (quite often) excreble camp hygeine invited a host of diseases to come out in force. The grim reality is that five soldiers died of sickness for every three that were shot. This was standard for all wars until relatively recently - the first war where more men died in action than were carried off by sickness was the First World War (1914-1918). Even then, this might not have been the case if the war had continued after the Spanish Flu really got going.

quote:

“Benny Lang leaped down from his wagon and started shouting like a man possessed: “Come on, get those crates off! This isn’t a bloody picnic, so move it, you lazy k*****s!” The slaves started unloading the wagons at the same steady but leisurely pace they usually used. It was not fast enough to suit Lang. “Move, drat you!” he shouted again.
The blacks were used to letting such shouts roll off their backs, secure in the knowledge that the work would eventually get done and the yelling white man would shut up and leave them alone. Lang met that quiet resistance head on. He stamped over to one of the slaves, threw him to the ground with a flip like the one he’d used against Billy Beddingfield. “Ow!” the man cried. “What’d I do, boss?”
“Not bloody much,” Lang snarled, punctuating his words with a kick. The slave cried out again. Lang said scornfully, “You aren’t hurt. Now get up and work. And I mean work, drat you. That goes for the rest of you lazy buggers, too, or you’ll get worse than I just gave him. Move!”
The black men moved. Boxes came down from wagons at an astonishing rate. “Will you look at that?” Rufus Daniel said...If I had me enough n*****s to hire an overseer, that there Lang’d be first man I’d pick for the job.”
“Maybe so,” Caudell said. But he watched the sidelong glances that were the only safe way the slaves could use to show their resentment. “If he treats ‘em like that all the time, though, he’d better grow eyes in the back of his head, or else he’ll have an accident one fine day--or lots of runaways, anyhow.”
“Might could be you’re right,” Daniel allowed.

Note that, while the Confederate troops have no problem with this abuse in ethical terms, there's real debate on the practicality. Meanwhile Lang seems to be doing this as much for enjoyment as for getting the work done.

quote:


Once the wagons were unloaded, Lang ordered the work crew to carry a share of the crates to each company standard. When the slaves again didn’t work fast enough to suit him, he booted one of them in the backside. They moved quicker after that.
Lang followed them from company to company. When he came to the Castalia Invincibles, he picked Caudell out by his chevrons, handed him a length of iron with a curved and flattened end. “Here you are, First Sergeant--a ripping bar to get the crates open. We found some of your units had a spot of trouble with that.”
“You think of everything,” Caudell said admiringly.
“We do try. You’ll have two magazines per weapon there, more or less--enough ammunition to get a start at practicing. Your ordnance sergeant needn’t fret. We’ll get you plenty more as you need it.” With a nod, Lang was off to Company E.
Caudell watched him go. After yesterday and this morning, he believed Lang’s promise. This was a man who delivered, But then, the Army of Northern Virginia always got the ammunition it needed, one way or another. Caudell wished Benny Lang or someone like him would take over the Confederate commissary department.
The soldiers gathered round the stacked crates. “Those the repeaters the bad-tempered feller was showin’ off to y’all yesterday?” asked Melvin Bean, a smooth-faced private with a light, clear voice.
“Yup.” Caudell attacked a crate with the bar. The lid came up with a groan of nails leaving wood. Sure enough, an AK-47 lay inside. Caudell said,” Anybody with the tools to give me a hand, run and fetch ‘em. We’ll get the job done that much quicker.” Tom Short, who worked as a saddler, left and returned shortly with a claw hammer. He fell to work beside Caudell. Before too long, all the Castalia Invincibles held new repeaters.
A heavyset private named Ruffin Biggs gave his weapon a dubious look. “We’re supposed to whup the Yankees with these little things?”
“It ain’t the size of the dog in the fight, Ruffin,” Dempsey Eure drawled, “it’s the size of the fight in the dog. These here puppies got plenty of fight in ‘em, believe you me.”
Captain Lewis said, “Break into groups of six or seven men each. That way, everyone who learned about these repeaters yesterday will have one group to teach.”
The division, into groups smaller than squads, went rather awkwardly. Eyeing the soldiers in his group, Caudell suspected that the sergeants and corporals--the company’s regular squad leaders--had stuck him and the officers with the men they wanted least.
He shrugged. Everyone would have to learn. He held up his rifle, pointed to the lever below the charging handle. “This is the change lever. See, it has three positions. For now, I want you to make sure you have it in the topmost one.”
“Why’s that, First Sergeant?” Melvin Bean asked.
“Because if you don’t, you’re liable to end up shooting yourself before you find out how not to,” Caudell answered drily. That made everyone sit up and take notice.
He went through the lesson Lang had given him. The soldiers practiced attaching and removing a magazine. He showed them how rounds were arranged inside the clip and had them practice putting rounds into it.
A rifle cracked, over in another company. Shouts of alarm rose after the gunshot. “That’s why I want that change lever up top,” Caudell said. “As long as it’s there, the repeater can’t go off by accident. It’s called the safety.”

The concept of a safety catch was not unknown during the American Civil War, but were generally uncommon, especially on rifles. This is primarily because weapons were rarely in a state where you would carry them for a long time in a ready to fire state. Manual safeties became much more common with cartridge arms, due to how easy it was to carry those "at the ready".

Shots fired on purpose begin to ring out as troops begin live fire practice. Soon, it is the Castallia Invincibles turn.

quote:

“Enough,” Caudell said. Horseplay was fun, but horseplay between men who carried rifles had to be controlled before it got out of hand.
Companies B and C--neither of which had a name--took their first turns practicing with the AK-47. The men came away from the firing line exclaiming and shaking their heads in wonder. Some of them slung the new repeaters on their backs. Others carried the carbines in both hands, as if they could not bear to let them go. Three or four men from Company C started a chant: “Enfield, Springfield, throw ‘em in the cornfield!” Before long the whole company, officers and all, was singing it.
Captain Lewis said, “Form column of fours...to the parade ground, march.” A couple of new men just up from North Carolina started off on the wrong foot, but growls from the sergeants soon had them in step with everyone else. “Shift to the left from column to line...move,” Lewis said.
The company performed the evolution with mindless precision born of unending practice. Caudell remembered the first day of marching down at Camp Mangum, when an irate drill sergeant had compared their ragged line to a drunken centipede in an rear end-kicking contest. Even that drill sergeant, assuming he was still alive, would have been satisfied to see them now.
“Load your rifles,” Captain Lewis said. In one motion the men drew back their charging handles, and each chambered a round. “Fire!”
Not every repeater spat flame. “Check your change lever!” Caudell shouted, along with everyone else who had had instruction the day before. Soldiers checked. Some of them swore at themselves. The next volley was fuller; in a moment, a fusillade of shots made separate volleys impossible to distinguish.
The company’s privates shouted in wonder and delight at how rapidly their repeaters fired and how easy they were to shoot, Caudell knew how they felt. The AK-47 was so different from any other rifle that hearing about it wasn’t enough. Even after you shot with it, it was hard to believe.
“What happens if you put this here change lever thing on the middle notch?” Henry Joyner asked. “If it’s as much different from the bottom one as that there one is from the top, reckon this gun’ll march out and shoot Yankees an by its lonesome. I’m for it, I tell you that.”
“Sorry, Henry.” Caudell explained about full automatic fire. He also explained about how much ammunition it chewed up, finishing, “Shooting fast can be bad if you run out of cartridges before the battle’s over. That’s not easy to do with a rifle musket. With one of these repeaters, especially on full automatic, it’s easy as pie. You’ll want to be careful about that.”
Melvin Bean said, “I got shot in the arm the first day at Gettysburg after I’d used up all my cartridges. Even if I’d seen the drat yankee who nailed me, I couldn’t’ve done nothin’ about him.” The new men listened and nodded solemnly. Caudell reflected that a wound on the first day had kept Bean out of the third day’s charge and very possibly kept the private from being captured or killed.
Ruffin Biggs fired one more round at the paper target circle, which by now looked as if it were suffering from measles or smallpox. He yelped out a rebel yell, then said, “Next time the drummers play the long roll, them Yankees is gonna wish they was never born. This here rifle shoots like hell-beatin’-tanbark.”

Running out of ammunition with a rifle musket wasn't that hard. There are many accounts of soldiers taking advantage of lulls in the fighting to loot the cartridge boxes of fallen comrades, and there were more serious incidents as well. One of the most famous examples happened in the battle of Antietam, where Burnsides's troops were largely ineffective due to wasting all their ammunition in pointless skirmishing, which greatly aided the Confederate forces.

The Invincibles proceed through the same drill as the other units, with the same chant. Cleaining is every bit as popular among the men as it was the officers, and they have the same problems.

quote:

“More questions?” he said at last. “All right, then--dismissed.” Most of the men drifted away, still talking excitedly about the new repeaters they were carrying. The other groups had already broken up, some a good while before. Caudell cared nothing about that. Thoroughness counted here, and he was used to repeating himself any number of times until students caught on to what he was saying. Melvin Bean did not wander off. The private removed the receiver plate, took out the rifle’s works, tried to put them back together. Caudell watched. They proved balky. Bean swore softly, then said, “I just can’t make the pesky thing fit. Do you want to come back to my hut with me and show me what I’m doin’ wrong?”
“I’d be glad to do that,” Caudell said.
They walked down the straight muddy lane between rows of shelters. Bean’s cabin was small but neat; its one window even boasted shutters. No one else lived here, which was unusual, if not quite unique, in the regiment.
Bean opened the door. “Go right on in, First Sergeant.” Caudell did. The private followed, closing and barring the door behind the two of them. “Now show me that trick of puttin’ this fool rifle back together again.”
“You really were having trouble, then?”
“I said as much, didn’t I? Thought I had it when you showed me before, but I lost the knack again.” They sat together on the blanket-covered pine boughs that did duty for a bed. Bean watched intently as Caudell went through everything. “So that’s what y’all were doin’! Here, let me have a go, Nate--I reckon I really have got it now.” Sure enough, the pieces went back together smoothly.
“Do it some more. Show me it wasn’t a fluke,” Caudell said.
Bean did, twice running. Caudell nodded. Bean checked to make sure the repeater’s change lever was in the safe position, ‘then set the weapons aside. “Good. I need to be able to do that.” Mischief sparked in the private’s eyes. “And now, Nate Caudell, I expect you’ll be lookin’ to find out how your own bolt fits.”
“I’d like that a lot.” Bean had not waited for him to reply, but was already opening the seven-button private’s tunic. Caudell reached out and gently touched one of the small but perfectly feminine breasts that unbuttoning revealed. He smiled. “You know, Mollie, if you were one of those bosomy girls, you’d never get by with this.”

All of the Castallia Invincibles are, according to Turtledove, historical characters. The names are taken from the muster rolls, characterizations are extrapolated from the available data (Turtledove notes that the real Beddingfield, for example, was constantly being busted in rank and then re-promoted, so was given a pugnacious and combative personality), and there really was a Mollie "Melvin" Bean. The historical Bean was obviously not a resident of of the wholly fictional town of Rivington, and her exact unit was unknown to the author.


Melvin Bean is actually a whore (her literal profession) by the name of Mollie.

quote:


He studied her as if she were a difficult problem in trigonometry. She was very different from the hard-eyed Richmond whores to whom he’d occasionally resorted when he got leave. He supposed that was because he saw her every day and knew her as a person, not just a convenient receptacle for his lust, to be forgotten as soon as he was out the door. “Ask you something?” he said.
She shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“How come you did--this?”
“You mean, how come I came up to the fightin’?” she said. He nodded. She shrugged again. “I was bored down home. Wasn’t hardly nobody comin’ by the bawdyhouse where I was at, either, what with so many men bein’ away to the war. Guess I figured I’d come up and see it for myself, see what it was like.”
“And?”
Her face twisted into a wry grin. She still wasn’t pretty in any conventional sense of the word, especially with her black hair clipped off short like a man’s, but her wide, full-lipped smile made her seem much more feminine when she smiled. She said, “Didn’t like get tin’ shot worth a drat, I tell you that, Nate.”
“I believe you.” He thanked his lucky stars he was still unwounded. Few bullets were as merciful as the one that had found her. The ghastly piles of arms and legs outside the surgeon’s tent after every fight, the screams of men shot in the belly, the dying gurgles of men shot through the chest
He was glad to forget those images when she went on, “But for that, though, y’all in the company are more like family ‘n anything I ever knew ‘fore I got here. Y’all care about me like you was my brothers, and y’all keep th’ officers from findin’ out what I am”--her wry grin flashed again--” ‘cause you know blamed well I ain’t your sister.”
He laughed at that. He’d never asked before, though she’d been with the regiment a year. He didn’t know what he’d expected to hear--perhaps something more melodramatic than her plain story. He took out the twenty dollars Confederate he’d won from Allison High, gave the bills to her.
“Wish it was Federal greenbacks,” she said, “but it’ll do, Nate, it’ll do. Want to go another round?”
He thought about it, but shook his head. “I’d better not. I can’t afford the time; I’ve been away too long as is.”
“You care about what you’re doin’, That’s a good thing.”. Mollie made a face at him. “Or is it just I’m gettin‘ old? Cain ‘t think o’ many who would’ve turned me down if I’d asked ‘em when I was down in Rivington.”
“You’re a drat sight younger than I am. You--” Caudell stopped. “You were in Rivington before you joined up? They say these new repeaters come from there, and the people who make them or sell them or whatever it is they do.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Mollie said. Caudell reflected that she’d probably heard it well before he did; she usually got news even before Colonel Faribault heard it. She went on, “Don’t know nothin’ about it, though. Them fellers weren’t there when I left the place a year ago. Not much else was, neither, ‘specially not men, so I got out. Sure you don’t want to go again?”
“What I want to do and what I have to do are two different things,” Caudell said. “This is the army, remember?”
Her laugh followed him as he returned to the cold and military world outside her cabin door. He looked down the lane toward the parade ground. George Hines was out there on his hands and knees, gathering up brass cartridge cases.

The most salient information here is that there was no sign of the newcomers in town a year ago. They seem to have appeared out of nowhere. The continued pessimisim about the ammunition supply is also interesting, as not everyone trusts these men to continue their bounty.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




The arc thing is a bit oversimplified - I couldn't find a concise video to explain it, and didn't want to spend a huge number of words. Fundamentally, all black powder guns are lower velocity than their counterparts that use smokeless propellants, and that means that gravity pulls them down more over a given distance. So you have to start compensating for vertical drop a lot earlier, and compensate a lot more.

Rounds fired with smokeless powders can (and usually do) go a lot faster, so you don't have to compensate nearly as much.


My main focus here was trying to emphasize exactly how far ahead of what they're used to (and thus just how insane the advantage they now have) the AK is.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter 3: Robert E. Lee

quote:

The locomotive snorted and hissed as it slowed. The shriek of the locked driving wheels against sanded rails reminded General Lee of the cries of wounded horses, the most piteous sound on any battlefield. The train stopped. There was a last jolt as the cars came together with a clanking clatter of link-and-pin couplings.
Lee and the other passengers got to their feet.” All out to Richmond!” the conductor called before hurrying down to the next car to repeat the cry.
Carpetbag in hand, Lee descended to the muddy ground outside the Virginia Central Railroad depot at the corner of sixteenth and Broad. The depot was a plain wooden shed; much in need of paint. A banner on the door of the tavern across the street advertised fried oysters at half price in honor of George Washington’s birthday.
The banner made Lee pause in mild bemusement: strange how the Confederacy still revered the founding fathers of the United States. Or perhaps it was not so strange. Surely Washington, were he somehow to whirl through time to the present, would find himself more at home on a Southern plantation than in a brawling Northern factory town like Pittsburgh or New York. And, of course, Washington was a Virginian, so where better to celebrate his birthday than Richmond?

Lee is met by a carriage, and is here to consult with Confederate President Jefferson Davis.

quote:

The Confederate flag waved bravely over the Capitol, red canton with blue saltire cross and thirteen stars on a white ground. The Stainless Banner would come down soon; sunset was near. It was both like enough to the Stars and Stripes and different enough from it to stir conflicting feelings in Lee. He remembered the day, almost three years gone now, when he had gone into the House of Delegates to take charge of Virginia’s forces. He shook his head. Four days before that, Winfield Scott had offered him command over the armies of the United States, to lead them against their seceded brethren. He still thought he had made the right--for him, the only--choice.
The massive rectangle of the former customhouse took up a whole city block. Built from concrete and steel, it might have served duty as a fortress. Unlike most of Richmond’s major buildings, it was in Italianate rather than neoclassic style, its three stories shown by the tall windows with arched tops.

I have no idea what building Turtledove is describing here. The Confederate Capitol in Richmond is still in use today, as the central portion of the Virginia State Capitol (wings were added in 1904 to support the expanding state government). The building is a perfect example of the neo-Classical architecuural tradition, designed by Thomas Jefferson in direct imitation of an ancient Roman building. Note that the actual structure has square-topped windows.

EDIT: Mystery solved

Epicurius posted:

The old Richmond Custom House is right across from the State Capitol, and was, during the Civil War, the home of the offices of the President and the Confederate cabinet. Currently, as the Lewis F. Powell Jr. United States Courthouse, it's where the 4th Circuit Court of Appeals sets. Here's a picture of it from just after the Richmond fire of 1865.




Robert E. Lee was, in fact, offered a high command in the Union Army in 1861. The timing here is slightly off - Lee's formal resignation from the United States Army came three days before he accepted command in the newly formed army of Virginia (the Confederate States Army was already authorized, but did not start forming for another 4 days), but the Union offer came nearly a month earlier. Accounts from his eldest daughter hold that he spent much of that time deliberating - it was not the automatic that Turtledove suggests.


Lee makes his way to Davis's office.

quote:

“Well enough, sir,” Lee answered with a shrug. “I left this morning and am here now. If I am a trifle later than the railroad men claimed I would be when I set out, well, what train ever runs dead on time?”
“None, I think; none on our railroads, at any rate.” Davis glanced to a tall clock that ticked in a corner of the office. His nostrils flared with exasperation. “Nor is Mr. Seddon. I had hoped him to be here half an hour ago.”
Lee shrugged again. The Secretary of War had doubtless expected his train to run even later than it did; unlike the young lieutenant, he was sufficiently important in his own right to take such chances. In any case, President Davis was for all practical purposes his own Secretary of War. Lee knew he would sooner have been commanding Confederate armies in the field than governing from Richmond.
As luck would have it, James Seddon walked into the office n()t fifteen seconds after Davis had complained about him. Lee rose to shake his hand. Seddon was tall, thin, and resembled nothing so much as a tired vulture. He wore his gray hair combed straight back from his forehead (it was thin in those parts anyhow) and long enough on the sides to cover his ears. At the president’s murmured invitation, he drew up a chair beside Lee’s. They sat together.
“To business,” Davis said. “General Lee, I’ve heard great things of these new repeating carbines the soldiers are being issued. Even General Johnston has written to me from Dalton, singing hosannas in their praise.”
If anything, praise from Joe Johnston was liable to make the President suspicious about the new rifles; if Johnston said it looked like rain, Davis would expect a drought, and the lack of affinity was mutual. Lee said quickly, “For once, Mr. President, I would say the reports are, if anything, understated. The repeaters are robust, they are reasonably accurate with adequate range, and they and their ammunition appear to be available in quantities sufficient to permit us to take the field with them. When spring comes, I intend to do so.”
“They improve our prospects by so much, then?” Seddon asked.
“They do indeed, sir,” Lee said. “The Federals have always had more weight than we, could they but effectively bring it to bear. These repeaters go far toward righting the balance. Without them, our chances were become rather bleak. In saying this, I know I catch neither of you gentlemen by surprise.”
“No, indeed,” Davis said. “I am most pleased to hear this news from you, General, for some of the counsel I have had from others approaches desperation.” He rose from his desk, strode over to close the door that led out to the hallway. As he turned back, he went on, “What I tell you now, gentlemen, must not leave this room. Do you understand?”
“Certainly, Mr. President,” said Seddon, who usually said yes to whatever Jefferson Davis wanted. Lee bent his head to show he also agreed.
“Very well, then, I shall hold you to that promise,” Davis said. “To give you the full import of the remedies which have been contemplated out of anxiety for our future, let me tell you that last month I received a memorial from General Cleburne of the Army of Tennessee”
“Ah, that,” Seddon said. “Yes, that needs to stay under the rose.” He was familiar with the memorial, then.
“Cleburne is an able officer,” Lee said. “He fought well in the Chattanooga campaign, by all accounts.”
“As may be. He stirred up a fight of his own, among the generals of his army. You see, in his memorial, he proposed freeing and arming some portion of our Negroes, to use them as soldiers against the Yankees.”
“Many might say, what point to the Confederacy, then?” Seddon remarked. “What point to our revolution?”
Lee’s brows came together as he thought. At last he said, “The Federals let some of their Negroes put on the blue uniform. They will surely take away ours if we are defeated. Would it not be better to preserve our independence by whatever means we may, and measure the cost to our social institutions once that independence is guaranteed? Fighting for their freedom, Negroes might well make good soldiers.”
“Put that way, it might be so,” Seddon said. “Still, the agitation and controversy which must spring from the presentation of such views by officers high in the public confidence are to be deeply deprecated.”
“I agree. We cannot afford such controversy now,” Davis said...Cleburne’s memorial is a counsel of the last ditch. At the last ditch, I would consider it--at the last ditch, I would consider any course that promised to stay our subjugation by the tyranny in Washington. What I hope, however, General Lee, is that, newly armed as we shall be, we succeed in keeping ourselves from that last ditch., and thus preserve our institutions unblemished by unwelcome change.”
“I hope so, too, Mr. President,” Lee said. “It may be so. That our prospects are better with these repeating carbines than they would be without them cannot be denied. Whether they will bring us victory--God alone can answer that. I shall do my best to foster that victory, as will your other commanders.” That was as much as Lee felt he could say. He wished Davis would trust General Johnston further, wished the two of them could compose their quarrel. He was not, however, in a position to suggest it. Both proud, touchy men would surely take it wrong.
Davis said, “General, am I to understand that these amazing rifles spring from Rivington, North Carolina? I had not thought of Rivington as a center of manufacture. Indeed”--he smiled frostily--”up until this past month I had not thought of Rivington at all.”
“I’d never heard of the place, either,” Seddon put in.
“Nor had I,” Lee said. “Since it was brought to my attention, my staff officers and I have inquired about it of train crews and soldiers who pass through the place. Their reports only leave me more puzzled, for it has not the appearance of a manufacturing town: no smelting works, no forges, no factories. There has lately been a good deal of building there, but of homes and warehouses, not the sort of buildings required to produce rifles, cartridges, or powder. Moreover--Mr. President, have you had the opportunity to examine these rifles for yourself?”
“Not yet, no,” Davis said.
“Among other things, they bear truly astonishing gunsmiths, marks. Some proclaim themselves to have been manufactured in the People’s Republic of China, a part of that country no one has been able to locate in any atlas. Others say they were made in Yugoslavia, a country which appears in no atlas. And still others are marked in what, after some effort, we determined to be Russian. I have learned they were made in the SSSR, but what the SSSR may be, I cannot tell you. It is, I confess, a considerable puzzlement.”
“By what you are telling us, Rivington seems more likely a transshipment point than one where the weapons are actually made,” Seddon said.
Jefferson Davis was the United States Secretary of War (the position now called the Secretary of Defense) under President Franklin Pierce from 1853 to 1857. By all accounts an able administrator, he was responsible for expanding the size of the regular Army, the widespread introduction of the new rifle-muskets (The Springfield 1855, which differed from the more familiar 1861 model only in the priming system - the 1851 used the Maynard Tape Primer, which was very similar to the roll caps used today in toy cap pistols - it proved unreliable under field conditions) based on his experience with the pre-Minie Model 1841 rifle in the Mexican War, and surveys for railroad expansion.

As President, Davis faced a problem very similar to the one Lincoln did in Washington. Most of his Cabinet picks were based on political connections (particulary placating the various Confederate States, who all wanted input) more than merit, and there was constant turnover. James Seddon was the fourth Secretary Of War under Davis, replacing George Randolph who replaced Judah Benjamin who replaced LeRoy Walker. Seddon would be the longest-serving of the five Confederate Secretaries of War, serving from late 1862 until early 1865, when he was replaced by John C. Breckenridge. This longevity likely had to do with the fact that Seddon doesn't appear to have done much of anything, freeing Davis to run the war personally. Many of his strategic decisions were poor ones, and his relationship with General Johnston was one of them. The quarrel between Davis and Johnston began quite early, when the latter wrote a letter to Davis out of fury that he was not the most senior Confederate general despite having had higher senority in the Union Army than all the men who outranked him. Johnston was also overly considered cautious, which caused Davis to begin bypassing the general with direct orders to subordinate units. At the time of this novel, the primary point of contention between the two was the loss of Vicksburg in 1863. Johnston advocated withdrawing forces from the city to more defensible positions, while Davis ordered the forces in the city to stand at all costs. This led Davis to see Johnston as a coward afraid to fight, while Johnston saw Davis as a micromanager who threw away battles out of pride and spite. Only Johnston's popularity with the press and Senate prevented him from being fired.

Patrick Cleburne did, in fact, advocate freeing and arming slaves in 1864. Turtledove gets it wrong, or else is deliberately changing it, because Cleburne did not advocate freeing "some portion" of the slaves. He advocated "emancipating the whole race upon reasonable terms, and within such reasonable time", along with "wise legislation" to prevent any true equality. The only historical result of the proposal was that Cleburne was blacklisted from any further promotion despite a reputation for great ability, and remained a division commander until he was killed in action at the Battle Of Franklin on November 30.

His proposal to keep the blacks "in their place" comes across as very similar to the passbook system introduced after abolition was forced on the CSA in Turtledove's other "South wins the Civil War" series, in which Cleburne survives the war.


ninjahedgehog posted:

I love how in the beginning Rhoodie expects Lee to be blown away by his MRE but Lee immediately clocks it as just the logical extension of what they already have.

This comment is already relevant again. Not so much the logical extension part, but they're immediately clocking all the oddities of the AK. It wouldn't be that difficult to grind off the markings in question and leave the weapons unmarked or remark them with Confederate markinst or the AWB's three-armed swastika. They didn't even bother to launder the guns in this way, which is throwing serious doubts on their cover storie immediately.

After deciding to try planting agents in Rivington, the meeting adjourns, and Lee is free to head to his family.










quote:

Lee smiled and shifted forward in his seat as the carriage rolled past the church. The house Mary Custis Lee was renting lay halfway down the same block, on the opposite side of the street.
“Yours is the middle house, am I right, Marse Robert?” Luke said.
“Yes, and thank you, Luke.” Lee descended from the carriage before it had quite stopped. Luke flicked the whip over the horses. As they began to move faster again, he reached down for the flask he had put away. He swallowed and sighed with pleasure.
The house across the street from 707 Franklin had in front of it a young maple in a planter painted with chevrons. “As you were, Sergeant,” Lee told it, smiling slightly. He opened the gate to the cast-iron fence in front 707 Franklin, hurried up the short walk to the porch. There he paused to wipe the mud from the unpaved street off his boots before he knocked on the door.
He heard footsteps inside. The door opened. Lamplight spilled onto the porch. Silhouetted by it, Agnes Lee peered out. “Father!” she exclaimed, and threw herself into his arms.
“Hello, my precious little Agnes,” he said. “You must be careful with your knitting needles there behind my back, lest you do me an injury worse than any those people have yet managed to inflict on me.”
She looked up at him with a doubtful smile. All her smiles were doubtful these days, and had been since her sister Annie died a year and a half before; she and Annie had been almost as close as twins. After he kissed her on the cheek, she pulled herself free and called, “Mother, Mary, Mildred--Father’s here!”
Mildred came rushing up first. “Precious life,” he said indulgently as he hugged her. “And how is my pet this evening?”
“Father,” she said, in the tone of voice any eighteen-year-old uses when her elderly and obviously decrepit parent presumes to allude to the unfortunate fact that she was once much younger than her present peak of maturity.
Lee did not mind; his youngest child was his pet, regardless of what she thought of the matter. “How is Custis Morgan?” he asked her.
“He’s happy and fat,” she answered. “Acorns are easier to come by than human provender.”
“Such a happy, fat squirrel had best not be seen in camp,” he teased, “lest he exit the stage in a stewpot-bound blaze of glory.” She made a face at him. He shook his head in mock reproof.
His eldest daughter came into the front hall a moment later, pushing his wife ahead of her in a wheeled chair. “Hello, Mary,” he called to them both. Mary his daughter bore a strong resemblance to his wife, though her hair was darker than Mary Custis Lee’s had been when she was young.
He took three quick steps to his wife, bent a little so he could clasp her hand in his. “How are you, my dear Mary?” he asked her. She stayed in her chair most of the time; rheumatism had so crippled her that she could hardly walk.
“You didn’t write to let us know you were coming,” she said, a little sharply. Even when she’d been young and pretty and well--more than half a lifetime ago, Lee thought with some surprise, he could call up in his mind the picture of her then as easily as if it had been day before yesterday--her temper was uncertain. Years as an invalid had done nothing to soften her.
He said, “I was summoned down to confer with the President, and took the first train south. A letter could hardly have outrun me, so here I am, my own messenger. I am glad to see you--glad to see you all. Your hands, I note, dear Mary, are not too poorly for you to knit.” He pointed to the yarn, needles, and half-finished sock that lay in her lap.
“When I can no. longer knit, you may lay me in my grave, for I’ll be utterly useless then,” she answered. She’d loved to ply the needles since she was a girl. Now she went on, “Since you are here, you may take the next bundle back with you for the men. Between our daughters and me, we’ve finished nearly four dozen pairs since we last sent them. And with them in your hands, the count should be right when they reach camp.”

Mary Custis Lee suffered from severe rheumatoid arthritis despite being only in late middle age. At this point in her life she was only 56 years old, but had been wheelchair bound for nearly 2 years. Historically, she would live until 1873, at which point she was nearly invalid.

They settle in for a rare family evening, and the conversation eventually turns to the war.

quote:

“Our own soldiers suffer in Northern prison camps,” Lee said, “though the North has more to spare for captives than do we. The North has more to spare for everyone.” He sighed. “I have said that, thought that, wrestled with that for too long. I wish this war had never come; it wastes both sides.”
“I said as much when it began,” his wife observed.
“I know you did, nor did I disagree with you. I wanted no flag but the Star-Spangled Banner, no song besides ‘Hail Columbia.’ But once here, the thing must be fought through.” He hesitated, then continued: “It may even--may, I say--have seen a turn in our favor.”
The knitting needles stopped. His wife and daughters all looked at him. He had always done his best to sound hopeful in his letters and to act so when he saw them, but he was not one to be falsely or blindly optimistic, and they knew it. His daughter Mary asked, “From where has this good news come?”
“From Rivington, North Carolina, as a matter of fact,” Lee said. The name of the place meant no more to his family than it had to him a month before. He quickly told the story of the new repeaters and the curiously accented men who supplied them, finishing, “We cannot outnumber the Federals; if we outshoot them, though, that may serve as well.”
His daughters seemed more interested in his account of the strangers and their gear than in details of the carbines. Mildred said, “I wonder if those are the same men as the ones who not long ago rented a whole floor in the building across from Mechanic’s Hall.”
“Why do you say that, precious life?” Lee asked.
“Any time anyone pays his bills in gold these days, word gets around, and by what you said, these--what did your lieutenant call them?--these all-over-spots fellows appear to have an unmatched supply of it. And if I were selling guns to the War Department instead of making socks, I should like my offices close by theirs.”
“None of which necessarily proves a thing,” he said. Mildred’s lively features started to cloud up, but he went on, “Still, I think you may well be right. It could do with some looking into, perhaps.”
“Why, Father?” Agnes scratched her head. Her hair, now tightly done up with pins, came closest of all his children’s to matching the rich yellow that had been her mother’s. “Why?” she asked again. “From all you’ve said, these men from Rivington mean us nothing but good.”
“The old homely saying is, look not a gift horse in the mouth. If you follow that saying, you will end up with a great many old, hard-mouthed horses in your barn,” Lee answered. “When the gift is of such magnitude as that which these men are giving us, I would examine it as closely as possible to learn if it is in fact as fine as it appears and to see if it comes attached to strings.”
“Even if it does, you will have to accept it, Father, won’t you?” Mary asked.
“You always did see clearly, my dear,” he said. “Yes, I think we must, if our Southern Confederacy is to survive, which God grant.”
“Amen,” Agnes said softly.
The slave woman brought in a tray with cups and a steaming pot. The spicy scent of sassafras tea filled the parlor. “Thank you, Julia,” Lee said as she poured for him. The tea made him think of the “instant coffee” Andries Rhoodie had brought up to the headquarters near Orange Court House.
“Coffee,” his wife said longingly when he spoke of it. “We’ve been some time without it here.”
“Surely it would come to Richmond more readily than to a small town like Rivington, North Carolina, especially if, as you say, Father, it was made in the United States,” Mary said.
“That’s true, and I should have thought of it for myself,” Lee said. “Still, with gold, a great many things become possible. Rivington is on the railroad up from Wilmington; maybe a blockade runner brought it in there, rather than something more truly useful to our cause. Maybe.” He found himself yawning.
Mary Custis Lee put down her needles. “There; this sock is finished, and a good enough place to call the day’s work finished as well. Knitting by the light of lamp and candle is hard on the eyes.”
“Which does not stop you from doing so, Mother,” Agnes said reprovingly.
“Not on most nights,” her mother agreed. “But tonight we find Robert here, so halting early is easier to square with my conscience.”
“I wish I were here with you and my girls every night, both for the pleasure of your company and because it would mean the war was over and our independence won,” Lee said. He yawned again. “Tonight, though, I own myself tired. Riding the train with the rails in their present sadly decrepit state is hardly more enjoyable than driving a light buggy headlong down a corduroy road.”
“Then let us seek our beds,” his wife said. “Surely you will rest better in a real bed and a warm house than in your tent by the Rapidan. Mary, dear, if you would be so kind?” Mary got up and wheeled her mother to the base of the stairs.
Lee rose quickly too, to go with them. As he stood, he felt a probing pain in his chest. That pain had been with him now and again all through the winter. Doctors thumped his chest and made learned noises, without finding its source or doing him any good to speak of. He endured it stoically; Mary, he knew, suffered far worse.

Note that even Lee's daughters, who have almost no information, can see at once that there is something wrong with the AWB men. Lee reported suffering from chest pains and numbness in some of his letters starting in the latter half of the war, and it is commonly believed that he suffered from undiagnosed coronary artery disease. There is reliable evidence that he may have suffered from a heart attack around the time of Gettysburg, and this is consistent with the stroke that killed him in 1870.

The next morning, Lee heads to the armory to confer with Colonel Josiah Gorgas.

quote:

The carriage rolled down Seventh Street toward the James River. The armory sprawled at the foot of Gamble’s Hill, diagonally between Seventh and Fourth. The Kanawha Canal ran behind it. Luke pulled up to the columned central entranceway; the dome that surmounted it did not seem to be of a piece with the rest of the long, low brick building.
The armory rang with the sounds of metalwork and carpentry. Drills and lathes and dies and punches and molds turned wood and iron and lead into small arms and bullets. No other Confederate arsenal came close to matching its production. Without the machines captured at Harpers Ferry and moved here in the first days of the war, the South would have been hardpressed for weapons.

The Virginia Manufactory of Arms was originally established in 1798 to ensure a supply of arms for the militia of the state of Virginia, and shut down in 1821. Virginia attempted to reopen the facility in 1860 with equipment purchased from England, but the outbreak of open fighting prevented this equipment from being delivered. Thus, production did not begin until after the capture of equipment at Harper's Ferry in 1861, at which time production began on the "Richmond rifles", copies of the 1855 Springfield converted to standard percussion caps. Roughly 37,000 complete weapons were produced here durng the course of the war. The facility was destroyed when Richmond fell in 1865, much of the surviving equipment was used in the restoration of the Tredegar Iron Works postwar, and the few remaining ruins were demolished in 1900.

Discussion turns to the reason that Lee is here - the AK-47.

quote:

Lee considered. “Henry Heth said something to that effect to me once,” he remarked. “It may be so. Hemmed in as I am by responsibility, I have few opportunities personally to demonstrate it, if it is. But I would surely rather strike a blow than either flee of remain quiet, waiting to be struck. Enough of my ramblings now, sir--to business. I thank God for these gentlemen from Rivington and for the arms with which they are supplying us. I am not, however, eager to forever depend on them for weapons. If anyone, if any establishment in the Confederacy can manufacture their like, you are the; man, and this is the place.”
Gorgas looked baffled and unhappy, like a hound that has taken a scent and then lost it in the middle of an open meadow. “General Lee, I do not know. I thank you for being thoughtful enough to provide me with more of these carbines and a stock of ammunition. I already had one, and a couple of magazines, from Andries Rhoodie. I have been puzzling at it since before he departed for Orange Court House. And--I do not know.”
“What perplexes you so about the rifle?” Lee asked. He had his own list; he wanted to see what the Confederacy’s ordnance wizard would add to it.
“First, that it springs ex nihilo, like Minerva from love’s forehead.” Colonel Gorgas evidently had a list, too--he was ticking off points on his fingers. “Generally speaking, a new type of weapon will have defects, which may in some cases be ameliorated through modifications made in the light of experience. The next defect I discover in this AK-47 will be the first. The gun works, sir, which is no small wonder in itself.”
“I had not thought of it in those terms,” Lee said slowly. “You mean it gives the impression of being a finished arm, like, for example, a Springfield.”
“Exactly so. The Springfield rifle musket has a great number of less efficient ancestors, So, logically, must the AK-47. Yet where are they? Even a less efficient rifle based on its principles would be better than anything we or the Federals have.”
“That is the case, I have noticed, with much of the equipment borne by Andries Rhoodie and his colleagues,” Lee said, remembering a tasty tin of desiccated stew. “Carry on.”

The AK does indeed have a number of less efficient ancestors, dating back to the 1908 Mondragón (the first gas-operated autoloading rifle) or to the failed recoil-operated rifles designed by Ferdinand Mannlicher in 1885. A less capable weapon would still have been a huge improvement to Confederate firepower, and would have raised far less suspicion. This raises the question of why the AWB chose the AK. Obviously it was an easy weapon for them to obtain in large numbers, but the same would have been true of other, less suspicious designs. Either they didn't care about maintaining their cover story, or they blithley assumed that the primitive 19th century Confederates were too stupid to figure it out.

quote:

“From the general to the particular.” Gorgas reached into a desk drawer, took out a couple of rounds for the AK-47. He passed them over to Lee. “You will observe that the bullets are not simply lead.”
“Yes, I had seen that,” Lee agreed, putting on his glasses for a clearer look at the ammunition. The cartridges were surely brass. As for the bullets--”Are they copper an the way through?”
“No, sir. They have a lead interior, sheathed with copper. We might be able to match that, though it is expensive, and we are short of enough copper even now to be commandeering coils from whiskey cookers’ stills. Then again, unsheathed lead might serve at need. But do you see the cleverness of this ammunition? It all but eliminates lead fouling of the barrel.”
“Less need for Williams bullets, then,” Lee said. The Williams bullet had a zinc washer at the base of the lead slug, which served to scour away fouling from the inside of a rifle barrel when it was fired. Lee went on, “But would a copper-sheathed bullet not be too hard to take rifling well? And would it not wear away the interior grooves in short order?”
“With any normal barrel, the answer to both those questions would be yes.” Gorgas ticked off another point. “The steel--or whatever alloy it may be--in the barrel of this weapon, however, Is hard enough to lessen the difficulties. Again, I doubt we could produce its like, let alone work it once manufactured.”
“They seem to manage in Rivington,” Lee said.
“I know they do, sir. But--I--don’t--know--how.” The colonel ground out the words one by one through clenched teeth. He was a man of sanguine temperament and great resource, as he had to be to keep the Confederacy supplied with armaments in the face of an ever-tightening Federal blockade and its own inadequate factories. When he said, “I am thwarted; I admit it,” it was as if he threw down his sword to surrender to superior force.

The Williams bullet is apparently controversial. That the thing existed is certain, but it is unclear what the actual intended purpose was (it may well have been intended for greater accuracy, with any cleaning being a side effect), if it worked, and to what extent it was actually used. One thing is certain - the design was not introduced until after the outbreak of war, and it was manufactured exclusively by the Union. Lee and Gorges might well know what it was, but they would not expect it to be regularly used.

Jacketed projectiles began to see use in 1882 during experiments with smaller, higher-velocity projectiles - pushing the bullet faster made leading worse. A beneficial side effect is that, when applied to a magazine system, jacketed rounds are less likely to deform and jam than bare lead ones.


quote:

“Tell me what else you do know,” Lee urged, not liking to see such a capable officer so downhearted.
“Very well, sir. You mentioned the Williams bullet. As you must know, the chief fouling problem it is designed to alleviate comes not from the lead of the Minié ball but rather from the powder which propels it. Whatever powder is in these AK-47 cartridges, it produces far less fouling than even the finest gunpowder with which I was previously familiar.”
“Has that a connection with the lack of smoke from this powder upon discharge?” Lee asked.
“Exactly: fouling consists of smoke and tiny bits of unburned powder that congeal, so to speak, on the inside of a gun barrel. With this powder, there is next to no smoke and, thus, next to no fouling.”
“I have sent a good deal of ammunition down to Colonel George Rains at the powder works in Augusta, Georgia,” Lee said. “With his knowledge of chemistry in general and gunpowder in particular, I thought him the man best suited to penetrate the mystery of these rounds, if anyone can.”
“If anyone can,” Gorgas echoed gloomily. But after a moment, he brightened a little.” As you say, if anyone can, Colonel Rains is the man. Without his expertise, we should be much the poorer for powder.”
“There I quite agree with you, Colonel. Chemical knowledge is too uncommon in the Confederacy. Of course, the same also obtains among the Federals.” Lee smiled at a memory. “When I administered West Point a few years ago, I had to dismiss from the academy a cadet who informed his instructor and fellow chemistry students that silicon was a gas. Do you know, Colonel, were silicon truly a gas, that lad would likely be a Federal general today.”
As Lee had hoped, Gorgas also smiled at the story. His amusement, though, soon faded. He said,” And now, General, I come to the particular most baffling of all, and when I speak of this weapon, that is no small claim. Do you know, sir, what these Rivington men charge the Ordnance Bureau for each AK-47 carbine? Fifty dollars, sir.”
“It hardly seems excessive. A Henry rifle goes for a similar price in the North, I understand, and this weapon is surely far superior to a Henry. Of course, the Treasury Department will doubtless be anguished at the prospect of discovering sufficient specie to purchase the number of carbines we require, but--what is it, Colonel?”
Gorgas had lifted his hand, as if he wanted to speak. Now he said, “You misapprehend, General, not that I can blame you for it. The asking price is fifty dollars Confederate paper per carbine.”
“You must be mistaken,” Lee said. Gorgas shook his head. Lee saw he knew whereof he spoke. “But how is that possible? While I love our country, I am not blind to our financial straits. Fifty dollars of Confederate paper will not buy two gold dollars.”
“Nor much of anything else,” Gorgas said. “Save these AK-47s. The asking price for their ammunition is similarly, ah, reasonable.”
Lee frowned ferociously, as if facing foes in the field. “You are correct, Colonel; the cost of an AK-47 is even more perplexing than any of its mechanical aspects, extraordinary as those are.”
“Yes, sir. The only thing I thought of was ‘that these Rivington men are such strong patriots that they insist on our dollar’s equality to that of the North. But no one is that patriotic, sir.”
“Nor should anyone be, with the manifest untruth of the proposition demonstrated every day of the year,” Lee said. “Yet the Rivington men, despite the money they surely lose on every repeater they sell us, seem to have plenty of it. When they came to Rivington, they paid gold for homes and warehouses and slaves, and I am given to understand they have also put down gold here in Richmond for offices across from Mechanic’s Hall.”
“I’d heard that, too,” Gorgas said. “Even the rumor of gold, let alone the sight of it, will set tongues wagging here. What are we to make of it, though? That they have so much money, they care nothing for how much these carbines bring them? The notion is logical but not reasonable, if you take my distinction, sir.”

At the time of the Civil War, all firearms used corned black powder, which had changed little (save in purity and manufacturing quality) in almost half a millenium. Experiments in creating a firearms propellent to replace it had been proceeding since the invention of guncotton in 1846, but this was dangerous to produce and unstable to use. Real progress didn't come until the late 1860s, and the first truly practical smokeless powder would not come until 1884 with the introduction of Poudre B, used in the revolutionary 1866 Lebel rifle.

The price being charged is perhaps the most egregious error made by the AWB. While it is possible to come up with a plausible excuse, the fact that they offer none is proof that they either didn't care, or didn't comprehend the difference between gold and Confederate paper.


The two agree that there are too many suspicious things about the AWB to really trust them, despite the benefit they bring.

quote:

“That is exactly my view.” Lee really stood this time. Through the window in Gorgas’s office, he saw the white frame buildings of the Confederate laboratory on Brown’s Island, separated from the mainland by a thin stretch of the James. Pointing across to them, he said, “I trust everyone at the cartridge loading works is busily engaged.”
“Yes, sir,” Gorgas said. “We have put last spring’s misfortune behind us and go on, as we must. My wife fatigued herself very much, visiting and relieving the poor sufferers injured in the blast.”
“How many died?” Lee asked.
“Ten women were killed at once; another twenty perished over the next several weeks. A considerable number more were burned but recovered.”
“Terrible.” Lee shook his head. “And as terrible that we must employ women and girls to produce the sinews of war for us. But with even our armies ever short of men, I suppose no good choice exists. You and your wife have your living quarters here in the armory, do you not?”

The Brown's Island facility was the largest ammunition factory the Confederacy possessed, producing over a million cartridges of small arms ammunition each week, and employed more than 600 workers. On March 13, 1863, a badly organized workroom combined with careless handling of shock-sensitive ammunition componets to produce an enormous explosion. The casualties Turtledove gives here are incorrect - ten women and girls were killed instantly, with the final death toll reaching 50. Another 14 were badly wounded but would heal, after a fashion. The youngest of the dead was only ten years old. Operations resumed on the 4th of April, the minimum working age was raised to 15, and no further accidents happened during the war.

Leaving the armory, lee heads to the War Department to meet somebody quite important.

quote:

The clerk--John Beauchamp Jones his nameplate proclaimed him to be, as if by trumpeting his middle name he could make up for the utter plainness of those that flanked it--finished writing his sentence before he looked up. His thin, clean-shaven face bore a sour expression at the interruption. That quickly changed when he saw who stood before him. “Yes, General, he does. He’s there now, I believe; I saw him go up this morning.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lee had not taken two steps toward, the stairway before Jones returned to his writing.
He fielded more salutes on the second floor as he made’ his way down the hall to his son Custis’s office. Custis was writing when he tapped on the open door, though with less zeal than John Jones had displayed. “Father! Sir!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. He too saluted, then stuck out his hand.
Lee took it, swept his eldest son into an embrace. “Hello, my dear boy. You’re looking very well. I see it is possible to find adequate victuals in Richmond after all.”
Custis laughed. “I’ve always been heavier than you, Father. Here, sit down. Tell me what I can do for you. Is it--I hope it is--a post in the field?”
“I have none to give, son; I wish I did. I know how you chafe as President Davis’s aide,” Lee said.
Custis nodded, tugging at his beard in frustration. Though he was past thirty, it remained boyishly thin and silky on his upper cheeks. He said, “How am I ever to deserve command if I have not led men ill the field?”
“Soon, I am sure, you will take the field in some capacity--everyone who has ability will be needed when spring comes. Do not think you have no value in your current post, either; you render the President and the nation important service.”
“It is not the service I would give,” Custis said stiffly.
“I know. I have been in that predicament myself, in western Virginia and then in the Carolinas. At the moment, however, your presence in Richmond may prove of considerable advantage to me.”
“How so, sir?” The younger Lee still sounded dubious, as if he suspected his father of devising some make-work assignment to reconcile him to remaining in the Confederate capital.
But interest flowered on his face when Lee asked, “Do you remember the organization that calls itself America Will Break, of which I wrote you? The one which appears centered in the town of Rivington, North Carolina?”
“The people with those amazing repeaters?” Custis said. “Yes, of course I do. I shouldn’t mind getting my hands on one of their carbines myself.”
“That can be quite simply arranged, I think: you need only walk across the street, as the organization has established offices right opposite Mechanic’s Hall. But I wish you would not.”
Custis smiled. “You’d best have a good reason, Father, for if they are so close, I think I shall straightaway beat a path to their door.”
“I believe I do have a good reason, Custis, or rather several of them.”
Lee briefly outlined his conversations with Major Venable back at army headquarters and with Colonel Gorgas not an hour earlier. When he finished by telling Custis what the Rivington men were selling their repeaters for, his son stared and exclaimed, “You’re joking!”
“No, my dear boy, lam not,” Lee assured him. “And so you: will grasp that I have cause to wonder about these people who call themselves America Will Break. They are on their way to becoming a power in the Confederacy, and I do not know whether they will prove a power for good or ill. There is a great deal I do not know about them, and I wish I did. That is where you come in.”
“How?” Now Custis seemed eager, not doubtful. Before his father could answer, he went on, “Fifty dollars Confederate? Fifty dollars Confederate won’t buy a pocket knife, let alone a repeating rifle.”
“That is why I want you,” his father said. “I cannot personally investigate these AWB establishments myself. Even if I had the time, I am too readily recognizable. For that matter, you may be as well; you favor your mother as much as me, but the name Lee draws attention to its bearer.”
“Thanks to you, sir--what you have done makes me proud to bear it.”
“You have made your own contributions to it, and will, I am confident, make more. You can aid your country now by recruiting a band of men--I care not whether soldiers or civilians--whose names and faces will certainly draw no notice, and by using them to keep watch on the men and offices of America Will Break. Report what you learn to me and, if it is of sufficient urgency, directly to President Davis. Your being his aide may well prove valuable in this task, for it gives you his ear.”
Custis’s face grew set and abstracted. Lee knew the look; his son was thinking through the task he had been given. It was not a formal order; he was not under his father’s command. But he said, “Of course I’ll take it on, sir. I see the need. Perhaps I ought to enlist some Negroes among my--my spies, not to mince words. To a white man, no one is more invisible than a slave.”

Custis Lee did eventually achieve field command in the defense of Richmond against Grant. He was captured in action three days before the end of the war, held several academic posts afterward, and made headlines by suing to regain the family manision at Arlington. After winning the case, he sold the property to the US Government. He died in 1913.

Note how incredibly suspicious the AWB men have been - nobody is buying their story, and the Confederates are almost forming a line to start prying into their secrets. Careless.



quote:

Lee walked out of his son’s office and down the stairs. His way out to the street carried him past John Jones’s desk. The clerk was turned away from him, talking to the man at the next desk: “My boy Custis’s parrot happened to be loose from its cage. It swooped down on the meat as if it were a hawk, the miserable bird, and gulped it down before we could get it back again. Meat is too hard to come by in Richmond these days to waste on a parrot; we’ll go without on account of it. I wish the damned talking feather duster would flyaway for good.”
Luke was waiting patiently outside Mechanic’s Hall. He waved when he saw Lee, and called, “I’ll get the carriage for you, Marse Robert.” He hurried off to fetch it. Lee went down the marble stairs and stood to one side of them so he would not be in the way of people going in and out on War Department business.
“Good to see you smiling, General Lee, sir,” a friendly passerby said, tipping his stovepipe hat. “Now I know things can’t be bad.” Without waiting for an answer, he went up the stairs two at a time and disappeared into Mechanic’s Hall.
Lee’s smile grew broader, though the stranger had been cheered by an amusement which had nothing to do with the prospective course of the war between Confederacy and Union. The thought uppermost in Lee’s mind was that Custis Jones’s parrot ought to make the acquaintance of Custis Morgan the squirrel.

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 21:04 on Sep 25, 2021

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




quantumfoam posted:

I think you meant to write metallic cartridge instead of "paper cartridge" when describing AK ammunition.
Otherwise pretty good and accurate.

While I can see how it happened going back and forth between the different kinds of ammunition, that is a truly embarrassing error to make.

Epicurius posted:

The old Richmond Custom House is right across from the State Capitol, and was, during the Civil War, the home of the offices of the President and the Confederate cabinet. Currently, as the Lewis F. Powell Jr. United States Courthouse, it's where the 4th Circuit Court of Appeals sets. Here's a picture of it from just after the Richmond fire of 1865.



Edited into the post, thanks for that.


ninjahedgehog posted:

Obviously the real answer is that the AK is more iconic than possibly any other firearm in history and makes for a better book cover, but in-universe I bet AWB also chose it for its legendary reliability. Like you said, they're severely underestimating how savvy the Confederates are and probably wanted something that, from their perspective, even these backwards hillbillies would be hard pressed to break.

Out of universe, the inspiration for the book was supposedly a complaint from another author (I'm finding conflicting information on precisely which author it was - some sources are saying Tanith Lee, others Judith Tarr) that the cover of her latest novel was as anachronistic as "Robert E. Lee holding an UZI". Turtledove was taken by the idea, but decided that the Uzi was not the proper weapon and substituted the AK. That said, speculating on in-universe reasons is entertaining.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Have to break this chapter into parts because there's a lot to comment on here

Chapter 4 Part I: Robert E. Lee

This chapter begins with Lee meeting several of his officers who have just used the AK-47 in combat. Reviews are good.

quote:

With his small, bald head, long nose, and long neck, Richard Ewell inevitably reminded everyone who met him of a stork. Having lost a leg at Groveton during Second Manassas, he could now also imitate the big white bird’s one-footed stance. He was sitting at the moment, however, sitting and pounding one, fist into the other palm to emphasize his words: “We smashed ‘em, sir, smashed ‘em, I tell you.” His voice was high and thin, almost piping.
“I am very glad to hear it, General Ewell,” Lee replied. “If those people send raiders down toward Richmond with the intention of seizing their prisoners there--and perhaps even the city itself--they must expect not to be welcomed with open arms.”
“Oh, we met ‘em with arms, all right,” Jeb Stuart said with a grin, patting the AK-47 that leaned against his camp stool. The repeater’s woodwork was not so perfectly varnished as it had been fresh out of the crate; it had seen use since then. Stuart patted it again.” And we sent Kilpatrick’s riders back over the Rapidan with their tails between their legs.”
Lee smiled. He’d liked Stuart for years, ever since the young cavalry corps commander’s days at West Point with Custis. He said, “Excellent. But don’t you think that leather might better have gone into shoes for the men?”
Ever flamboyant, Stuart wore crossed leather belts over, his shoulders, each one with loops enough to hold a magazine’s worth of brass AK-47 cartridges. The effect was piratical. But Stuart instantly became a contrite swashbuckler, saying, “I’m sorry, General Lee; it never crossed my mind.”
“Let it go,” Lee said. “I doubt the Confederacy will founder for want of a couple of feet of cowhide. But I take it I am to infer from your ornaments that you are pleased with the performance of the new repeaters in action.”
“General Lee, yesterday I sold my LeMat,” Stuart said. Lee blinked at that; Stuart had carried the fancy revolver with an extra charge of buckshot in a separate lower barrel ever since the war was young.


James Ewell Brown "Jeb" Stuart was a highly successful cavalry commander who was responsible for multiple Confederate victories through reconnaissance and flanking maneuvers. He also performed very well at the Battle Of Chancellorsville, where he was pressed into service as an infantry commander due to the wounding of AP Hill. Accounts from contemporaries assign a large portion of the credit for winning that battle on Stuart's actions.

Famed for his flamboyant manner of dress and behavior, his aggressive flair would lead to disaster. After fighting Union cavalry to a draw (rather than the victory to which he had been accustomed) in June of 1863, Stuart sought to reclaim his glory with aggressive action, possibly with a repeat of his earlier ride around the entire Union Army. Without Stuart to provide vital information on Union troop movements, the Army Of Northern Virginia blundered into US forces at a place called Gettysburg, resulting in what is likely the most critical defeat of the war. He never received a promotion beyond Major General, fought a grinding campaign against Grant's forces that rapidly eroded the remaining Confederate cavalry, and was shot by a Union private with a revolver on May 11, 1865. This would would kill him on the morning of the 12th.

Richard Stoddert Ewell was a Virginian who served in combat during the Mexican-American War and in actions against the Apaches between the wars. He publicly condemned secession until Virginia seceded, at which time he resigned his commission in the US Army to join the Virginian Army and later the Confederate Army, and was the first Confederate officer of significant rank to be wounded in action. He received his commission on May 9, 1861 and was shot in the shoulder on May 31, 1861. After the First Battle Of Bull Run (Called First Manassas by the CSA), he advocated freeing and arming portions the black population of the CSA in order to achieve victory. Unlike Patrick Cleburne, he did this in private conversation with Jefferson Davis, and thus avoided significant backlash. He was (as Turtledove correctly states) shot in the leg at the Second Battle Of Bull Run (Second Manassas) resulting in the amputation of the limb.

Ewell had the opportunity to take critical ground in the early stages of the Battle Of Gettysburg, but failed to for various reasons - not least of them conflicting orders from Lee. It is very likely that had he taken this ground, Gettysburg would have been a Confederate victory instead of a decisive defeat. His career continued downward from that point. He survived the war and died of pneumonia in 1872.

The LeMat revolver was invented by a Frenchman in New Orleans in 1859 in partnership with Major Beauregard of the US Army. Beauregard would be one of the first US officers to switch to Confederate service. As the gun was invented immediately before the war and made primarily in Europe, it was quite rare - only 2900 or so were made, and most were intercepted by the US blockade. The most common model, and probably the sort Stuart carried, held 9 rounds of .42 ball in the cylinder. The most famous feature of the gun was the underbarrel smoothbore barrel for buckshot, which was 20 gauge (0.60")in the most common model.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpYoh2yzPqw




quote:

“The rifles are outstanding,” General Ewell agreed. “So are the men who furnish them. If I had a drink in my hand, I’d toast them.”
“I have some blackberry wine here in my tent, brought up from Richmond,” Lee said. “If you truly feel the need, I should be glad to bring it out.”
Ewell shook his head. “Thank you, but let it be. Still, had we not heard from those America Will Break fellows that Kilpatrick was on the move, who knows how much mischief he might have done before we beat him back?”
“As it was, I understand, some of their cavalry captured a train station on the line up from the capital not long after I passed through on the way back to the army,” Lee said.
“Fugitives from the main band, after we scattered them,” Stuart said. “I’m glad they got to the station too late to nab you. Otherwise, however badly the rest of their plan failed, they would have won a great victory.”
“If a republic will stand or fall on the fate of any single man, it finds itself in grave danger indeed,” Lee observed.
But Ewell said, “Our republic is in great danger, as well you know, sir. We would be in graver danger still, were it not for your Andries Rhoodie and his fellows. When Meade sent Sedgwick west with the VI Corps, when Custer went haring off toward Charlottesville, I would have shifted the entire army to meet them had Rhoodie not warned me of a possible cavalry thrust south from Ely’s Ford.”
“But Fitz Lee was sitting there waiting for the bold Kilpatrick,” Stuart said with the smile of a cat who has caught his canary. “General Kill-Cavalry killed a good many of his Yankees by Spotsylvania Court House.”
Hugh Judson Kilpatrick was the first US Army officer to be wounded (as a low ranking captain) in the Civil War, being stuck by a canister ball on June 10 1861. Overly aggressive as a commander of cavalry, he regularly suffered heavy casualties in foolhardy cavalry charges against modern rifle-muskets and artillery. This earned him the nickname of "Kill Cavalry" by the men under his command, who disliked him greatly.

quote:

Ewell’s pale eyes turned inward as he pondered that. “Very competently. Sedgwick’s as good a corps commander as the Federals have, and Custer--what can I say about Custer, save that he wishes he were Jeb Stuart?” Stuart smiled again, a smile the brighter for peeping out through his forest of brown beard.
“Under normal circumstances, you might have been deceived, then, General Ewell, at least long enough for Kilpatrick to slip past you and make for Richmond?” Lee asked. Ewell nodded. “And you had picked up nothing from spies and agents to warn you Kilpatrick might be on the move?” Ewell nodded once more. Lee plucked at his beard. “How did Rhoodie know?”
“Why don’t you ask him, sir?” Jeb Stuart said.
“I think I shall,” Lee said.

The raid being discussed here was a disaster historically. Kilpatrick intended to assault Richmond and rescue US prisoners of war being held in that city, but was quickly repulsed. His response to this failure was to charge further south, looting and burning as he went More than 300 Union cavalrymen became casualties, and more than a thousand were captured. To make matters worse, papers found in the possession of Ulric Dahlgren, one of Kilpatrick's subordinates, suggested that Kilpatrick intended to lynch Jefferson Davis and most of the rest of the Confederate government in addition to freeing prisoners and torching the city. Only the direct intervention of Lee, who feared retaliation against Confederate prisoners, prevented the execution of the captured cavarlymen. Kilpatrick was sent to the Western theater in disgrace, where he participated in Sherman's scorched-earth March To The Sea in Georgia. His postwar political career was hounded by charges of corruption, and he died in 1881.

Rhoodie meets with Lee, and is offered the same blackberry wine that was offered to Early.

quote:

“I believe I set out two glasses. Would you be kind enough to pour, sir? Ah, thank you. Your very good health.” Lee took a small sip. He was pleased to see Rhoodie toss off half his glass at a swallow; wine might help loosen the fellow’s tongue. He said, “From what General Ewell tells me, the Confederacy finds itself in your debt once more. Without your timely warning, Kilpatrick’s raiders might have done far worse than they actually succeeded in accomplishing.”
“So they might.” Rhoodie finished his wine. “I am pleased to help in any way I can. Can I fill you up again, General?”
“No, thank you, not yet, but by all means help yourself.” Lee took another sip to indicate he was not far behind Rhoodie. He nodded imperceptibly to himself when the big man did pour again, as a fisherman will when his bait is taken. He said, “Interesting how you got wind of Kilpatrick’s plans when the rest of the army would have been hoodwinked by Meade’s motion toward our left.”
Rhoodie looked smug. “We have our ways, General Lee.”
“Marvelously good ones they must be, too. As with your rifles, they altogether outdistance that which anyone else may hope to accomplish. But how do you know what you know, Mr. Rhoodie? Be assured that I ask in the most friendly way imaginable; my chief concern is to be able to form a judgment of your reliability, so I may know how far I may count on it in the crises which surely lie ahead.”
“As I think I told you once before, General, my friends and I can find out whatever we think important enough to know.” Yes, Rhoodie was smug.
Lee said, “That hardly appears open to question, sir, not after your repeaters, your desiccated foods--though I wish you might find a way to provide us with more of the latter--and now your ability to ferret out the Federals’ plans. But I did not ask what you could do; I asked how you did it. The difference is small, but I think it important.”
“I--see.” Suddenly Andries Rhoodie’s face showed nothing at all, save a polite mask behind which any thoughts whatever might form. Seeing that mask, Lee knew he had been foolish to hope to loosen this man’s tongue with a couple of glasses of homemade wine. After a small but noticeable pause, the big man with the odd accent said, “Even if I were to tell you, I fear you would not believe me--you would be more likely to take me for a madman or a liar.”

Lee is handling this well - not only is he trying to get Rhoodie off-balance with alcohol, but throwing all the suspicious elements right in Rhoodie's face is pretty much guaranteed to unsettle him. How will Rhoodie get out of this?

quote:

Rhoodie’s poker face hid whatever calculations were going on behind it. At last he said,” All right, General Lee, I will. My friends and I--everyone who belongs to America Will Break--come from a hundred and fifty years in your future.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and waited to see what Lee would make of that.
Lee opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again while he did some thinking of his own. He did not know what he had expected Rhoodie to say, but the big man’s calm assertion was nothing he had imagined. He studied Rhoodie, wondering if he had made a joke. If he had, his face did not show it. Lee said, “If that be so--note I say if--then why have you come?”
“I told you that the day I met you: to help the Confederacy win this war and gain its freedom.”
“Have you any proof of what you allege?” Lee asked.
Now Rhoodie smiled, rather coldly: “General Lee, if you can match the AK-47 anywhere in the year 1864, then I am the greatest liar since Ananias.”
Lee plucked at his beard. He himself had brought up the excellence of Rhoodie’s equipment, but had not thought that very excellence might be evidence they were from out of time. Now he considered the notion. What would Napoleon have thought of locomotives to carry whole armies more than a hundred miles in the course of a day, of steam-powered ironclads, of rifled artillery, of rifle muskets with interchangeable parts, common enough for every soldier to carry one? And Napoleon was less than fifty years dead and had rampaged across Russia while Lee was a small boy. Who could say what progress another century and a half would bring? Andries Rhoodie might. To his own surprise, Lee realized he believed the big man. Rhoodie was simply too strange in too many ways to belong to the nineteenth century.

Oh. He just admits it at the slightest pressure. They weren't doing a very good job of keeping it secret, but they certainly seemed to be trying.

Lee asks why they didn't come sooner, to which Rhoodie explains that their time machine only works in an increment of exactly 150 years. And that they didn't manage to steal it until late 2013. This is followed by the almost offhand comment that another year would have been too late. The Union will defeat the Confederacy.

quote:


“They do just that,” Rhoodie said grimly. “They force you to free your k*****s--your n*****s, I mean--at the point of a bayonet, then set them over you, with the bayonet still there to make you bow down. The Southern white man is ruined absolutely, and the Southern white woman--no, I won’t go on. That is why we had to steal our time machine, sir; the white man’s cause is so hated in times to come that we could obtain it by no other means.”
There was one question ‘answered before Lee had the chance to ask it. He sadly shook his head. “I had not looked for such, not even from those people. President Lincoln always struck me as true to his principles, however much I may disagree with those.”
“In his second term, he shows what he really is. He does not aim to stand for election after that, so he need not mask himself any longer. And Thaddeus Stevens, who comes after him, is even worse.”
“That I believe.” Lee wondered at Rhoodie’s claims for Lincoln, but Thaddeus Stevens had always been a passionate abolitionist; his mouth was so thin and straight that, but for its bloodlessness, it reminded Lee of a knife gash. Set a Stevens over the prostrate South and any horror was conceivable. Lee went on, “Somewhere, though, in your world of 2013--no, it would be 2014 now--sympathy for our lost cause must remain, or you would not be here.”
“So it does, I’m proud to say,” Rhoodie answered, “even if it is not as much as it should be. N*****s still lord it over white Southern men. Because they have done it for so long, they think it is their right. The bloody k*****s lord it over South Africa, too, my own homeland--over the white men who built the country up from nothing. There are even blacks in England, millions of them, and blacks in Parliament, if you can believe it.”
“How do I know I can believe any of what you say?” Lee asked. “I have not been to the future to see it for myself; I have only your word that it is as you assert.”
“If you want them, General Lee, I can bring you documents and pictures that make the slave revolt in Santo Domingo look like a Sunday picnic. I will be happy to give you those. But, General, let me ask you this: Why would my friends and I be here if these things were not as I say?”

There was a slave revolt in Santo Domingo in 1521 that was put down with great bloodshed, but Turtledove is more likely to be referring to the Hatian Revolution of 1791-1804 that began as a slave uprising in the French colony of Saint-Domingue. Not only is this much more recent and relevant to somebody like Lee, the slaves actually won in Hati. The French colonizers were thrown out, the Hatians successfully defended attempts at reconquest, and a republic of sorts was set up out of the formerly servile population. Equally relevant, the last stages of the uprising involved a massacre of 3000-5000 men, women, and children, which was virtually the entire remaining white population. This was commonly used as an argument that abolition was too dangerous to be considered. I cannot find anything other than RW propaganda from groups like the AWB that come close to such levels, let alone surpass it to the level that Rhoodie is suggesting. Therefore he is creating any such incidents out of whole cloth, and is counting on either unquestioning acceptance from Lee or is confident that any proofs he manufactures will be good enough to accept. This is an effective lie precisely because many opponents of abolition believed, or claimed to believe, that freeing the slaves would inevitably result in such actions.

Thaddeus Stevens was a firebrand abolitionist who advocated that the purpose of the Civil War should be the eradication of the "peculiar institution" with no concessions made to former slaveowners. He was the prime proponent of the 13th amendment banning slavery, and advocated seizing the property of traitors in order to give the newly-freed blacks a leg up on building a new life. An opponent of the reconciliatory policies of Reconstruction, he was one of the loudest voices in the impeachment proceedings against Andrew Johnson in 1867. His attempts to make the party focus on ensuring the black vote failed repeatedly, and he died at the age of 76 of illness. While his death was not universally mourned, he was the third man to lie in state at the US Capitol rotunda, with black troops providing his honor guard. Few men in the North would be as horrifying a leader from a Confederate standpoint, meaning that this lie is also well chosen.


Lee accepts this for now, and turns to what Rhoodie knows about the course of the war. Rhoodie explains that he only knows the OTL course of the war - what actually happened. The new timeline that is being created is as much a mystery to Rhoodie and the AWB as it is to the Confederacy. Lee responds to this by demanding the most detailed information available right now - the AK-47 has been used in only very limited ways thus far, and thus hasn't had a chance to change much. Rhoodie agrees, and they begin to break up the meeting.

quote:

“My pleasure, General.” Rhoodie stood to go. Lee also rose. As he did so, the pain that sometimes clogged his chest struck him a stinging blow. He tried to bear up under it, but it must have shown on his face, for Rhoodie took a step toward him and asked, “Are you all right, General?”
“Yes,” Lee said, though he needed an effort to force the word past his teeth. He gathered himself. “Yes, I am all right, Mr. Rhoodie; thank you. I ceased to be a young man some years ago. From time to time, my body insists on reminding me of the fact. I shall last as long as I am required, I assure you.”
Rhoodie, he realized, must know the year--perhaps the day and hour--in which he was to die. That was a question he did not intend to put to the Rivington man; about some things, one was better ignorant. Then it occurred to him that if the course of battles and nations was mutable, so small a thing as a single lifespan must also be. The thought cheered him. He did not care to be only a figure in a dusty text, pinned down as immovably as a butterfly in a naturalist’s collection.
“Is it your heart, General?” Rhoodie asked.
“My chest, at any rate. The doctors know no more than that, which I could tell them for myself.”
“Doctors in my time can do quite a lot better, General Lee. I can bring you medicine that may really help you. I’ll see to it as soon as I can. With the campaign coming up, we want you as well as you can be.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Yes, Rhoodie knew Lee’s allotted number of days could change. He wanted to make sure they didn’t unexpectedly shorten. Even that possibility made Lee feel freer. He thought of something else. “May I ask you an unrelated question, Mr. Rhoodie?”
“Of course.” Rhoodie was the picture of polite attentiveness.
“These Negroes you mentioned who were elected to the British Parliament--what manner of legislators do they make? And how were they elected, if I may ask? By other Negroes voting?”
“Mostly, yes, but, to the shame of the English, some deluded whites sank low enough to vote for them as well. As for what sort of members they make, they’re what you’d expect. They always push for more for the n*****s, not that they don’t have too much already.”
“If they were elected to stand for their people, how are they to be blamed for carrying out that charge?” Storm clouds came over Andries Rhoodie’s face. Lee said, “Well, Mr. Rhoodie, it’s neither here nor there. Thank you once more for all of this. You’ve given me a great deal to think on further. And I do want to see that plan of what General Meade will attempt.”
Once off the topic of Negroes, Rhoodie relaxed again. “It will be General Grant, sir,” he said.


Much to unpack here. The first is Lee's relief that his fate is not - can not be - preordained. An incredibly human thought, and a very nice touch. We also see the possibility that Lee will die sooner rather than later being raised for the first time, something that will be relevant later.
By far, however, the most important exchange here is the last one. While Lee's oddly reasonable thought toward the possibility of black lawmakers stands out the most, as does Rhoodie's obvious anger that Lee is not the unthinkingly racist caricature that Rhoodie is himself, the more interesting element is perhaps more subtle. It might go unnoticed compared to the sparks starting to fly, but note the casual racism inherent in Lee's response - he takes it almost as granted that black lawmakers could only have been elected by black voters, and assumes without question that blacks being separate from whites is the natural way of the world.

How realistic Lee's response is in other respects is a difficult question to answer. The historical Lee opposed the black vote unconditionally, stating that "at this time, they [black Southerners] cannot vote intelligently, and that giving them the [vote] would lead to a great deal of demagogism, and lead to embarrassments in various ways.". He also expressed "a deep-seated conviction that, at present, the negroes have neither the intelligence nor the other qualifications which are necessary to make them safe depositories of political power." This would indicate that the historical Lee would not have responded to the idea of black lawmakers nearly as well as the Lee that Turtledove writes. The counter-argument, that Lee lived only a few years after abolition and thus had no opportunity to test or improve his views, or to conclude that his weasel-words "at this time" or "at present" would allow him to reject those stances with time, seems a thin reed. That said, there is no record that the historical Lee was ever given a glimpse, however twisted, into the state of affairs one hundred and fifty years in the future, which kind of has to have an effect on one's outlook.



Lee ends this segment by considering telling his staff the great secret, concluding that it is a bad idea, and savoring the notion of turning the tide of history against Ulysses S. Grant.

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 04:11 on Oct 18, 2021

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter 4 Part II: Nate Caudell

quote:

“Here you go, First Sergeant,” Preston Kelly said. “They’re ‘most as good as new.”
Nate Caudell tried on the shoes Kelly had repaired. He walked a few steps, smiled broadly. “Yup, that’s licked it. The cold doesn’t blow in between the soles and the uppers anymore. Thank you kindly. Pity you can’t do more; a good many of us don’t even have shoes to repair these days. Are you the only shoemaker in the regiment?”
“Heard tell there’s another one ‘mongst the Alamance Minute Men,” Kelly answered. “Couldn’t rightly swear to it, though. Them boys from Company K, they still stick close to themselves after all this time.” Alamance County lay a fair ways west of Wake, Nash; Franklin, and Granville, which provided most of the manpower for the regiment’s other nine companies.

This little exchange perfectly illustrates the dire straits that the Confederacy is in at this point. While Union troops were generally well supplied unless they were cut off due to a combination of the Union's superiority in wealth and the fact that General George McClellan was, for all his faults, a genuine genius at logistics, the Confederates were not nearly as lucky. The southern states had far less to begin with due to the nature of their economy, and after 4 years the Union blockade is doing an excellent job of strangling their commerce. Equally important, the states that would form the CSA were not well supplied with railroads, and most of the lines that did exist were optimized for moving cash crops to the ports for export, as that was the economic lifeblood of the region. This made it very hard to move goods around.

This is also a pretty good parallel to Lee's opening lines in his segment of this chapter. He reprimands Stuart on wasting leather on fancy bandoliers instead of providing a soldier with shoes, and here we get a soldier's eye view of the shoe situation.


Caudell watches a baseball game for a bit before wandering over to talk to "Melvin".

quote:


“Hello, Melvin,” Caudell said, seeing Mollie Bean outside her cabin. She was feeding rounds into a banana clip.
“Hello, First Sergeant,” she answered. “Reckon we’re gonna get ourselves some Yankees ‘fore too long?”
Caudell took a step. He squelched in mud. Thanks to the work he’d just had done, it didn’t soak his toes. All the same, he said, “My guess is, we won’t move for a while yet unless the Yanks try something sneaky. Marching on muddy roads wears a man down too much for good fighting afterwards.” Or even a woman, he thought, remembering to whom he was talking.
She said, “You’re likely right. Comin’ back from Gettysburg in the rain, wasn’t nothin‘ but slog, slog, slog till a body wanted to fall down dead at the end of a day.”
“Makes me tired just remembering,” Caudell agreed. The 47th North Carolina had been part of the rear guard at Falling Rivers, Maryland, as the Army of Northern Virginia drew back into its home state, and had lost many men captured because they could not keep up.
All at once, Mollie Bean became intensely interested in the AK-47 magazine in her lap, bending her head down over it. “I need to see you, First Sergeant,” someone said from behind Caudell.
He turned, lifted his hat. “Yes, sir. What is it, Captain Lewis?”
“Walk with me,” Lewis said. Caudell obeyed, matching his pace to the captain’s slow and halting strides. Lewis went by Mollie Bean without the least notice of her. With her head down, the brim of her cap hid her face from him. Caudell smiled to himself; she was expert at such small concealments. After a few steps, Lewis went on, “We have to get the most we can out of these new repeaters.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I think that means thinning our firing lines,” Lewis said. “With these rifles, we don’t need to stand shoulder to shoulder to put out a large volume of fire. The more widely we space ourselves out, the more front we can cover and the smaller the target each individual man presents to the enemy.”
“Sounds good to me, sir,” Caudell said at once. “We were packed together so tight in the charge at Gettysburg, I still think it’s a wonder all of us didn’t get shot. The more space between us for the bullets to go by, the better.”
“Space for the bullets to go by,” Lewis echoed musingly. “I like that. You have a way with words, First Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Caudell said, thinking that if he did, it was because he wrote so many of them for other people. As with anything else, practice made them come easier.

"They should have thinned out instead of standing in tight lines" is a common criticism directed towards armies of the past. A big amount of US mythmaking holds that the Continentals defeated the Redcoats by using dispersed riflemen to peck at and destroy the rigid lines of the Redcoats, as seen in Mel Gibson's love letter to Mel Gibson The Patriot. This is hogwash. If a tight body of men closes to bayonet range with a dispersed body, they'll sweep the enemy aside with ease. Preventing such a force from closing requires a very high density of fire - a density impossible to achieve with single-shot muzzle-loaders unless you have a densely packed line that can discharge a wall of bullets. It isn't until breech loaders that you start to see situations where a handful of men can make a massed charge suicidally dangerous.

Or, in other words, the sort of formation Lewis is suggesting would be suicide with any normal weapon of the ACW - but is doable with the AK, and represents a huge step toward the sort of infantry tactics that would be developed to deal with such weapons almost 60 years later OTL. Having the "natives" recognize this almost immediately before ever seeing the new weapon in action is a good way to show that these people are not idiots just because they lived around a century and a half ago.


Caudell begins to instruct his subordinates in the new plan at the first opportunity, and the value is seen immediately.

quote:

Having made up his mind thus, he ran into Otis Massey not five minutes later. “Makes sense to me, First Sergeant,” Massey said when Caudell was through relaying Captain Lewis’s words. “ ‘Course, rememberin’ it when them damnyankees is shootin’ at us might could take a bit o’ doin’.”
“That’s why we practice it beforehand,” Caudell said patiently.
Massey shifted his chaw from one cheek to the other, which made him look for a moment like a sheep chewing its cud. “Yeah, reckon so.” He’d always been a good soldier; that was how he’d got himself promoted. He was slower to grasp that, as corporal, he was responsible for his whole squad, not just himself.
Caudell walked down to his hut. He was about to go in when he saw a black man in Confederate grey going by with an AK-47 slung on his back. “How you doin’, Georgie?” he called.
George Ballentine looked to see who was talking to him. “I’s right well, First Sergeant, suh,” he answered. “How you be?”
“I’m all right,” Caudell answered. “So the boys in Company H let you have one of the new repeaters, did they?”
“Yassuh, they did. I’s a regular No’th Carolina Tiger, I is,” Ballentine said. “If’n I goes to the fightin’ with food or some such, I gets to shoot back if the Yankees shoots at me.”
“You’ve got a better rifle there than your master ever dreamed of. He’d have one too, if he hadn’t run away on us,” Caudell said. Ballentine had come to the regiment as bodyguard to Addison Holland of Company H. Holland was a deserter, six months gone now. Ballentine had stayed with the North Carolina Tigers as company cook, tailor, and general handyman. Caudell wondered about that. “Why didn’t you take off too, Georgie? We haven’t caught your master yet. Odds are we never would have got you.”
Something changed in the black man’s face; all at once it became a fortress to guard the thoughts behind it. Though he owned no slaves himself, Caudell had seen that guarded look on other men’s Negroes many times. “Don’ wanna be no runaway,” Ballentine said. Caudell thought that would end the conversation; the black man had said what a black man had to say to get by in a white man’s world. But Ballentine chose to elaborate: “I’s just about like a free man now. The men, they treats me like one o’ them. I don’ belong to nobody in particular--jus’ about as good as not belongin’ t’nobody at all. Like you say, I even gots this here nice gun. How’s I gonna do better’n that, runnin’ away?”
Go north was the unspoken thought in Caudell’s mind. It had to be in George Ballentine’s, too. But risks went with it. If a Confederate picket spotted him trying to cross the Rapidan, he was dead. The other thing that struck Caudell was how much Ballentine’s answer reminded him of Mollie Bean’s. Neither had any prospects to speak of in the outside world; both had found in the army niches that suited them and people who cared about them.

The power dynamics are extremely well portrayed here. Caudell views the black man in a fairly positive way, but from an undeniable position of authority. His treatment of George here is more in the manner of a favored pet than you would give another man. Meanwhile, George is very disarmingly pleasant towards the white man who is so high above him, but locks down the second it goes toward anything that might reveal his true thoughts. From this exchange, it is unclear if his elaboration is a genuine unbending because they're closer than they should be, or a way to assure Caudell that he doesn't need to set a closer watch on George because George is really happy, honest.

The comparison with Mollie will show up again soon, and I'll reserve commentary until then.


Unfortunately for all concerned, Ballentine draws the attention of one of the men from the future. Lang is furious at the rifle on his back.

quote:

“He’s not in my company, so I can’t answer you exactly, Mr. Lang,” Caudell said, speaking as carefully as if the Rivington man were an officer.
“Whose bloody company is he in, then?” Lang demanded.
“Company H, sir,” Caudell said. He explained how Ballentine had come to be there, and how he had stayed with the company after Addison Holland abandoned it. “I’m sure it’s all right.”
“In a pig’s arse it is. Teach a kaf--a n****r--to use a weapon, and next thing you know, he’ll be aiming at you. Company H, you say? Who’s captain there?”
“That would be Captain Mitchell, sir. Captain Sidney Mitchell.”
“I am going to have a small chat with Captain Sidney loving Mitchell, then, First Sergeant. We’ll see if he lets a n****r touch a weapon after that, by God!” He jerked savagely on the reins to turn the horse, dug his heels into its sides. The animal let out an angry neigh and bounded off. Space showed between the saddle and Lang’s backside at every stride; he was anything but a polished rider. But he clung to his seat with grim determination.
Rufus Daniel came out of the cabin. Along with Caudell, he watched Benny Lang’s furious ride. “I take back what I told you a while ago, Nate,” Daniel said. “Wouldn’t want him for overseer after all--he purely hates n*****s. That’d bring a farm nothin’ but grief. Georgie Ballentine; I druther have him alongside me ‘n half the white men in this company.”
“Me, too.” Caudell took off his hat so he could scratch his head. “Lang hates n*****s as if they’d done something to him personally, not just--you know what I mean.”
“Reckon I do,” Daniel said. Hardly a white man in the South failed to look down on blacks. But the two races lived and worked side by side. They saw each other, dealt with each other, every day. Caudell could think of nothing likelier to spark a slave revolt than all whites displaying the ferocity Benny Lang showed.

The commentary on race relations here is surprisingly nuanced. There's no attempt to downplay Confederate racism, but they view their "property" in an altogether different light from the way the AWB men do. There's the awareness that there are limits they don't dare exceeed, and they have to deal with these people in a way that you can't just slot them into an easy stereotype in the brain - there's too many seen too frequently to do otherwise. Meanwhile, the AWB men would deal with black South Africans very rarely, and can keep their attitudes "pure". Their time in the Confederacy is a game to them as much as anything else - they can finally do all the things that they've wanted to do for so long.


The discussion is interrupted by smoke pouring out of a cabin. Fear of fire is quickly dispelled by noticing that the chimney had been blocked with a board - a prank. Caudell is forced to break up the ensuing assault on the prankster, and the scene ends.

quote:

When Sunday morning rolled around, Caudell joined most of the regiment at divine services. Chaplain William Lacy was a Presbyterian, while the majority of the men he served--Caudell among them--were Baptists, but he had proved himself a good and pious man, which counted for more than differences in creed.
“Let us bend our heads in prayer,” he said. “May God remember our beloved Confederacy and keep it safe. May He lift up his hand and smite that of the oppressor, and may our true patriots in gray withstand their test with bravery.”
“Amen,” Caudell said. He added a silent prayer of his own for General Lee.
Lacy said, “I will take as my text today Romans 8:28: ‘We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’ We see it illustrated in the events of the past few weeks. When our army came short of success at Gettysburg, many may have suffered a loss of faith that our cause would triumph. But now God has delivered into our hands these fine new repeaters with which to renew the fight, and through them He will deliver into our hands the Yankees who seek to subjugate us.”

As the service progress, Caudell notices something odd about the hymns. George never misses a service, but his distinctive voice is absent from the singing. Some investigation reveals that George had run away because his AK got confiscated.

quote:

“Yup,” Caudell said. Instead of waiting for the next hymn, he drifted away from the open-air assembly. Johnson had hit the nail on the head. Not giving George Ballentine a repeater in the first place would have been one thing. But to give him one and then take it away--that was wrong. He hoped Ballentine made it over the Rapidan to freedom, too.
But the slave’s luck as a runaway was no better than his luck with the AK-47 had been. Three days later, a wagon came squelching down the muddy highway from Orange Court House in the late afternoon. It wasn’t a scheduled stop. “You have a load of those desiccated dinners for us?” Caudell called hopefully as the driver pulled off the main road.
“No, just a dead n****r--picket shot him up by the Rapidan Station. He was headin’ for the river. Hear tell he likely belongs to this regiment.” The driver jumped down and lowered the rear gate. “Want to see if it’s him?”
Caudell hurried over, peered in. George Ballentine lay limp and dead on the planks, without even a cloth over his staring eyes. The lower part of his gray tunic was soaked with blood; he’d been shot in the belly, a hard, hard way to die. Caudell clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Yeah, that’s Georgie.”
“You gonna take charge of him?”
“Take him over to Company H, why don’t you? He belonged to them.” Caudell pointed the way. “I expect they’ll want to give him a proper burial.”
“What the hell for? He was a goddam runaway.”
“Just do it,” Caudell snapped. As if by accident, he brushed a hand against his sleeve to call attention to his chevrons. The driver spat in the roadway, but he obeyed.

Again, you can see the Confederate attitude towards race from both characters. Caudell finds nothing wrong with denying the rifle as a matter of course, only with revoking the "privilege" once it had been generously granted. Meanwhile, the wagon driver has no personal connection to George, and thus sees the body as just trash - an attitude that Caudell would probably share if it were just some random shot runaway.

A Caudell expected, George's regiment requests and recieves a full burial service. Consumed by guilt, but unwilling to talk to an officer, he consults Mollie Bean.

quote:


“Life ain’t fair, Nate,” she answered. “You was a woman, you’d know that. You ever work in a bawdyhouse, you’d sure as poo poo know that.” Her face clouded, as if at memories she’d have sooner forgotten. Then that wry smile of hers tugged one comer of her mouth upwards. “Hell, First Sergeant Caudell, sir, you was a private, you’d know that.”
“Maybe I would,” he said, startled into brief laughter. But just as Mollie could not stay gloomy, he had trouble remaining cheerful. “I expect I’d know it if I were a n****r, too. Georgie sure found out.”
“N*****s ain’t the same as white folks, they say--they just go on from day to day, don’t worry none about stuff like that.”
“Sure, people say that. I’ve said it myself, plenty of times. But if it’s true, why did Georgie run off when they took his repeater away?” Corporal Johnson’s words came back to Caudell: even a n****r, he’s got his pride.
“I know what you mean, Nate, but Georgie, he didn’t seem like your regular n*****,” Mollie said. “He just seemed like people--you know what I mean?”
“Yup,” Caudell said. “I felt the same way about him. That’s why he bothers me so much now.” Ballentine had seemed like a person to Caudell, not just some n****r, because he’d got to know him. In the same way, Mollie seemed like a person to him, not just some whore--because he’d got to know her. He kept that part of his thought to himself, but went on in musing tones, “Maybe a lot of n*****s seem like people to somebody who knows them.”
“Maybe.” But Mollie sounded dubious. “Some, though, you got to sell South, and that’s the truth. They ain’t nothin’ but trouble to their own selves an’ everybody around ‘em.”
“That’s true enough. But you know what else?” Caudell waited for her to shake her head, then said, “If Billy Beddingfield was black, I’d sell him South in a minute, too.”

Here, the attudes are stated straight out - George was "like a person" because they knew him - the notion that he was a person in his own right is beyond them. Meanwhile, the notion that some are disposable and have to be "sold south" is unquestioned, because they're dealing with an abstract "them" rather than a living, breathing reality - the same sort of attitude shown by the AWB men. To be "sold south", also called "sold down the river" typically refers to selling a slave into much harder conditions - either from a comparitively comfortable position as a house servant or similar to farm labor on a plantation or else from a plantation to swamp-clearing and similar work that consumed the lives of workers like water. Even here, though, there is some connection between them and their legal inferiors that is missing with the AWB men - they are able to concieve of one of their peers in the same situation, which is unlikely for the AWB men.

Here again we see Caudell (and Bean) making a connection between a lower-class white prostitute and a slave. I'm not sure where Turtledove was going with this, but it feels rather facile - the mere fact that Mollie is in the army at all points to her having far greater freedom of action than any slave, and she presents herself as being in her line of work willingly. It might work better if she were forced by circumstance or abuse into her role, but no sign of that is given.


After some further discussion, Caudell decides that he might as well give Mollie some business and the scene ends.

Turtledove is in rare restraint so far this book. That's two sex scenes involving a POV character, and both are fade-to-black. This is a great mercy for the reader.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Sorry for the delay, been busy adjusting to a new job

Chapter 4 Part I: Robert E. Lee

quote:


Robert E. Lee took off his reading glasses, slid them into his breast pocket. “So Lieutenant General Grant will go through the Wilderness, will he? I had rather expected him to try to duplicate McClellan’s campaign up the James toward Richmond. It is the shortest route to the capital, given the Federals’ regrettable control of the sea.”
“He will send the Army of the Potomac through the Wilderness, General, at the beginning of May, as I’ve written there,” Andries Rhoodie said positively. “His aim is not so much Richmond as your army. If Richmond falls while the Army of Northern Virginia lives, the Confederacy can stay alive. But if your army is beaten, Richmond will fall afterwards.”
Lee thought about that, nodded in concession. “It is sound strategy, and accords with the way Grant fought in the west. Very well then, I shall deploy my forces so as to be waiting for him when he arrives.”
“No, you mustn’t, General Lee.” Rhoodie sounded so alarmed, Lee stared at him in sharp surprise. “If he knows you’ve moved and are lying in wait for him, he can choose to attack by way of Fredericksburg instead, or up the James, or any other way he pleases. What I know only stays true if what leads up to it stays the same.”

Characterizing Grant's Wilderness campaign as being aimed at Lee's army rather than Richmond itself is dubious. While Grant did hope to bait the Army of Northern Virginia out of fortifications where they could be engaged in the field, the goal was to knock them out of the way to take the city itself instead of fighting the grinding siege that would be necessary in a repeat of McClellan's failed Peninsular Campaign. The notion that the Confederacy could survive without Richmond as long as the ANV stayed in the fight is also nonsense, although that may be calculated to please Lee's ego - historically, Grant's campaign ultimately took Richmond without annihilating Lee's forces, resulting in the surrender at Appomatax Court House six days later.

quote:

“May I suggest, General, that when it does come next month, you station it around Jackson’s Shop or Orange Springs, rather than farther west at Gordonsville?” Rhoodie said. “As the fight developed, Longstreet’s men nearly came too late because they had so far to travel.”
“Will this change not make Grant change his plans in response?” Lee asked.
“The risk, I think, is small. Right now, Grant doesn’t look at the Wilderness as a place to fight, only a place to get through as fast as possible so he can battle your army on open ground. He’ll be wondering if you will choose to fight anywhere this side of Richmond.”
“Is that a fact?” Lee meant the phrase as nothing but a polite conversational placeholder, but Rhoodie nodded all the same. Smiling a huntsman’s smile, Lee said; “I expect we shan’t keep him long in suspense as to that point, sir.”
“The AK-47 s should also be an unpleasant surprise for him,” Rhoodie said.
“I should have attacked without them,” Lee said. “Where better than the Wilderness? In the forest and undergrowth, the Federals’ superiority in artillery is nullified--there are few places for it to deploy, and few good targets at which to aim. And my soldiers, farmers most of them, are better woodsmen than the Yankees. Yes, Mr. Rhoodie, if General Grant wishes to allow a fight there, I shall be happy to oblige him.”
“I know that,” Rhoodie said.
“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” Lee looked down at those irresistibly fascinating papers. “Will you excuse me now, sir? I confess I feel the need to study these further.”
“Certainly.” Rhoodie stood to go. Then he said, “Oh, I almost forgot,” and reached into a pants pocket. He handed Lee a bottle of small white tablets...If your heart pains you, let one or two of these dissolve under your tongue. They should help. They may bring a spot of headache with them, but it shouldn’t last long.”
“Thank you, sir; you’re most kind to have thought of it.” Lee put his glasses back on so he could read the bottle’s label...’Nitroglycerine.’ Hmm. It sounds most forbiddingly medical; I can tell you that.”
“Er--yes.” Rhoodie’s inscrutable expression made his face unreadable as he said, “It is, among other things, useful in stimulating the heart. And now, General, if you will excuse me--” He ducked out under the tent flap.

What Lee describes is, in essense, exactly what happened in the historical battle. Grant was hoping to bait Lee into the field, and succeeded. Lee was, however, much more decisive and aggressive than expected, leading the battle to be fought in the unkempt Wilderness area instead of past it, giving the Confederates the advantage stated - the Union could not use their decisive artillery arm effectively. The result was a Confederate victory in the Wilderness, followed by a second victory over Grant's attempt to outflank them at Spotsylvania Court House. In response to these significant victories, Grant... backed up a little, adjusted his tactics, and kept coming.

Nitroglycerine tablets are an effective means of treating many heart conditions, including an in-progress heart attack. This use was discovered in 1878.


Lee ponders the map to the point of not even noticing a servant bringing his dinner.


quote:

Lee slid off Traveller. The horse’s grassy, earthy smell mingled with the perfume of dogwoods at last in blossom. Spring had taken a long time coming, but was finally here in full force.
Sergeant B. L. Wynn came out of the hut that housed the Confederate signal station on Clark’s Mountain. “Good morning to you, Sergeant,” Lee said pleasantly.
“Morning, sir,” Wynn answered, his voice casual--Lee was a frequent visitor to the station, to see for himself what the Federals across the Rapidan were up to. Then the young sergeant’s eyes went wide. “Uh, sirs,” he amended quickly.
Lee smiled. “Yes, Sergeant, I’ve brought rather more company than usual with me today.., He paused to enjoy his own understatement. Not only were his young staff officers along, but also all three of the Army of Northern Virginia’s corps commanders and a double handful of division heads. “I want them to get a view of the terrain from the mountaintop here.”
“By western standards, this isn’t much of a mountain,” James Longstreet said. “How high are we, anyhow?”
“I don’t quite know,” Lee admitted. “Sergeant Wynn?”
“About eleven hundred feet, sir,” Wynn said.
Longstreet’s fleshy cheeks rippled in a snort. “Eleven hundred feet? In Tennessee or North Carolina”--his home state--”this wouldn’t be a mountain. They might call it a knob. In the Rockies, they wouldn’t notice it was there.”

However high the hill is, it provides an excellent view of the Union winter encampments.

quote:

He lowered the telescope. “All seems quiet still in the Federal camps. Soon enough, though, those people will move.” He pointed east, toward the rank green growth of the Wilderness. “They will come by way of the fords there, Germanna and Ely’s just east of it.”
“You sound very sure,” Longstreet said. Of all Lee’s generals, he was most given to setting his own judgments against his commander’s.
“I think I should have suspected it in any case, but I also have intelligence I regard as trustworthy on the matter from the Rivington men.” Lee left it at that. Had he explained that Andries Rhoodie and his colleagues came from the future and thus could view Grant’s plans through hindsight rather than guesswork, he was sure most of the assembled officers would have thought him mad. Maybe he was. But any other explanation seemed even more improbable than the one Rhoodie had given him
“Ah, the Rivington men,” Longstreet said. “If their ear for news is as good as their repeaters, then it must be very good indeed. One day before long, General Lee, at your convenience, I’d like to sit down with you and chat about the Rivington men. Had the I Corps not spent the winter in Tennessee, I’d have done it long since.”
“Certainly, General,” Lee said.
“I want to be part of that chat,” A. P. Hill said. His thin, fierce face had an indrawn look to it; the past year or so, he’d had a bad way of taking sick when battle neared. Lee worried about him. Now he continued, “I’d like to speak to them over the way they treat our Negroes, sir. They show more care to the animals they ride. It is not right.” The commander of III Corps was a Southern man through and through, but had even less use for slavery than did Lee.
“I have heard of this before, General Hill, and have hesitated to take them to task over what one might call a relatively small fault when the aid they have rendered us is so great,” Lee said carefully. “Perhaps I am in error. Time permitting, we shall discuss the matter.”

James Longstreet was Lee's most senior subordinate, and probably the man Lee trusted most after the death of Thomas Jackson. Their relationship became strained after the battle at Gettysburg, where Longstreet advocated significantly different approaches to the battle than Lee took. After the crushing Confederate defeat, he was transferred to the Western theater for months before being wounded and returning to Lee not long before this book started. Longstreet survived the war and joined the Republican party and worked for the US government as a administrator and ambassador. In 1874, Longstreet was wounded while trying to prevent a large force of white supremacist milita from siezing control of the Lousiana capital in protest of a "rigged" election. He died of multiple illnesses in 1904. Unlike most Confederate generals, Longstreet is extremely unpopular with Lost Cause activists, due to his disagreements with Lee and his "treasonous" association with the Reconstruction-era government. Historically, a significant portion of the blame for the Confederate defeat has been laid on Longstreet due to his major disagreements and "sabotage" of "better" generals. In more recent years, his reputation as a tactician has undergone significant revision, and common opinion is that he was among the most able officers in the Confederate army.

Ambrose Powell Hill was Thomas Jackson's top subordinate, and replaced that officer when Jackson was accidentally killed by Confederate troops. The frequent illnesess mentioned were the result of an dose of gonorrhea that he picked up in his West Point days, with both the condition itself and the complications thereof effectively incurable before the invention of antibiotics. Unlike Lee, we do in fact have contemporary sources to justify his position on slavery here - there's no evidence that he owned any, and statments from relatives that he did not and disapproved of the "peculiar institution". Hill repeatedly stated that he had no wish to survive Confederate defeat, and this wish was granted when he was shot by a Union soldier on April 2, 1865 - seven days before the end of the war.


More observation of the terrain follows, with a suggestion that Grant will back off after intial sharp losses.

quote:

Longstreet shook his head. “I know Sam Grant. He’s never been one to back away from a fight. He will come straight at us every day he leads the Army of the Potomac.”
“We shall see what we shall see,” Lee said. “If what the Rivington men say is to be believed, the enemy will begin their move on Wednesday, the fourth of May.”
“Four days from now,” Richard Ewell murmured to himself. “My men will be ready.”
“And mine,” A. P. Hill said. Longstreet simply nodded.
“I am confident we shall all meet the test,” Lee said. Again he saw the upcoming battle in his mind’s eye. So real, so convincing were the images he summoned up that his heart began to pound, as if he were truly in combat. And on the heels of that pounding came pain that squeezed his chest like a vise.
He set his jaw and did his best to ignore it. Then he remembered the medicine Andries Rhoodie had given him. He took the glass bottle from his pocket. He struggled with the lid before he got it open; he was not used to tops with screw threads. He removed a tuft of cotton wool, shook out one of the little pills, and slid it under his tongue as Rhoodie had told him to do.
The pill had no particular taste. That in itself separated it from the vast majority of the medicaments he knew; which displayed their virtue by being either sweet or aggressively vile.
Rhoodie had warned him the--he put on his glasses for a moment to read the name on the bottle again--nitroglycerine might bring on a headache. Sure enough, blood thundered in his temples. Still, he’d known far worse after a few goblets of red wine.
Blood also thundered in his chest. The grip of the vise eased. He took a deep breath. All at once, he seemed able to get plenty of air. He felt as if the weight of ten or twelve years had suddenly fallen from his shoulders.
He looked at the bottle of pills again. In its own way, it was as startling as the repeaters Rhoodie had furnished to his army. But then, a future without wonders would hardly be worth looking forward to. He returned the bottle to his pocket. “Four more days,” he said.

Longstreet and Grant were old friends before the war, and that friendship resumed afterwards.

While giving Lee these pills do a lot to keep Lee alive and in top fighting shape (thus serving the AWB's aims), note that they also give them yet another hold on him.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




drat it, you're right. I accidentally transposed a few li es in what I was reading.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter V: Nate Caudell


quote:

The drums beat on and on, not just in the 47th North Carolina but in all the III Corps’s winter quarters. The hoarse, monotonous sound warned of battle to come.
Nate Caudell heard the long roll without surprise. For the past couple of days, couriers had galloped back and forth between Lee’s headquarters and the encampment, a sure sign something was in the wind. Just the night before, Colonel Faribault had relayed the order that all men were to have three days, cooked rations at hand, which meant the army would move soon.
Caudell hurried to the cabin that had been his home for the past few months. A couple of his messmates were already there, frantically getting ready to move out. Dempsey Eure and Rufus. Daniel came in hard on his heels. “Gonna feel funny, never seein’ this place again,” Daniel said as he started loading his meager personal property into his blanket.
“Sure is,” Caudell said. “You want to pass me our frying pan there? I have room for it.” With it in his blanket went the latest letter from his mother, a pocket Testament, a couple of reading primers, a second pair of socks, and his toothbrush. He tied the ends of the blanket together, covered it with an oilcloth, and draped it from left shoulder to right hip.
His marching rations consisted of a big chunk of corn bread, a smaller piece of salt pork, and several of the packaged desiccated meals that had lately started showing up in their supply shipments. He thought highly of those--they were better than what the cooks turned out almost any day and did not weigh down his mess bag.
He clicked a banana clip into his AK-47, made sure the change lever was in the safe position. Three more full magazines went into his pockets. He looked around to see if he had anything’ else to take. He didn’t. He snaked through his comrades and went outside.

The second sentence of this chapter is pretty solid, I think. The reader knows what's coming, but this gives it a sense of ominousness. The attention to Nate's gear is a nice detail. because it shows just how little the Confederates have (and, thus, how dependent they are on the AWB). Everything Nate has fits in a simple blanket bundle, and without the MREs he would have a pitifully tiny amount of food.

There is a subtle indication of the advantages of the AK here - a standard ammunition loadout for a Civil War soldier was one cartridge box containing 40 paper cartridges, with a second pouch worn if heavy fighting was expected. Nate casually packs 120 rounds without thinking about it. Part of this is the unnaturally good supply situation, but the compactness and convenience of carrying loaded magazines also plays a part.




quote:

The weather was fine and mild. A better day to march could hardly have been imagined. As Caudell had hoped, his new repeater seemed to weigh nothing. He looked back over his shoulder. That gray serpent seemed to have no end, as regiment after regiment followed the 47th North Carolina. But other, even longer, snakes, these clad in blue, surely lay ahead.
At Orange Court House, the 47th swung east onto the Orange Plank Road. Despite its name, the road was imperfectly corduroyed. Much of it was just dirt. When Caudell looked back again, dust partially obscured the rear of Henry Heth’s division and the lead brigades of that of Cadmus Wilcox, which took their place behind Heth’s men.
More clouds of dust rose into the eastern sky ahead; General Ewell’s corps was also on the move. Caudell looked south: sure enough, more dust still. Longstreet’s men were heading east on the Pamunkey Road. The first sergeant nodded in satisfaction, warmed by the thought that the whole Army of Northern Virginia was back together again. He could not imagine any force of Federals beating these lean, tough soldiers. He felt proud to be part of such an army.
Before long, more than pride warmed him. Sweat trickled down from under the brim of his hat, darkened his tunic at the armpits. His feet began to complain; they hadn’t worked so hard in months. The AK-47 on his shoulder did weigh something after all. What had been a pleasant outing turned into work.
The men had been singing since they set out. Some kept on; more, Caudell among them, began to find saving their breath the wiser course. After the fourth or fifth time, “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” even the Southern version, wore thin.

This section of the book takes place in the same area as the historical opening to the Battle Of The Wilderness, along the Orange Turnpike and the Brock Road intersection. Comparisons to the historical battle will be made as appropriate.

The Battle Cry of Freedom was a popular abolitionist and Union anthem written in 1862, which was adapted for the Confederate cause. Both versions are linked below.



Union
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQ-Rhuc7PyU

Confederate
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdMLb3eiWWg

The march continues until twilight. Caudell details men to collect water and firewood, and those who haven't already eaten or discarded their rations prepare meals.

quote:

A frying pan was not the ideal instrument for boiling water, but it was what Caudell had, and he managed. Then he opened one of the metallic ration packs and poured the water over it. A couple of minutes later, he was spooning up noodles and ground meat in tomato sauce. He’d had that supper before, and liked it. After a day on the march, he was hungry enough to lick the inside of the pack clean.
A few men carried shelter halves--spoil from the Federals. The ones who did joined together to put up their little tents and sleep inside them. More, Caudell among them, lay down on their oilcloths, spread their blankets over themselves, and slept under the stars, with hats for pillows.
Crickets chirped. Little frogs peeped; bigger frogs croaked. The suddenly glowing periods that were fireflies punctuated the night. Caudell loved fireflies. When he was a boy, he’d snuck out of bed to press his nose against the window to watch them. He watched them now, but not for long. The snores from the men alongside fazed him not in the least. His own soon added to the chorus that threatened to drown out bugs and frogs alike.

Little of importance here, but giving some time to this scene helps to build tension before the battle, and gives a greater appearance that these are real people.

In the morning, they are sent into the wilderness after another few hours march.


quote:


It was still midmorning when a brisk crackle of rifle fire started up, ahead of the main body of the regiment. The men looked at one another. Caudell saw pale, tense faces all around. He suspected his own was no ruddier, no calmer. However little they spoke of it, few men went into battle without fear. But the best way to overcome it, to avoid deserving comrades’ scorn, was to pretend it did not exist. Without being ordered, the soldiers stepped up their pace.
A skirmisher, his tunic ripped, came pelting back. He gasped, “Bluebellies up ahead, cavalry fightin’ on foot”‘
“Company, load your rifles!” Captain Lewis ordered.
Caudell unslung his repeater, pulled back the charging handle. “Two clicks on your change levers, mind,” he called. “Don’t go shooting off all your rounds without good targets.”
[quote]

Wounded from the skirmish line come back, as does a prisoner. It becomes clear that the enemy is near.

[quote]
Behind their banner, the men of Company I hurried down the Orange Plank Road toward the fighting. Company by company, the rest of the regiment moved off the road into the Wilderness. The Castalia Invincibles were close to the center of the line, and so still close to the roadway. All the same, Caudell discovered at once that this was no place for fancy parade-ground maneuvering. Even keeping the line straight was next to impossible. “Forward!” he called to the handful of men he could see.
Forward meant vines wrapping around his ankles like snakes and branches hitting him in the face and pulling at his arms. He fell three times before he’d made a hundred yards, Then a bullet cracked past his head and slapped against a tree trunk not five feet away. He threw himself flat and crawled through the bushes on his belly.
Another shot rang out, and another. Bullets probed the underbrush, looking for him. The Federal cavalrymen had repeaters of their own. They might not have been AK-47s, but they were bad enough. Caudell peered through a screen of leaves, tried to spy the Yankee who was trying to kill him.
He saw no trace of uniform--the fellow was hidden as well as a red Indian. But he could not hide the black-powder smoke that rose every time he fired. It drifted up from behind a clump of blackberry bushes. Carefully, so as not to give away his own position, Caudell brought the rifle to his shoulder, squeezed off two rounds, one after the other.
He’d flushed his bird. The blackberry bushes stirred as the Federal trooper scrambled toward what he hoped was better cover. Just for a second, Caudell caught a glimpse of blue. He fired. The Yankee screamed. Caudell fired again. The scream stopped, as abruptly as if it had been cut off by a knife. Caudell dashed forward, past the bushes where the dead Yankee had been hiding.
The crash of gunfire resounded all around, louder by the minute as more and more Confederates got into the woods and collided with the Federals already there. As was their way, the dismounted cavalry had firepower out of proportion to their numbers, thanks to the seven-shot Spencer carbines they carried. But now the men of the 47th North Carolina could match them and more. It was a heady feeling. So was pushing the Yankees back.
They went unwillingly. In the tangled badlands of the Wilderness, a few determined men behind a log or hiding in a dry wash could knock a big piece of an assault back on its heels.

This passage does a pretty solid job of showing this fight to be a hell of a mess. Nobody knows where anybody is, the advantage of the AK is as much in stealth as it is in ammunition capacity, rate of fire, or accuracy, and the new superweapon is not making this an easy one-sided victory. It is an advantage, but the Confederates are taking losses of their own.

As fighting progresses, more cavalrymen are flushed from cover and taken down or captured.

quote:

They drove the Federals past Parker’s Store and the handful of houses that huddled in the clearing with it. The open space gave the Confederates a chance to dress their lines a little; victory had left them about as disorganized as defeat had the Yankees. Caudell almost stumbled over Captain Lewis. “What are we aiming to do now, sir?” he asked.
Lewis pointed east.” About three miles from here, I hear tell, the Orange Plank Road crosses the Brock Road. We want to grab that crossing. If we can do it, we cut the Yankees in half.”
“Three miles?” Caudell gauged the sun, and was surprised to find how early it still was. “We can be there before noon.”
“The sooner, the better,” Lewis said.

As mentioned earlier, the historical fighting centered around the Orange Turnpike and Brock Road intersection, but the actual Confederate forces reached it shortly after noon, at which time Union forces under General George Getty were able to contest it, and the Confederates were unable to secure the ground, taking position significantly to the west. By dawn of May 6, Union forces were pressing hard, the Confederate forces were breaking, General A. P. Hill was personally manning artillery in preparation for a last stand, and his portion of the Confederate Army was on the brink of annihilation. It was at this time that General Longstreet arrived with reinforcements. A successful flanking maneuver led by Longstreet himself was able to rout the Union forces, but at a cost - Confederate troops mistook Longstreet's group for high ranking Union officers and opened fire, wounding Longstreet and killing one of his subordinates. This stalled the counterattack, and Lee was forced to take direct command - and the time it took to do so made resuming the counterattack impossible before Hancock had managed to take a formidable defensive position in field fortifications. With both sides unable to annihilate the enemy army, Grant elected to withdraw the next day and attack along a different route, allowing the Confederacy to claim a victory of possession - they kept the ground.

The wild advance through the woods meets resistance, but not much.

quote:

Cheers came from just ahead. Caudell wondered why; the fight seemed no different now from what it had been all along--confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying at the same time. Then, without warning, he found himself out of the underbrush and standing in the middle of a dirt road which had recently seen heavy traffic, a dirt road that, by the sun, ran north instead of east.
“It’s the Brock Road!” a first lieutenant from some other regiment bawled in his ear. “We done beat the Federals to the crossroads and trapped the ones who’ve already gone by.”
For a moment, that made Caudell want to yell, too. But when he said, “Holy Jesus,” it came out in a whisper. He turned to the lieutenant. “Does that mean they’ll be coming at us from north and south at the same time?” The lieutenant’s eyes got wide. He nodded. Now Caudell shouted, as loud as he could: “Let’s get some branches, stumps, rocks, whatever the hell, onto this road. We’ve got lots of Yankees heading this way, and we’d better have something to shoot from.”

quote:

The horsemen--officers, some of them, by their fancy trappings--rode forward again, more slowly now, to see just what sort of barrier the Confederates had built and how many of them crouched behind it. Caudell took careful aim at the lead man, whose gray hair said he might be of high rank. The range was long, close to a quarter mile, but worth a try. He rested the barrel of the rifle on the log in front of him, took a deep breath, let it out, pulled the trigger.
The Yankee tilted in the saddle, as if he’d had too much to drink before he mounted. He slid off his horse and crashed to the dirt of the Brock Road. “Good shot!” shouted one of the men by Caudell. He and several others started firing at the men who had leaped down to help their stricken comrade. The Federals heaved him over the back of the horse. They all galloped away, though a couple of them reeled as if they were hit.

In Turtledove's version, Hill wins the race - he gets the crossroad first, and it is the Union that has to try to take it by force.

A quarter-mile is around 400 meters. That's not an easy shot with either weapon, but far easier with the AK. The ballistic drop is significant - almost 60 inches - but the AK's ladder sight can be readily and quickly adjusted for that, and the flight time is short. On the Springfield rifle-musket, the flip-up sights don't give great precision, while the Enfield's sights need more fiddling at such extreme range. Ballistically, a round from an AK will drop around a meter and a half in the .7 seconds it takes to fly that distance, while a rifle-musket round would drop about three meters in the 1 second it takes to fly. This not only increases the amount of aiming correction you have to do (aided by the sights, but it still matters), but gives extra time for the target's motion to generate a miss. Not a deliberate dodge, of course, but if you gauge the speed wrong or his horse gets spooked or such, that extra .3 seconds matters. The AK is also more mechanically accurate in other ways, but that's a bit harder to explain.



quote:

Men hurried up the road and north through the woods. An ammunition wagon reached the crossroads. Its horses were lathered and blowing. Caudell and several other soldiers helped the driver unload crate after crate of cartridges. The wagon also carried hatchets and shovels. The driver passed those out, too, so the men could strengthen the breastworks in whatever time was left before the enemy descended on them.
A corporal pried the lid off an ammunition crate. He started to reach down for a handful of cartridges, stopped and stared in disbelieving disgust. “What the hell goddam bucket-headed jackass sent us up a load of Minié balls?” The whole crate was full of paper cartridges for the rifle muskets the Army of Northern Virginia no longer carried.

This is a good time to bring up an issue that Turtledove kind of handwaves away. Comparing dimensions of wagons of the period to the dimensions of ammunition packaging, you probably get around 80,000 rounds in each wagon. Nate started the march with 120 rounds, and seems to have already used most of it. A single infantry regiment is supposed to contain a thousand men, so that basic load would be 120,000 rounds. Meaning you use 3 wagons (even if it is loaded entirely with ammo) to give basic supply for two regiments. The Confederates brought 42 infantry regiments to the Wilderness. Even if you assume they're down to half strength, you need 8 pure-ammo wagons to supply them for the start, plus multiple other loads of ammo for in-battle resupply. That means you're going to need 30-40 wagonloads just to supply ammunition to the infantry, not counting what you need to bring up food, tools, artillery ammunition, whatever replacement clothing that can be scrounged up, etc. Even with the AWB maintaining steady deliveries to Rivington from the future, actually distributing this to the armies in the field is a nightmarish task.


Fortunately for Caudell, not all the crates have useless ammunition.

quote:

“Here’s the right ones!” somebody shouted, his voice rising in relief. Caudell hurried over, grabbed a couple of magazines, and stuffed them into his pockets. The firing was getting closer in a hurry, not just AK-47s but also the familiar deep roar of Springfields. Under the gunfire came the tramp of marching men.
The Confederate skirmishers dashed back toward the breastworks. Some turned to fire last shots. Others just scrambled over the barricade or off into the concealing woods.
“Yankees!” The shout came from a dozen throats at once, Caudell’s among them. A thick blue column appeared on the Brock Road, a sword-swinging officer at its head. He pointed his sword at the Confederates’ makeshift works. The Northern men, their bayonets gleaming even in the uncertain light, upped their pace to double-quick. They cheered as they charged, not the wild rebel yell but a more studied, rhythmic “Hurrah! Hurrah!”
Caudell thumbed his change lever to full automatic. His rifle spat flame. He used up what was left of his first banana clip in the twinkling of an eye. He rammed in another, fired it off at full automatic, too. He knew he would never find a better, more massed target.
When, a few seconds later, the second magazine was also gone, he stuck on a third banana clip and glanced down to switch the change lever back to single shots. He looked up over his sights at the head of the oncoming Federal column. The lead ranks were all down, some writhing, some still and obviously dead--he was far from the only rebel to have hosed the Yankees with a stream of thirty bullets, or more than one.
The Northern officer, incredibly, still stood, still waved his men on. Even as Caudell took aim at him, he spun backwards and fell, clutching at his right side. But the Federals, stumbling over the wounded and slain men in front of them, advanced without him. Through the unending rattle of gunfire came a bugle’s high, thin cry, urging them forward.
The bluecoats in the lead fired at the Confederates who were slaughtering them. Two men over from Caudell, a rebel sagged to the dirt, the back of his head blown out. One or two others at the breastwork screamed as they were hit. But then the Yankees had either to stop and reload or keep on charging and trust they would live long enough to use bayonets or clubbed rifles.
Even against a firing line of single-shot Springfields, both choices would have been evil. Caudell had not been at the battle of Fredericksburg, where Lee’s men on Marye’s Heights smashed wave after wave of attacking Yankees; the 47th North Carolina had not yet joined the Army of Northern Virginia, but was further south in that state, on provost guard duty at Petersburg. Now, though, he knew what the defenders must have felt then, with men too brave to run away coming at them again and again, rushing headlong toward annihilation.
The Federals on the Brock Road were brave men too, as brave as any Caudell had ever seen. They kept trying to rush the long barricade. None of them got within a hundred yards of it; no man in the open roadway could push farther than that in the face of the withering fire the Confederate repeaters put out. Wounded soldiers reached out and grabbed at the legs of men pushing past, trying to hold them back from the deadly stutter of the AK-47s. But the fresh troops shook off those hands and advanced--until they were wounded or killed themselves.
At last even their courage could bear no more. The Federals stopped hurrying forward into the meat grinder. Even then, they did not break and run. They ducked into the woods and huddled behind the dead bodies of their mates and kept up as strong a fire as they could.

Case in point - Nate just dumped somewhere between 30 and 60 rounds in seconds. He had reason to, and the thought of automatic rifle fire into that packed a body of troops is the stuff of nightmares, but that's the amount of ammo you'd expect to last a soldier for an entire battle in that era.


Union forces advancing in cover to either side threaten to outflank the fortifications, and artillery begins to open up. Reinforcements come up just in time to silence the guns, and the fighting starts to die down.

quote:

Not all the Yankees had been smashed; firing continued in the woods as knots of soldiers refused to give ground. On a more open battlefield, that would have been impossible; in the Wilderness’s thickets and tangles and clumps of bushes, men could find places to make a stand even after their comrades had given way. But the Confederates had gained a long stretch of the Brock Road.
Caudell sniffed. Along with the familiar tang of black-powder smoke and the sharper, thinner odor of the nonsmoking powder in AK-47 cartridges, he smelled burning weeds. All that shooting in the undergrowth had set the Wilderness ablaze. He shuddered at the thought of wounded and helpless men in there, watching the little flames lick closer…
The jingle of horses’ trappings released him from his unpleasant reverie. He glanced back over his shoulder. Where the lowly lieutenant had led the Confederates through the heavy fighting at the crossroads, now Generals Kirkland and Heth were here to see how things stood. That was the way the world worked, Caudell thought.
“How clean the men look,” William Kirkland said, a remark seldom made about the Army of Northern Virginia, especially after some hours of combat.
Henry Heth, quicker on the uptake, figured out why: “They haven’t been biting cartridges all day, not with these new brass ones, so they’ve no need to look as though they were in a blackface minstrel show.”
“That’s true, by God,” Kirkland said. “I hadn’t thought about it.” Caudell hadn’t thought about it, either. After his struggle through the forest, he suspected he was quite grimy enough for any ordinary purpose.
He used the lull in the fighting to take some cartridges out of his pockets and refill the banana clips he’d emptied. Another horse came clopping down the Orange Plank Road, a dark-maned gray--Where Caudell had sat and tended to his business in the presence of his brigade and division commanders, he scrambled to his feet for General Lee. So did most of the other soldiers close by.

As if the automatic rifles and cannon were not enough, there's fire to contend with.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




ninjahedgehog posted:

Caudell refers to the AK magazines as banana clips a bunch (haha!) throughout this segment, but I'm curious -- for a poor Southerner in the 1860s, how much of a familiarity with actual bananas would he have? My cursory research tells me that bananas were a rare treat for the elite even after the war, but maybe he knew *of* them more than he had actually tried one. Or maybe the Rivington men called it that?

The latter, as it happens. Nice question, though - I never even thought to wonder how common bananas were in the ACW era.

quote:

Chapter 2: Nate Caudell

quote:

“Does every group have an AK-47 and a banana clip?” Lang asked. He waited to see if anyone would say no. When no one did, he continued: “Turn your weapon upside down. In front of your trigger guard, you’ll see a catch. It holds the clip in place.” He pointed to it on his own carbine. “Everyone finger that catch. Pass your weapon back and forth. Everyone needs to put hands on it, not just watch me.”
When the AK-47 came back to him, Caudell obediently fingered the catch. Lang had the air of a man who’d taught this lesson many times and knew it backwards and forwards. As a teacher himself, Caudell recognized the signs.
The man in the patchwork-looking clothes went on, “Now everyone take turns clicking the clip into place and freeing it. The curved end goes toward the muzzle. Go ahead, try it a few times.” Caudell inserted the clip, released the catch, took it away. Lang said, “This is one place where you want to be careful. Warn your other ranks about it, too. If the lips of the magazine are bent, or if you get dirt in there, it won’t feed rounds properly. In combat, that could prove embarrassing.”
He let out a dry chuckle. The laughs that rose in answer were grim. A rifle that wouldn’t shoot hundreds of rounds a minute was less use than one that would shoot two or three.
In the group next to Caudell, his captain stuck up his hand. “Mr. Lang?”
“Yes, Captain, ah--?”
“I’m George Lewis, sir. What do we do if the lips of this--banana clip, you called it?--somehow do get bent? I’ve been shot once, sir”--he was only recently back to the regiment himself--”and I don’t care a drat to be, ah, embarrassed again.”

The 7.62x39 round is a slightly unusual shape, with a distinct taper to the cartridge. This is intended to reduce friction when chambering and ejecting and thus prevent jams. The effect of this is that the cartridges don't stack neatly like other rounds, giving the AK's detachable box magazine a pronounced and distinct curve. This results in the slang term "banana clip". I don't know if Turtledove is using the slang term deliberately, or if that's the term he heard and it stuck. The instruction on how to load said magazine is somewhat strangely placed - perhaps because of the question being asked - and would fit better in a different section. Turtledove's description here is a little confusing, so here's an animation of AK operation.

The last line is a somewhat clever reference - "That damned Yankee rifle that they load on Sunday and shoot all week!" is a complaint about the Henry rifle often attributed to Confederate soldiers.



((Also, if it wasn't clear, that wasn't the entire chapter. Trimmed for length, and will get the rest up a little later.))

Gnoman fucked around with this message at 12:28 on Dec 19, 2021

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter V: Nate Caudell (part 2)

quote:

“As you were, gentlemen, please.” Lee peered north up the Brock Road toward the blue-clad bodies that corduroyed it like so many planks. “Those people are paying dearly for every acre of Wilderness they hold,” he remarked as he turned to look south. “Henry, push such forces as you can spare down along this road, if you please. General Hancock will be along shortly, unless I miss my guess.”
“Yes, General Lee,” Heth said. “We might have been in a bad way if he’d hit us from the south at the same time as Getty was coming down from the north.”
“So we might have,” Lee said, “but however brave its men may be, coordination of attacks has never been the Army of the Potomac’s strong suit.”
A good thing, too, Caudell thought. A dispatch rider galloped up to Lee. He held reins in one hand, an AK-47 in the other, and his message between his teeth. Lee read it, nodded, and rode off with him.
After reloading, Caudell lit up a cigar. He’d only taken a couple of drags on it when General Heth said, “I expect you heard what General Lee wants, boys. The sooner we get moving, the farther south we’ll get, and the better the works we’ll be able to set up before Hancock’s men hit us.”
The Confederates at the crossroads would have obeyed some commanders only slowly and reluctantly; they’d already seen their share and more of hard fighting for the day. But Heth and Kirkland and their staff officers rode down the road in front of the infantry, as if the idea that danger might lie ahead had never entered their minds. With that example before them, the foot soldiers followed readily enough. Fresh troops coming up the Orange Plank Road took their places at the breastwork they’d built.
A little more than a quarter of a mile south of the crossroads, the Brock Road narrowed and bent slightly to the east. Heth reined in. “This looks to be a good spot, boys,” he said. “We’ll stop ‘em right here.”
The soldiers attacked the timber on either side of the road for the field fortifications, mixed earth and stones in with the logs. Off in the woods, Caudell heard men making even ruder works to protect themselves from Yankee bullets.
Just as the skirmishers Heth had pushed out south of his main line began to fire, a couple of ammunition wagons brought fresh cartridges down the road. “Better not be them goddam Minié balls,” several soldiers growled, using almost identical words. This time, they weren’t. Caudell filled his pockets again, crouched behind the breastwork, and waited.
More and more single shots from Yankee Springfields mingled with the bark of the skirmishers’ repeaters. The skirmishers crashed back through the undergrowth to Heth’s main line. “We stung ‘em,” one called, off in the woods.
Federal skirmishers came first, trotting up the Brock Road to learn what lay ahead for their comrades. They stopped short when they spied the rebel breastwork that barred their path. One of the bluecoats raised his rifle musket to his shoulder, fired. The bullet kicked up dust a few yards short of the barricade. The Yankee dove into the bushes to reload. His companions turned and ran south to report what they’d seen.
A minute or so later, the head of the main Federal line came into view. Caudell’s stomach churned. Lee might remark that the Yankees had trouble putting their attacks together, but every one they made was fierce. “Fire at will!” a Confederate officer shouted.
“Which one’s Will?” some army wit shouted back. That stupid joke got made on every firing line, Yankee or rebel. Somehow it helped Caudell relax.
The front rank of Federals suddenly dropped to one knee. The second rank took aim over their heads. A couple of Yankees fell over or reeled back out of line--the Confederates had already begun to shoot: But then the Northerners’ muskets, all in a row, belched flame and great curls of greasy black smoke.
Caudell thought the rebel beside him at the breastwork had tapped him on the left shoulder. He automatically glanced down. Neat as a tailor’s scissors, a bullet had clipped his uniform without touching him. He shuddered. He could not help it. Lower by only a couple of fingers’ breadth, and his precious arm would have ended up on the slaughterhouse pile outside a surgeon’s tent...if he’d managed to make it back to a surgeon’s tent at all.
The fellow beside him, who he thought had tapped him, would never need a surgeon again. A Minié ball had clipped him, and clipped off the top of his head. Blood and shattered brains poured from the wound as he slowly toppled over backwards.
Caudell looked away, tried not to hear the cries of other men who had been wounded close by. Gettysburg had hardened him to horror. And if he did not help slay the Yankees rushing up the Brock Road toward the barricade behind which he crouched, he and all his fellows, hale and wounded alike, would surely perish.
The Yankees were reloading as they ran; most of them had to stop to use their ramrods. Caudell and everyone else on the breastwork who could still handle a rifle fired again and again and again. Men in blue coats began to drop and kept on falling, faster and faster. A few managed to fire again, but only a few. After that. first volley, the rebels had it all their own way.
Miraculously, every bullet missed one Federal corporal. His face set and grim, he charged on alone toward the breastwork. “Don’t kill him!”--call ran up and down the line. The Confederates could still admire gallantry, even in a foe.
Firing slackened for a moment. “Go back, you damned fool!” Caudell shouted to the Yankee. “Look behind you!”
The corporal’s double-quick faltered as the words reached him. Caudell could see him leave the exalted state in which he’d rushed toward certain death. He knew that state himself; it was all that had sustained him as he advanced on the Union guns up in Pennsylvania. Its ebbing came hard, hard. When it left a man, he felt more drained than after a week of forced marches, and rightly so for with it, he lost spirit as well as strength.
The Federal did look around. His shoulders sagged as he took in the carnage on the Brock Road, the ruin of his regiment. Some of his comrades were crawling or creeping or dragging themselves away from the dreadful fire of the Confederate repeaters. Others would not move again until the Last Trump sounded.
The corporal slowly turned back toward the barricade. “You rebs don’t fight fair!” he shouted. Now his exaltation was gone, leaving only (ear behind. He fled into a pine thicket off to one side of the road.

While I can see the appeal, the notion of reloading a rifle musket on the run feels dubious to me. Even if you stop to ram, it is a very long weapon to be trying to shove loose powder and bullet in one end of while running. In this situation, a charge isn't the absolute worst possible solution, but it isn't a good one. Beyond that, it is good to note that the AK didn't prevent the troops from getting off a volley, nor does it rob the minee ball of the ability to kill.

More troops pour in.

quote:

He was none too soon, for more Federals tramped up the Brock Road a few minutes later. The crossfire would have chewed him to pieces. The bluecoats came to a ragged halt when they saw what had happened to the first attacking party, but then moved ahead all the same. The South had gone into the war doubting Yankee courage. After three years of fighting, few in the Army of Northern Virginia doubted it anymore.
This group of Union men attacked more cleverly than had the previous one. Instead of forming a neat firing line--and a target that could not be missed--they advanced in rushes, a few men pausing to shoot while others moved up, then the men who had gained ground ducking into the bushes and providing covering fire for their companions to push ahead.

This is a better tactic, but there's no good tactic for this particular tactical solution. Might be the least bad one, though.

This attack fares little better than the first, and is followed by another, and another.

quote:

Between assaults up the roadway, he filled banana clips, chewed on corn bread and salt pork, and drank from his canteen. The water was warm and turbid. It went down like champagne even so. He and his companions smoked and listened to the gunfire all around and tried to guess how the fighting was going away from their little piece of it.
“I think we got ‘em,” a beardless soldier declared.
“Didn’t notice you come up, uh, Melvin,” Caudell said. “Hope you’re right, but I wouldn’t bet on anything yet. They’re putting a lot of their people into the fight this time. We’re holding so far, but--”
Mollie Bean interrupted him: “Holy Jesus.” She was looking over the breastwork; Caudell sprawled with his back against it. He whirled around. The Federals had given up on subtlety. A deep column of bluecoats, their bayonets fixed, stormed up the Brock Road at the double-quick. Officers trotted ahead of them, urging them on.
“All or nothin’ this time, boys,” somebody not far from Caudell said. “Them bluebellies is gonna run over us or die tryin’.”
Caudell vastly preferred the second alternative. He aimed at a color-bearer in front of the first rank. As soon as the advancing Yankees reached the first men lying in the road--some of the wounded, as before to the north, tried to hold their fellows back, but others cheered them on--he started shooting. He did not know if his bullet struck home, but the color-bearer stumbled and fell. Another Yankee caught the regimental flag before it touched the ground, bore it forward a dozen paces more before he, too, was hit. Yet another Federal grabbed it and carried it on. Three more fell before the banner drew close enough for Caudell to read it: SIXTEENTH MASSACHUSETTS. Then still another color-bearer went down and the banner fell in the dust. No one picked it up.
No one was left to pick it up. Like the corporal before him, that last brave and lucky--at least lucky up to a point--color-bearer pushed far beyond his comrades. The Southerners’ repeaters had worked a fearful slaughter. There was a limit beyond which flesh and blood could not be made to go. Caudell had met that limit on the third day at Gettysburg. Now he and the soldiers crouching to either side of him acquainted the Federals with it.
But another regiment came in right behind the slaughtered Sixteenth Massachusetts. The Federals leaned forward as they advanced, as if moving into a heavy rain. So they were, but the rain was of lead.
“This ain’t war!” Mollie Bean yelled in Caudell’s ear. “This here’s murder.”
“I reckon you’re right.” he answered, “but if we don’t keep shooting them, they’ll surely shoot us.” She kept firing, so he supposed she agreed with him.
After that second Federal regiment wrecked itself assaulting the barricade, the rebels behind it had another brief respite. They used it to strengthen their protection. “If the Yankees are pushing this hard, they’ll try us again before long,” Caudell said as he set another log in place. By the way the rest of the soldiers worked alongside him, they thought as he did. More ammunition came up. He filled his pockets again. He wondered how many rounds he’d fired. He’d lost track. Far more than on any day with his old Enfield, he was certain. So had everyone else here. The drifts of Yankee corpses in front of the barricade, sometimes two and three men high, testified to that.

The carnage that you would get from pressing an entire regiment (nominally a thousand men, and a US regiment this early in the campaigning season would be a lot closer to that than normal) against a well-manned fortified position armed with modern autoloading weaponry is a horrifying thought. All war is terrible, but a mismatch like this one is considerably beyond that - closer to some of the horrors against civilians from the middle part of the last century than a real fight.

Nate can hear Federal forces trying to break around to the flanks and being repulsed by the skirmish line, and a third regiment attacks. It fares no better than the first, even if they're managing to inflict real casualties by sheer number of rifles.

quote:

Caudell and his companions on the firing line raised a tired cheer to see them go. Dead and wounded men were thick on the ground behind the barricade, too, even if the Yankees had never come close to reaching it. The soldiers gave what rough first aid they could, and sent to the rear men who could walk. Hospital stewards, some wearing green sashes as their Federal counterparts did, came forward to haul off on stretchers men too badly hurt to travel on their own.
A small brushfire reached the roadway a couple of hundred yards south of the breastwork. It caught in the clothes of a Federal lying there. A few seconds later, his cartridges began exploding, pop-pop-pop, almost as if they were kernels from an ear of popping corn. Wounded men writhed frantically, trying to escape the flames.
Several Confederates started to scramble over their piled logs and rails and stones to go to rescue the Yankees from the fire. But they scrambled back a moment later, for yet another regiment of Federals appeared, battle flags flying, to hurl their bodies at the barricade
Caudell’s repeater was hot in his hands. He’d been shooting at bluecoats the whole day long--forever, it seemed. He glanced through leaves and drifting smoke at the sun. It was getting low in the west. Before too long, night would halt combat if nothing else did.

This engagement started around noon. Sunset comes at around 20:00 (8 PM) in Virginia in May. Even if we assume this is a couple of hours before actual sunset, they've been at this for a long, long time. Also a nice touch here - the Confederate troops leap to rescue the men they'd just been killing, because what kind of man would abandone helpless wounded to a horrible death by fire if it can be avoided?

This fourth regiment doesn't advance as readily, and is greatly slowed by the heaped bodies left by the first three attacks. Until events force their hands.


quote:

Then, drowning cries and screams alike, a great new eruption of gunfire broke out to the south. The Federals on the Brock Road looked back over their shoulders in surprise and alarm. Even their officers stopped urging them forward for a moment.
Caudell frowned. As he tiredly wondered what the new fighting was about, Mollie Bean pounded him on the shoulder and yelled, “Longstreet!”
“Longstreet.” He said the name once with no particular feeling. Then the lightning flashed inside his head. He yelled too; “Longstreet!” If Lee’s war horse had pitched into this Federal corps from --the south while A.P. Hill kept it from going north, the Yankees hereabouts were in more trouble than you could shake a stick at.
They knew it, too. They milled about, just out of good shooting range. But then they came on once more. Now the officers had no trouble with balky men. They knew they had to break through if their corps was to survive.
“Fire low!” Caudell shouted as the blue wave again surged toward the breastwork that dammed its progress. As the Confederates had three times before, they shredded the charge. No Yankee could come within fifty yards of that rude wall and live. The captains and lieutenants who headed the rush fell bravely, leading their men. Like most troops on both sides in the war, the common soldiers took heart from the example their officers set. Without that example, most of those who could made for the rear and at least temporary safety.
A couple of bluecoats stood where they were, their empty hands high in the air. “Don’t shoot, you rebs!” one of them shouted, his northern accent sharp in Caudell’s ears. “You done caught us.”
Caudell looked around. “Where’s that lieutenant?” he asked, seeing no one of higher rank than himself.
“He got shot,” Mollie Bean answered laconically.

With no officer to take over, Caudell manages the prisoners. Said prisoners are promptly looted of everything they're carrying before being sent onward. No further attack comes, though the signs of fighting can be heard in both directions.




quote:

The sun sank, a blood-red ball looking down on blood through tangled branches and curls of smoke from gunpowder and brushfires. The fifth Yankee attack had not come. As darkness gathered, the sound of fighting to north and south began to slacken. It also eased in the woods east of the Brock Road, though it never died away altogether, and would flare up every so often in a brief spasm of ferocity.
Caudell looked up and down the breastwork. But for Mollie Bean, he saw no one he recognized. Any battle was liable to tear up a neat line of march; battle in country like the Wilderness made such disorder a sure thing. He asked, “Melvin, do you know where the rest of the boys from the 47th are?”
Mollie pointed east.” Some of’ em’s over in the thickets yonder, maybe half a mile. I was with ‘em for a while. Then I heard all the shootin’ over here and figgered I’d come lend a hand.”
“Things are dying down for the night, seems like,” Caudell said. “Let’s see if we can’t bed down with our regiment.” She nodded, and followed him as he headed into the undergrowth. Pushing through the rank second growth of the Wilderness was even worse in the evening twilight than it had been during the day. A red Indian would have laughed himself sick at Caudell’s noisy, stumbling fight with thorn bushes and cedar saplings.

With great difficulty, they manage to make their way to their own men. One of his first concerns is to find water.

quote:

He found the water by stepping into it. He took off his shoes and bathed his tired feet before he filled the canteen. Once he’d drunk, he felt better. He knew his comrades were only a few yards away, knew tens of thousands of Federals and Confederates were within a few miles, but for all he could see of them, he might as well have been alone in the Wilderness.
His ears told him otherwise. In spite of full darkness, firing went on between rival pickets. But the cries of the wounded were worse. In the tangle through which both armies had pushed their lines, a hurt man had a hard time getting to the rear, nor could his mates easily rescue him--or sometimes even find him. Wails, shrieks, moans turned the thickets to the haunt of tormented ghosts. Most of the sounds of pain came from the south, which meant they rose from Yankee throats. But Confederates also shouted out their hurt to the world.
Caudell shivered as he made his way back to the clearing, though the night was warm. What, save luck, had kept his tender flesh, rather than someone else’s, from pouring out its blood in the unwelcome track of a bullet? Nothing of which he was aware. He patted himself, as if to prove he was still whole and unholed. How marvelous that each hand grasped, that each foot moved confidently in front of the other!
Once sitting again by the fire, he shared some of his food and the spoil from captured Yankee war bags with men who’d already gobbled the rations they were supposed to carry. A couple of soldiers went to sleep, their hats either over their eyes or under their heads as pillows. More, though, stayed up awhile to smoke and to hash over the battle and try to draw a bigger picture from the tiny pieces they’d seen.
Plainly, Lee had trapped a big chunk of the Federal army between Hill’s corps and Longstreet’s.’ Mollie Bean said, “Reckon we’ll go on and try poundin ‘em to pieces come mornin’.”
“That’s clear enough,” Otis Massey agreed. The corporal patted the AK-47 that lay on the ground beside him. “With these repeaters, might could be we’ll even do it, too. Be a nasty butcher’s bill to pay for certain if we was usin’ muzzle-loaders instead.”
“You’ve got that right, Otis,” Caudell said as a general murmur of agreement rose from the soldiers.” A Yankee said we weren’t fighting fair.”
Dempsey Eure spat into the fire. “Fair didn’t stop their cavalry from usin’ their repeaters against single-shot muskets. Now they see what the shoe’s like on t’other foot.”
Talk about repeaters reminded Caudell he hadn’t yet cleaned his. With more fighting ahead tomorrow, he wanted the rifle as ready as he could make it. He stripped the AK-47 and dug out a rag and the gun oil that had come with the weapon. The little black oil bottle said Break Free CLP. The sweet, almost fruity, smell of the oil mixed with the odors of coffee, food, and woodsmoke.
He was in the middle of putting the repeater back together when someone came crashing through the brush toward the clearing. Mollie Bean and a couple of other privates reached for their rifles, in case it was a Yankee who needed capturing. But it wasn’t a Yankee--it was Colonel Faribault.
“Turn those aside, boys, if you please,” he said when he saw he was looking down the barrels of several repeaters. “However much I admire Stonewall Jackson’s memory, I have no desire to share his fate.” The rifles were hastily lowered. But for accidents like that which had befallen Jackson, only a bad officer risked bullets from his own men. Faribault was a good one.
“What’s the word, Colonel?” Caudell asked.
“Tomorrow morning, five o’clock, we go after Winfield Scott Hancock again,” Faribault said. “God willing, we may put an end to the whole Federal II Corps. General Heth told General Lee we are driving them beautifully; I heard him say it myself.”
The men round the campfire grinned and nodded to one another, pleased at the news and, as common soldiers have a way of being, proud they’d already figured out what their officers had planned for them. Caudell said; “How are we doing up by the Orange Turnpike?”
“We pushed them hard there, too, all the way back to the Germanna Ford Road--they don’t care for our repeaters, not a bit of it,” Faribault answered, and a couple of soldiers yowled with glee. But the colonel held up a hand. “I think the Yankees have all the artillery in the world set up in the clearing around Wilderness Tavern. General Ewell tried mounting an assault on it, but the Federal guns knocked his men back into the woods.”
Soldiers’ talk is sometimes curiously bloodless. Caudell did not need any sanguinary speech to picture the storm of shells and cannon balls, case shot and grapeshot, that must have greeted the onrushing Confederates--or the torn and broken bodies that bombardment must have produced. He’d heard the big guns start to roar late in the afternoon. Now he knew why.

At the time of the Battle Of The Wilderness, II Corps of the Army Of The Potomac contained four divisions, and was recorded to have 28,333 at the end of April. Total Union forces available for the Wilderness Campaign was just under 113,000 men, meaning that Faribult and his superiors are hoping to wipe out nearly a quarter of the forces against them.

To put this even more into perspective, the historical battle of the Wilderness cost the US 2246 Killed In Action and 12000 Wounded In Action over the course of the entire campaign. At Antietam, the bloodiest single day of the war, the US suffered 2108 KIA and 9500 WIA. At Gettysburg, the bloodiest battle of the war, the Union lost 3155 and 14,500. The fighting Caudell personally witnessed, where four regiments were smashed, probably puts this days fighting into the company of those battles, but that's nothing to what their ambition is to be. Taking out the entire II Corps would hurt the Union almost as badly as the war's two biggest battles combined did, in an unmitigated defeat instead of a strategic victory (Antietam) or a decisive one (Gettysburg). The papers would have a field day with that!


Faribault heads onward to try figuring out where all his men are and make sure everybody knows the plan for tomorrow. Caudell and the rest sleep.

quote:

The long roll woke him early the next morning, or so he thought until he realized where he was. The rattle was not drumsticks on snares; it was gunfire, the reports bunched tighter together than the fastest drummer could hurry his sticks. The fighting had begun again, even if sunrise still lay ahead.
No time to boil water for a desiccated meal. Caudell choked down a couple of Yankee hardtack biscuits. He clicked off the AK-47’s safety, clicked again to fire single shots. The private who’d been on watch in the clearing woke the men too worn to rouse even for the racket of battle close by.
“We don’t have an officer with us,” Caudell said. That was nothing new; after the third day’s fighting at Gettysburg, three of the 47th’s ten companies had been commanded by sergeants. He went on, “Remember, though, the Yankees are likely in worse shape than we are, because we whipped their tails yesterday. Let’s go get ‘em.”
One by one, the Confederates climbed over the rude barricade of branches and earth and stones behind which they’d fought the day before. They spread out into a firing line, though not one of the parade-ground sort, not in half-light in rugged, overgrown country.
A rifle fired, not far ahead. It was a Springfield. Caudell burrowed deep into the brush he’d been cursing till that moment. He crawled forward. Twigs and thorns grabbed at his clothes like children’s hands.
The Springfield boomed again. He peered through bushes, waited. Something moved--something blue. He fired. An instant later, a bullet buzzed past his head, so close he felt the wind of its passage on his ear. It had not come from the man at whom he’d shot--a couple of Yankees were working an ambush, and he’d stumbled right into it.

The ambush goes a long way toward neutralizing his rate of fire. It does nothing to neutralize the advantage of the improved powder - he engages the ambushers by muzzle flashes and drives them off.

quote:

He rejoined Otis Massey and several other soldiers with whom he’d spent the night. The firing ahead grew ever more intense. A few minutes later, he discovered why: the bluecoats were fighting from behind a breastwork of their own. Hereabouts, it stood at the far edge of a cleared space. Even with the AK-47 in his hands, his mouth went dry at the prospect of charging those blazing rifles.
“Form your line here in the woods, men,” an officer said. Most of the Confederates stayed low, on their knees or their bellies. The officer walked up and down as if on a Sunday promenade. Minié balls made branches dance all around him, but he affected not to notice them.
As he strode past the stump behind which Caudell crouched, the first sergeant recognized Captain John Thorp of Company A. Thorp was a slim, little fellow with nondescript features. He wore a thin line of mustache that tried to give him the air of a riverboat gambler but couldn’t quite bring it off. However he looked, though, his courage was beyond reproach.
“Make sure your banana clips are full, men,” he said, and paused to let the soldiers stuff in as many bullets as they could. “At my word, we’ll give them a good shout and go for their works. Ready?...Now!”
Yelling like fiends, the rebels burst from cover and dashed toward the barricade. Half--more than half--of Caudell’s yell was raw fear. He wondered if that was true of the men to either side of him, or if, like Thorp, they were immune to the disease. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the private on his right spun sideways and crashed to the grass, blood spurting from his thigh.
Caudell squeezed the trigger again and again and again. His aim was poor, but he put a lot of bullets in the air. With the AK-47, he could shoot and move at the same time. No more stopping to reload under remorseless enemy fire, no more ramrod slipping through sweaty fingers, no more jabbing it against the ground or hitting it with a rock--if you could find a rock.
More Confederates fell, but so did Yankees in back of the breastwork. Just in front of Caudell, a bluecoat’s head exploded into red ruin. He yowled like a catamount and started scrambling over the logs.
A bayonet almost pinned his arm to the untrimmed branch he was holding. With a four-foot rifle and eighteen inches of steel on the end, the snarling Federal who stabbed at him had all the advantage in that kind of fight. The fellow raised his Springfield for another thrust. Caudell shot him at a range of perhaps a yard. The Federal folded up like a man punched in the belly. Unlike a man punched in the belly, he wouldn’t unfold later.
Then Caudell stood on the south side of the barricade, another Confederate beside him. One of them turned east, the other west. They both shot rapidly down the crumbling Yankee line--repeaters were made for enfilade fire; Federals went down one after another. More and more men in gray reached the breastwork.
Caudell suddenly realized the AK-47 wasn’t kicking against his shoulder. He threw himself flat while he clicked in a fresh clip. With his old Enfield, loading while prone had been next to impossible, leaving a man not only without a bullet but a perfect target for any foe who had one. Still prone, Caudell started firing again.
A few Yankees kept shooting back at the rebels. More fled into the woods, some with their rifles, some throwing them away to run the faster. More yet threw down Springfields but did not flee. They threw their hands into the air and shouted, “Don’t kill us, Johnny! We give up!”
Captain Thorp sent the bluecoats who had surrendered north over the barricade and into captivity.” Just keep your hands high, and you’ll be all right till someone takes charge of you,” he told them before giving his attention back to his own men. “Come on! We’ve broken them. One more good push and they’ll fall to bits.”
South and south again--Caudell’s clothes were tatters by afternoon, but he did not care. Thorp had been right: once the Yankees’ field fortifications cracked, some of the dogged fight went out of them at last. When repeater fire broke out near them, they started to yield instead. of shooting back. Or some of them did; here and there, stubborn bands of bluecoats gave no quarter and asked for none.
A bullet hissed malignantly past Caudell. He dove for cover. Bullets whistled through the brush where he lay. He rolled frantically. The fusillade continued. Either that was a couple of squads of Yankees up ahead or--”Lee!” he shouted. “Hurrah for General Lee!”
The shooting stopped. “Who are y’all?” a suspicious voice called.
“Forty-Seventh North Carolina, Hill’s corps,” he answered. “Who are you?”
“Third Arkansas, Longstreet’s corps,” the unseen stranger answered. “What kind of rifle you carryin’ there, No’th Carolina?”
No Yankee was likely to know the right answer to that yet. “An AK-47,” Caudell said.
By way of answer, the fellow who’d shot at him let loose with an unmistakable rebel yell. Caudell cautiously stood. Another man in gray came out of the thicket ahead. They clasped hands, pounded each other on the back. The soldier from Arkansas said, “Goddam good to see you, No’th Carolina.”
“You, too,” Caudell said. More than half to himself, he added wonderingly, “We really have broken them.” He still had trouble believing it, but if he and his comrades coming down from the north were meeting Longstreet’s men coming up from the south, the Federals caught between them had to be in a bad way.
The private from the 3d Arkansas might have picked the thought right out of his mind. “drat straight we’ve broke ‘em,” he said happily. “Now we pick up the pieces.”

The interesting thing here is that troops in good fortifications are entirely capable of putting up a fight with muzzle-loaders, even against the AK. Despite the huge superiority it offers, the AK does not magic away the defender's advantage, any more than it prevented the massed fire of the earlier attacks from killing many Confederates in their own fort.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




Chapter VI: Part I - Robert E Lee

quote:

General Lee sat easily on Traveller, watching his soldiers splash up out of the Rapidan at Raccoon Ford. Once on the north side of the river, the men paused to put their trousers back on before they formed ranks again. Many of them had no drawers. That bothered Lee more than it seemed to bother them. They grinned and cheered and waved their hats as they marched past.
Lee waved back every so often, letting the men know he saw them and was pleased with them. He turned to Walter Taylor. “Tell me the truth, Major: did you ever expect to see us moving to the attack again?”
“Of course I did, sir,” his aide answered stoutly. Startlement filled his eyes as the possible import of the question sank in. “Didn’t you?”
“I always had the hope of it,” Lee said, and let it go at that. A new regiment was fording the river, its battle flag fluttering proudly as the color-bearer carried it in front of the troops. Lee had trouble reading a printed page without his spectacles, but he easily made out the unit name on the flag forty feet away. He called, “You fought splendidly in the Wilderness, 47th North Carolina.”
The soldiers he’d praised cheered wildly. “You’ve made them proud, sir,” Walter Taylor said
“They make me proud; any officer would reckon his career made to command such men;” Lee said. “How can I help but admire their steadfastness, their constancy and devotion? I stand in awe of them.”


I don't know if this is a direct quote from the historical Lee, but there are many examples of similar statements. Pulling from known historical dialog is a way to make the characters more authentic, but sometimes Turtledove takes it too far - the dialogue feels stilted and the characters feel less "real". In this case, it works well enough because this is something of a speech situation.

Lee is making plans to go forward. Longstreet's understrength corps will be left to hold the line against Grant, while the rest of the Army of Northern Virginia goes North. What Lee has seen of Grant's generalship has impressed him.


quote:

“No, but now we shall have to go through him, and that after he has made the acquaintance of our repeaters. Any man may be taken by surprise once, but only a fool will be surprised twice, and General Grant, I fear, is not a fool.”
“What then, sir? Shall we try to outmarch him and approach Washington from the north and west, as we did last year?”
“I have been considering precisely that.” Lee said no more. His mind was not fully made up, and might change again. But if he moved straight up the line of the Orange and Alexandria Railroad toward Washington, Grant would have to try to block his path. Without the new repeaters, assaulting a bigger army that stood on the defensive would have been suicidally foolhardy. Lee had made it work even so, against Hooker at Chancellorsville. But the Wilderness had shown him Grant was no Hooker. Grant could be beaten; he could not be made to paralyze himself.
Lee made his decision. He pulled out pen and pad, wrote rapidly, then turned to a courier. “Take this to General Stuart at once, if you please.” The young man set spurs to his horse, rode off at a trot that he upped to a gallop as soon as he could. Lee felt Walter Taylor’s eyes on him. He said, “I have ordered General Stuart to use his cavalry to secure the Rappahannock crossing at Rappahannock Station and to hold that crossing until our infantry joins them.”
“Have you?” One of Taylor’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’ll go straight for Grant, then?”
“Straight for Washington City, at least for the time being,” Lee corrected. “I expect General Grant will interpose himself between his capital and me. When he does, I shall strike him the hardest blow I can, and see what comes of it.”
“Yes, sir.” By Taylor’s tone, he pad no doubt what would come of it. Lee wished he had no doubts himself. His aide asked, “How soon do you think we could reach Washington City?”
“We could reach it in four or five days,” Lee said. Taylor stared at him. Deadpan, he went on, “Of course, that is only if General Grant becomes a party to the agreement. Without his cooperation, we shall probably require rather more time.”
Taylor laughed. Lee allowed himself a smile. He had slept perhaps four hours a night since the campaign started, rising at three every morning to go see how his men fared. He felt fine. His chest had pained him a couple of times, but one or two of the tablets the Rivington men had given him never failed to bring relief. He was not used to medicines that never failed.

Note the subtle reminder of how dependent the Confederacy is on the AWB. Lee's heart medication is a small thing, perhaps, but the lifeline they represent is never far from his thoughts.

Lee has decided that everything must be done hastily. This victory is only the latest in a string of Confederate victories, and none of the previous ones lasted. He still has the AK-47 to even the odds, but he no longer has the near-perfect intelligence that the Rivington men provided, and Grant is not an easy foe. The clock is ticking.

quote:

As for Grant, he’d handled his army about as well as could be expected, given the trouble in which he’d found himself. In a defensive fight, with his powerful artillery to back up his numbers, he might yet be very rough indeed.
And, Lee wondered, how long before some clever Northern gunsmith works out a way to make his own AK-47? Colonel Gorgas had been unsure it was possible. Gorgas was gifted, but for every man like him in the Confederacy, the North had three or five or ten, and the factories to assemble what those gifted men devised. If the Federals suddenly blossomed forth with repeaters of their own, the situation would return to what it had been before the men from out of time arrived.
“Not only must I suppress those people, I must do it quickly,” Lee said. Every minute’s delay hurt him and helped Grant. He brought Traveller up to a trot. The exact moment he got to Rappahannock Station almost certainly would not matter, but all at once any delay seemed intolerable.
In the middle of the afternoon, a courier on a blowing horse rode up to him, held out a folded sheet of paper. “From General Stuart, sir.”
“Thank you.” Lee unfolded the paper, read: “We hold Rappahannock Station. Federal pickets withdrew northeast past Bealeton. We pursued, and discovered more Federals approaching the town from the southeast, their cavalry leading. We shall endeavor to hold the place unless your orders are to the contrary. Your most ob’t. servant, J. E. B. Stuart, Commanding, Cavalry.”

The tiny town of Bealeton, Virginia saw no major action during the war historically, though it was an important supply corridor for the Union once the Confederacy was pushed back into Central Virginia and there were many skirmishes in the region. In this history, it will have far greater importance.

Stuart is ordered to hold the town at all costs while infantry is rushed to reinforce. This is an interesting mirror of Gettysburg, where Union cavalry held important ground against Confederate assault until Union Infantry could reinforce and hold. Stuart's men normally would have no chance of holding long enough, but Lee hopes the AK-47 will give them just enough edge to do the job.

quote:

As the aide rode off, A. P. Hill rode up. Always gaunt and hollow-eyed, he no longer seemed on the edge of breaking down, as he had before the campaign began. Victory, Lee thought, agrees with him. As he had with Ewell, he told Hill of the new situation.
Hill’s jaws worked as he listened. Finally he said, “I don’t care for the prospect of fighting with the river close in our rear. We almost paid for that at Sharpsburg.”
“I remember,” Lee said.
“Grant isn’t such a slowcoach as McClellan was, either,” Hill persisted. “He wasn’t what you’d call smooth in the Wilderness, but he got more of the Army of the Potomac into the fight than we’ve seen before.”
“I want him to put his men into the fight, if that means they are advancing straight into the fire of our new rifles,” Lee said. “Not even the resources of the North will stand such bloodlettings indefinitely repeated...which reminds me, have we enough ammunition for another large fight?”
“Two trains full of cartridges came into Orange Court House from Rivington this morning,” Walter Taylor said.
“That should be all right, then,” Lee said, relieved. Thanks to the Rivington men, his soldiers had won a smashing victory in the Wilderness. Thanks to them, the Army of Northern Virginia would have the wherewithal to pursue another one. But without a continued flow of munitions from the Rivington men, his army would soon be, if it was not already, unable to fight at all. Lee reminded himself to write once more to Colonel Rains in Augusta to see if he had succeeded in producing loads suitable for the AK-47.

In 1862, Lee launched an invasion of the North, prompted by a shortage of food in the war-torn border regions of the Confederacy and the belief that following their many defensive victories with an offensive one was critical for victory. As part of this advance, Lee issued Special Order 191, dividing his forces and hit several key positions by surprise. In one of the most famous coincidences in history, a pair of Union enlisted men managed to find a copy of this order wrapped around three cigars. This order made it to the hands of General George McClellan, prompting the infamously risk-averse general into launching a counter-attack. While McClellan was still slow enough (not least because he was trying to get Lincoln to send the troops covering Washington City under General Pope as reinforcements) that the Army of Northern Virginia was mostly able to reconstitute, the fact that McClellan attacked at all was game-changing. The Confederates named the resulting battle Sharpsburg, after the town near the battle site. The Union preferred to name battles after bodies of water, and called it Antietam. 87,000 US troops met 38,000 Confederates in the largest single-day battle of the war. Lee was forced to retire in good order after suffering 10,000 casualties (1567 of them fatal), while McClellan allowed the 12,000 casualties he suffered (2,108 KIA) to prevent him from a vigorous pursuit that could well have destroyed Lee's army entirely. Tactically a draw, the battle nonetheless put an end to Lee's hopes of an offensive victory until his second invasion in 1864, and finally gave Lincoln an ironclad excuse to fire the well-connected George McClellan. Of equal importance, it was enough of a Union victory for Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, declaring slavery abolished in the rebel states.

Had Grant been in charge at that time, it is very likely that the Confederates would have been destroyed. It is a stretch to say that the entire war could have been won then and there, but an entire army could have been taken off the board, and Lee's officer corps had to know that. This makes their apprehension here quite reasonable.

And, of course, we have another, more explicit reminder of how dependent the Confederacy is on the AK, and how Lee is trying to wriggle out of that.


Battle lines are drawn, and the orders are given.

Chapter VI: Part II - Nate Caudell

quote:

Dempsey Eure let out a loud, unmusical bray. “If I was a mule, they’d shoot me after a march like this, on account of I wouldn’t be of no more use nohow.”
“You’re a drat jackass, Dempsey, and you’re marchin’ to give some Yankee the chance to shoot you,” Allison High answered. A few men who heard the exchange had the breath left to chuckle. Most simply plodded on, too busy putting one foot in front of the other to have room for anything else.
Mulus Marianus, Nate Caudell thought in the small pan of his mind not emptied by fatigue. He wished Captain Lewis were close by; of all the Castalia Invincibles, Lewis was the only other man who had any Latin and might have appreciated the allusion. But the captain’s bad foot was giving him trouble on the march, and he’d fallen back to the rear of the company.
Caudell coughed. The 47th North Carolina was not in the lead today. The men tramped through a gray-brown cloud of dust that left their hides and uniforms the same color. Every time Caudell blinked, the grit under his eyelids stung. When he spat, his saliva came forth as brown as if he were chewing tobacco.
He’d already forded both the Rapidan and the Rappahannock, but the memory of splashing through cool water was only that, a memory. Reality was muggy heat and sweat and dust and tired feet and the distant thunder of gunfire to the east. The Federals were not going to leave Virginia without more fighting, and were not of the mind to let the Army of Northern Virginia get free of its home state again, either.
Then shots came from the right front, not heavy rolling volleys mixed with artillery where General Ewell’s men were already hotly engaged with the Federals, but a spattering of skirmisher fire. “Grant’s looking to flank us,” Allison High guessed. “He’s got men and to spare to try it.”
“If he didn’t lose three for our one in the Wilderness, I’ll eat my shoes,” Caudell said.
“And if he did, he still has more men than we do,” High answered, which was so manifestly true that Caudell could only click tongue between teeth by way of response. He tasted wet dust when he did.

This, of course, encapsulates the problems of the historical Confederacy. No victory they won could materialy reduce the odds against them.

The battle begins much as the one the previous day did. With one major exception.

quote:

Lieutenant Dunn carried a pair of field glasses on a leather strap around his neck. He lifted them to his face for a better look at the foe ahead. When he let go with a cry of outrage, Caudell and all the Confederates in earshot stared at him. The field glasses had already fallen to his chest again. Pointing ahead, he shouted, “You know what those are up ahead, boys? Those are n****r troops!”
A couple of rebels started shooting the second they heard that. At a range still close to half a mile, they did no harm Caudell could see. Whatever color they were, the Federal skirmishers had the discipline to hold their fire. Caudell’s jaw tightened. Escaped slaves and free Negroes--they would have no reason to love Southern men any better than he and his comrades loved them.
The bayonets on AK-47s were permanently secured under the barrel by a bolt. Caudell hadn’t brought his forward at any time during the Wilderness fighting. Neither had any other Confederates he remembered seeing. Now several men paused to deploy them. With black men ahead, bullets were not enough for them. Seeing black men in uniform made it literally war to the knife.
As far as Caudell was concerned, any man with a rifle musket in his hands, be he white, black, or green, was a deadly enemy so long as he wore a blue coat. Still as if on parade, half the Yankee skirmishers--now they were close enough for Caudell to tell they were Negroes with his unaided eye--brought their Springfields to their shoulders in smooth unison and fired a volley at Caudell and his comrades.
The range was still long; had Caudell been leading that Federal skirmish line, he would not have had his men shoot so soon. Even so, a couple of men from the skirmish line fell, groaning and cursing at the same time. The Negroes who had fired began to reload; those who had not raised their weapons to volley again.
“Give it to ‘em!” Caudell shouted. All the other company skirmish leaders yelled orders that meant the same thing.
Caudell raised his own rifle and started firing while he advanced on the Negro skirmishers. They began to drop as the Confederates’ repeaters filled the air in their neighborhood with bullets. The blacks still on their feet, though, kept loading and firing as coolly as any veterans. A couple of white men with swords--officers, Caudell supposed--shouted commands to them. Those officers soon fell. They would have been natural targets on any skirmish line and were all the more so here because of whom they led. But even after they went down, their black soldiers continued to fight steadily.
“Jesus God almighty!” shouted a private named Ransom Bailey, a few feet away from Caudell. He pointed toward the oncoming line of battle behind the colored skirmishers. “They’s all n*****s! Looks like a division of ‘em!”
“Worry about them later,” Caudell told him. “These ones up front are enough trouble for now.”
Skirmish lines seldom came to grips with each other. One would usually retreat because of the other’s superior firepower. The Confederates badly outgunned the black Union troops, but the Negroes would not retreat. They made charge after charge against the Southerners’ merciless rifles. Only when just a handful of them were still on their feet did they stubbornly withdraw.
By then, they did not have far to go; the regiments of which they were a part had almost caught up with them. The black troops’ line was wide and deep. Because their regiments were new and untried, they had far more men in them than units which had already seen hard fighting. They deployed with the same almost fussy neatness the skirmishers had shown.

The United States Colored Troops were first raised in 1862 after the issuing of the Emancipation Proclamation. Initially small units, their numbers swelled rapidly - by 1865, they constituted nearly 10% of the Union Army - roughly 180,000 black men would serve. 36,000 would perish in that service (although only 2200 or so of those were from battle), a proportion far higher than that suffered by white troops. These units were noted for superb discipline and almost fanatical courage - Turtledove's portrayal here is entirely in line with the historical performance. Of the 1523 Medals of Honor awarded durning the Civil War, sixteen were awarded to USCT men - an astonishing percerntage given the limited combat service the units were allowed to participate in, the relative numbers, and the racism of the officers who would award medals.


The US troops fire two volleys - all but ingnoring the steady AK fire tearing into their lines, and advance into a charge.


quote:

Between shells and rifle fire, the battle din was deafening. A near miss from a shell knocked the man beside Caudell into him. He fell over. Somehow he hung on to his repeater. Two men stepped on him before he managed to get to his feet. He looked down at himself, hardly daring to believe he was still intact. Muttering a prayer of thanks, he started shooting again.
The black soldiers were frighteningly close. They’d taken dreadful casualties, but still they came on. Even as he did his best to kill them, Caudell admired the courage they showed. It occurred to him that George Ballentine might have fought well, if anyone had given him the chance--and if Benny Lang hadn’t made him want to run away instead.
Because their regiments started so large, the colored troops greatly outnumbered the rebels at the start of the engagement. That meant they still had men left when their battered line and that of the Confederates crashed together. They threw themselves on the Southerners with bayonets and clubbed muskets.
The Confederates wavered. Their AK-47s were not made to double as spears. But they could still shoot. Black men fell, clutching at chest or belly or legs. Screams and curses almost overwhelmed the thunder of gunfire.
Right beside Caudell, a colored soldier drove a bayonet into a Southerner’s belly. The Confederate shrieked. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He crumpled to the ground as the Negro ripped out the bayonet. Caudell fired at the black man. His rifle clicked harmlessly. He’d fired the last round in his clip without noticing. Grin flashing whitely in the middle of a black face made blacker by gunpowder stains from Minié ball cartridges, the Negro spun toward Caudell, ready to spit him, too.
Before he could thrust with the bayonet, a rebel landed on his back. The two men went down in a thrashing heap. The Confederate tore the Springfield from the colored man’s hands. He heaved himself up onto his knees, rammed home the length of edged steel that tipped the musket. The Negro screamed like a lost soul. The Southerner stabbed him again and again and again, a dozen times, a score, long after he was dead. Then, grinning like a devil that seizes lost souls, he got to his feet.
“Thanks, Billy;” Caudell gasped. “That was bravely done.”
“Shitfire, Caudell, you don’t got to thank me none for killin’ n*****s,” Billy Beddingfield said. “I do that for my own self.”
Hand-to-hand fighting seldom lasted long. One side or the other soon found the punishment too much to bear. So it was with the black Federal troops now. They broke away from their foes and retreated to the north. The Confederates raked them with heavy fire from their repeaters. That was finally enough to make the Negroes run, though even then some turned back to shoot at the Southerners.
A fresh magazine in his AK-47, Caudell took his own pot shots at the colored soldiers. Rescuing him like that was the sort of thing that could earn Billy Beddingfield his corporal’s chevrons again. As long as the regiment was in active combat, he was as good a soldier as any officer could want. Trouble wits, he’d already shown he couldn’t hold his temper in camp.
Kirkland’s brigade--Heth’s whole division--pushed ahead, trampling down early wheat and corn as they advanced. The very precision of the blacks who opposed them cost those Negroes dearly. Their officers still handled them as if they were in a review rather than a battle, and used extra time to make every maneuver perfect. Meanwhile, the ragged Confederates took a heavy toll with their repeaters.
A few Negroes tried to surrender when the rebels overran them. Caudell brusquely jerked the muzzle of his AK-47 southward; two frightened blacks babbled thanks as they shambled away. A few seconds later, a rifle barked behind him. He whirled. The colored men lay twisted on the ground. Their blood spilled over cornstalks and soaked into the dirt. Billy Beddingfield stood above them, that devilish grin on his face once more.
“They’d given up,” Caudell said angrily.
“A n****r with a rifle in his hands cain‘t give up,” Beddingfield retorted.

Such was the fate of many USCT men. Many such soldiers that found themselves in Confederate hands were summarily butchered, with at least three full-blown massacres. Those who survived this saw incredibly poor treatment even by the atrocious standards shown by the Confederacy in general. Caudell's subdued admiration, however, is also a historically attested reaction. The efforts of Fredrick Douglass, W. E. B. DuBois, and later activists to highlight the performance of USCT was a major part of the early Civil Rights movement, and had a strong impact on public opinion.

With this charge broken, even if it came far closer to stopping the Confederates than anything thus far, Caudell and his men are pulled out to try outflanking the US artillery that has been pounding the regiment to bits.



quote:

Up ahead, the artillerymen were still at their trade. One soldier Set ball and powder inside a Napoleon’s muzzle. Another rammed them down to the bottom of the barrel. A third jabbed a wire pick through the vent to pierce the bag that contained the powder. Still another attached primer and lanyard. That same man yanked on the lanyard and fired the piece. The fellow with the rammer swabbed it down. Back at the limber that held the ammunition chest, two more soldiers handed another bag of powder and a ball to a third, who carried them at a run to the man who loaded them into the smoothbore. The process began again.
Caudell and his comrades began to interrupt them and the other five gun crews that made up the battery. “Take your best shots,” he told the skirmishers. He and they stood behind stout tree trunks, not so much for protection as to give themselves cover. “We aren’t going to hit all the time, but we’ll do them some harm.”
A gunner went down, then another. Caudell kept firing steadily. Still another man reeled away from his cannon. A few seconds later, a rammer was hit as he ran up to the muzzle of his piece with a soaked sponge. Replacements took over for men wounded or killed. They began to fall, too.
Although the Confederates were shooting from cover, the muzzle flashes of their rifles quickly gave them away. Someone pointed toward the plums. Artillerymen leaped to a Napoleon’s handspike, began swinging the twelve-pounder toward the stand of trees. Even from half a mile, the gun’s bore, though only a bit more than four and a half inches wide, seemed a huge and deadly cavern to Caudell.
“Take out that crew!” he shouted--needlessly, for the skirmishers had already started shooting at the gunners. The corporal or sergeant who stood behind the Napoleon to gauge the range clapped a hand to his face and toppled. A rammer fell, grabbing at his leg. Another man snatched up the swab-ended. pole and carried on.
The brass cannon belched flame and a great cloud of thick white smoke. A round shot smashed a tree not twenty feet from Caudell with a noise like a giant clapping hands. The artillerymen began their drill once more. Two more of them went down before they could fire again. This time they chose a bursting shell. “My arm!” a skirmisher wailed. The Federal artillerymen stolidly resumed their appointed tasks. When yet another man was hurt, one of the drivers from the limber crew replaced him.
Another shell exploded in the grove. Fragments thumped against the trunk which sheltered Caudell. He fed bullets into a banana clip and hoped the next shell would be a dud. Federal gunners, unfortunately, used better fuses than their Southern counterparts.
But the next shell did not come. The depleted gun crews fired a last couple of shots, then rushed to attach their cannons to the limbers. Some of them snatched out pistols and began to fire them. The drivers urged teams into motion.
Four of the guns in the battery made good their escape. Caudell shouted with delight as rebels advancing from the southeast swarmed over the other two. One of those was the Napoleon that had been trying to blast his comrades and him out of the grove. “We did something worthwhile, boys!” he yelled to the other skirmishers. “We kept ‘em too busy to run till it was too late for ‘em anyhow.”
The Yankee infantry was pulling back too, north and east along the line of the Orange and Alexandria Railroad. The black foot soldiers did not run like a frightened mob, but they did not show the same extraordinary stubbornness they had displayed earlier in the day, either; against the Confederates’ repeaters, that had only gotten more of them killed.

The battle comes to an end, and they set down to rest. This includes taking advantage of the battlefield loot - not only were the USCT units far closer to full-strength than normal, they were extordinarily well supplied. Most of the men are not happy with the nature of the enemy this day.

quote:

Caudell wanted to argue more. Despite questions about Georgie Ballentine, he’d always thought pretty much as Winstead did. So did most people in the South; so, for that matter, did most people in the North. But as a teacher, he’d urged his students--especially the bright ones--to test what people said about the world against the world itself. Here, what they said and what he’d seen didn’t add up the same way. The Negroes had fought as well as anyone could expect.
One of the other things he’d seen in the world, though, was that most people didn’t really want to look at it straight on. Going with what they said--whoever they were--was easier and more comfortable than trying to figure out how things truly worked.
So instead of directly challenging Winstead, Caudell shifted the argument: “I saw Billy Beddingfield kill a couple of n*****s who’d surrendered. I didn’t reckon that was right--I sure as hell wouldn’t want them to kill us if we had to give up to them.”
“Any n****r comes at me with a gun, that’s a dead n****r,” Winstead said. “An’ I wouldn’t surrender to ‘em anyways, no matter what, on account of what they’d do to me if I done it.”
“Some truth in that,” Caudell had to admit. “But if they can learn to fight like soldiers, they might be able to learn to act like soldiers other ways.”
“They better,” Dempsey Eure added. “Otherwise this here war’s gonna turn even uglier’n it is already.”
“You’ve got that right, Dempsey,” Caudell said. This time, nobody disagreed. Who could deny that black men and what to do about them lay at the heart of the war between the states? The North was convinced it had the right to dictate to the South how to treat them; the South was equally convinced it already knew. Caudell wanted no part of having someone hundreds of miles away telling him what he could or couldn’t do. On the other hand, if Negroes really could fight like white men, the South’s answers didn’t look so good, either.
Caudell reflected that America would have been a much simpler place were the black man not around to vex it. Unfortunately, however, the black man was here. One way or another, North and South would have to come to terms with that.


Chapter VI: Part III - Robert E. Lee

quote:

“Major Marshall, I should like you to draft a general order to the Army of Northern Virginia, to be published as soon as it is completed,” Lee said.
“Yes, sir.” Charles Marshall took out notepad and pen. “The subject of the order?”
“As you must be aware, Major, the enemy has begun to employ against us large numbers of colored soldiers. I aim to order our men that, if these colored troops be captured, their treatment at our hands is to differ in no particular from that accorded to any other soldiers we take prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.” Behind Marshall’s spectacles, his eyes were expressionless. He bent his head and began to write.
“You do not approve, Major?” Lee said.
The younger man looked up from the folding table on which he was working. “Since you ask, sir, in no way do I approve of arming Negroes. The very concept is repugnant to me.”
Lee wondered what his aide would have thought of General Cleburne’s proposal that the Confederacy recruit and use Negro troops in pursuit of its independence. But President Davis had ordered him to keep silent about that. Instead, he said, “Major, not least of my concerns in issuing this order is fear for the safety of the thousands of our own captives in Northern hands. Last summer Lincoln issued an order promising to kill a Confederate soldier for each Union man slain in violation of the articles of war, and to put at hard labor one man for every black captive returned to slavery. By all means make that point explicit in the language of the order, to help the men understand its promulgation is, among other things, a matter of practical necessity.”
“You’ve thought a step farther ahead than I did,” Marshall admitted. “Put that way, I see the need for what you have asked of me.” He bent to his task again, this time with a better will. A few minutes later, he offered Lee the draft.

I can find no evidence that the historical Lee ever issued such an order. It is certain that he resisted the notion of including captured USCT men in the hitherto regular prisoner exchanges, which largely ended the practice until late in the war. I do not know if Turtledove found something that I have missed, or if this is intended to be Lee already changing due to his interactions with the AWB men.



quote:

“Good. Now on to other business.” Lee unfolded several newspapers. “These have been sent on to me by those behind Federal lines who are in sympathy with our cause. Not only does the government in Washington City often inadvertently reveal its intentions in the press, but through it we can gauge Northern sentiment toward the war.”
“And?” Marshall asked eagerly. “What is the Northern sentiment toward the war, now that we have beaten back yet another ‘Forward to Richmond!’ drive?”
“I shall be delighted to provide you with a representative sampling, Major.” Lee held a newspaper close to his face; even with his spectacles, the small, cramped letters were hard to read. “This is the New York Times: ‘Disaster! Grant’s army overthrown in the Wilderness. Forced to retreat above the Rappahannock, and there defeated once more.’ Below these headlines, the story continues as follows: ‘Unhappily, like many of our engagements, the late fighting, though serving to illustrate the splendid valor of our troops, has failed to accomplish the object sought. The result thus far leaves us with a loss of upwards of 40,000 men in the two battles’--useful information there--’and absolutely nothing gained. ‘Not only did the rebels hold their lines, but they are advancing behind the impetus of their new breech-loading repeaters, against which the vaunted Springfield is of scarcely greater effect than the red man’s bows and arrows.’”

This reaction from the newspapers is far, far milder than you would expect after such an event. 40,000 casualties - even assuming that this includes wounded in the normal proportion - is a disaster of incredible proportion. The historical Union Army suffered casualties in the range of 800,000 men (this figure includes disease, as far as I can determine), so 40,000 would equal 5 percent of the losses for the entire war.

The Confederate newspapers are much happier with the outcome, and there is news of other fronts.

quote:

Venable handed them to him. As he read the first, he felt a great load of worry lift from his shoulders. “General Johnston has held General Sherman at Rocky Face Ridge, with heavy losses on the Federal side, and then again at Resaca and Snake Creek Gap, when he tried to use his superior numbers to outflank us. Sherman’s forces are now halted; prisoners report he dares not seek to outflank us again for fear of the casualties he would sustain from our rifles.”
“Business and pleasure together,” Venable exclaimed.
“True enough, Major.” Lee had feared that only his own army would derive full benefit from the repeaters the Rivington men had provided. He’d never been so glad to be proved wrong. True, Johnston had given up a little ground to the enemy instead of advancing as the Army of Northern Virginia was doing, but the enemy in Georgia had more room to maneuver than was true here. And Johnston was a counterpuncher in any case, a master of the defensive. Lee would not have wanted to be a Federal general assaulting a position he chose to hold, the more so when his men were armed with AK-47s.
“What is the other dispatch, sir?”
“We shall know in a moment.” Lee opened the envelope. He read the paper inside, refolded it, and put it back in its place before he lifted his head to face his aides, both of whom were fidgeting in an effort to contain their curiosity. Lee said, “In southwestern Virginia, General Jenkins with twenty-four hundred men was engaged by Federal General George Crook with between six and seven thousand on the ninth of this month just south of Cloyd’s Mountain.”
“Yes, sir,” the two men said together. They both sounded anxious; close to three-to-one was long odds against any army.
Lee lifted their suspense: “Our troops succeeded in holding their position; the Federals withdrew to the north and west up the Dublin-Pearisburg Turnpike. Among their dead were General Crook and Colonel Rutherford Hayes, who commanded a brigade of Ohioans. I regret to have to add that General Jenkins was also wounded in the action and had his right arm amputated. But as General McCausland--who replaced him--adds, the victory has preserved our control of the Virginia and Tennessee Railroad, without which rail connection between the two states would have been broken.”
“That’s excellent news, sir!” Charles Marshall said. “Perhaps the tide has turned at last.”

Lee is fearful of simply driving the Union forces into fortifications, and begins to sketch out a plan that is, for the moment, left unsaid.

quote:

Andries Rhoodie’s horse came trotting up to Lee as he rode alongside the head of a long column of gray-clad troops. The Rivington man politely stayed a few feet outside the group of generals and officers with Lee and waited to be recognized. “Good morning, Mr. Rhoodie,” Lee said. He studied the way Rhoodie handled his bay gelding. “Your horsemanship has improved, sir, since I first had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“I’ve had a good deal of practice since then, General Lee,” Rhoodie answered. “Before I came to join your army, I’d spent little time on horseback.”
The officers with Lee concealed scornful expressions, some well, some not so well, A man who habitually rode in a buggy was hardly a man at all--and what other reason could there be for eschewing horses? Lee thought he knew the answer to that question, which to the others must have been purely rhetorical: by the distant year 2014, men must have discovered better means of transport than either horses or buggies. Lee wondered whether railroads ran down the center of every street in every city in the almost unimaginable time from which the Rivington man had sprung.
One day, he might ask Rhoodie about such things. The priceless knowledge that man had to hold in his head! No time now, though; no time, all too likely, until the war was done. No time for anything save the immediate till the war was done. To the immediate, then: “How may I help you today, Mr. Rhoodie?”
“I’d like to speak with you in private, General Lee, if I could,” Rhoodie said.

Rhoodie is absolutely furious about Lee's order to treat all soldiers as prisoners, and orders him to rescind it immediately.

quote:

“You go about giving the friend of the family equality in anyone way, General Lee, and you set foot on the path to making him equal in all ways.” Rhoodie sounded less peremptory than he had a moment before, but no less serious. “That is not what America Will Break stands for, General. If you don’t care to bear that in mind, we don’t care to keep providing you with ammunition.”
Lee swung his head around to stare at the Rivington man. Rhoodie’s smile was less than pleasant. Lee nodded slowly. Having wondered if this moment would ever come, he was the more ready for it now that it was here. He said, “If President Davis ordered me to do such a thing, sir, I should present him with my resignation on the spot. To you, I shall merely repeat what I said a moment before: no.” He urged Traveller up to a trot to leave Rhoodie behind.
Rhoodie stayed with him; he was a better rider than he had been. He said, “Think carefully about your decision, General. Remember what will happen to the Confederacy without our repeaters.”

Lee fails to rise to the threat, much to Rhoodie's confusion.

quote:

Now it was Rhoodie’s turn to stare at Lee. “You would sacrifice your precious Virginia for the sake of kaffirs who were doing their best to kill your own men?”
“As General Forrest has said upon occasion, war means fighting, and fighting means killing. But there is a distinction to be drawn between killing on the battlefield, where foes face one another man against man and army against army, and killing helpless prisoners after the fighting is done. It is the distinction between man and beast, sir, and if it is a distinction you find yourself incapable of drawing, I shall pray to God for the salvation of your soul,”
“I believe in my heart, General Lee, that God has established that white men are to rule over blacks,” Rhoodie said, and Lee, no mean judge of character, discerned nothing but sincerity in his voice. The Rivington man went on,” As for General Forrest, his men didn’t take any high moral tone when they captured Fort Pillow last month. They found kaffirs in arms there, and they disposed of them.”
Lee’s mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste; the report of the Fort Pillow massacre had come to his notice. For a moment, he wondered how Rhoodie had heard of it. Then he shook his head, annoyed at himself. In one sense, Rhoodie had known about Fort Pillow for a century and a half. Lee said, “General Forrest is not under my command. I would never deny his abilities as a soldier. Of his other qualities, I am less well qualified to speak.”
In point of fact, most of what he’d heard about Nathan Bedford Forrest was unsavory. Much of the fortune the man had amassed before the war came from slave trading. Less than a year ago, he’d been shot by a disgruntled subordinate, whom he’d proceeded to stab to death with a penknife. He would never have fit in among the Virginia aristocrats from whose numbers Lee sprang, But only Jeb Stuart deserved to be mentioned in the same breath as a Confederate cavalry commander.

The historical Forrest was, in fact, held in disdain by Southern society for his slave trading, despite the fact that said society quite happily and proudly built their wealth on the backs of said slaves. This is one of the most blatant hypocracies of the slaver class and the society they built. The Fort Pillow Massacre, unfortunately, is quite real. A force of around 1500 Confederate cavalry captured Fort Pillow, which was defended by roughly 600 Union troops - half of which were USCT men. When a large portion of this force attempted to surrender, the Confederates merely slaughtered them with bayonet and musket fire. There has been great debate to the degree to which Forrest himself was responsible for this - some sources claim he personally ordered no quarter, others claim that the massacre was spontaneous and that Forrest put a stop to it as rapidly as possible. There is also no certain consensus as to how many prisoners were murdered, and if any civilians were among them.


Rhoodie promises to cut off Lee's supply of ammunition for the AK if the order is not removed. Lee is unmoved, and refuses. Though Rhoodie leaves in retreat, Lee is not immune to fear of the consequences of what he has done.

quote:

What if no more cartridges were forthcoming? Lee thought about that. He did not care for any of the conclusions he reached. Reequipping his army with repeaters had taken a couple of months. If he required that much time to go back to rifle muskets, the Army of Northern Virginia was done for. The Army of the Potomac would never leave it alone long enough to make the changeover, not in spring.
He reproached himself for not having had his men pick up the precious brass cartridges they’d expended in the fighting thus far. Even if Colonel Gorgas and Colonel Rains had to load them with ordinary black powder and unjacketed lead bullets, they’d keep the AK-47s in action a while longer. He thought about sending men back to Bealeton to glean such cartridges as they could--in the miserable tangles of the Wilderness, the brass was likely gone forever.
He decided to hold off. He had succeeded in imposing his will upon Federal generals throughout the war; even the capable, aggressive, and determined Grant now moved to his tune--thanks in no small measure to Andries Rhoodie’s repeaters. Now to learn whether he could outlast Rhoodie, a man nominally an ally, in strength of purpose.
The army continued past the dormered cottages of Middleburg, on toward Leesburg and Waterford. Stuart’s cavalry slashed up to seize a stretch of the Alexandria, Loudon and Hampshire Railroad and keep Grant’s men from using the train to get to Leesburg first. Lee ordered the troopers to hold the Federal infantry as long as they could. He would never have given such a command to soldiers with single-shot rifles. But one man with an AK-47 was worth a fair number with Springfields...and by now, the Federals knew that as well as Lee did.
The lead elements of the Army of Northern Virginia went through Leesburg the next day, tramping past the elms and oaks that shaded the white-pillared buildings of the courthouse square. Lee rode back to check on the ammunition supply and learned a new wagon train had just come in, up from the end of the Warrenton railroad spur.
“Excellent,” he said softly. “Excellent.” A few minutes later, he saw Andries Rhoodie riding along beside the long gray files of Confederates. He gave no sign he’d noticed the Rivington man, but affectionately patted the side of Traveller’s neck with a gloved hand. He’d called Rhoodie’s bluff, and got away with it. Rhoodie needed him as much as he needed Rhoodie.

Chapter VI: Part IV - Nate Caudell

quote:

Rain in his face, rain turning the roadway to muddy soup. Nate Caudell slogged on. When the weather was fine, he’d wished for rain to cut the dust. Now that he had it, he wished for dust again. Mud was worse.
The road, already chewed up by countless feet, disappeared into water ahead. White’s Ford had steep banks; two years earlier, Stonewall Jackson had had to dig them down before wagons and artillery could cross. Caudell held his repeater and haversack over his head as he splashed into the Potomac. The river was waist-high. He did not mind. He was already soaked. He knew only relief that the rain hadn’t made the water at the ford rise any higher.
Regimental bands played on the northern--here, actually the eastern--bank of the Potomac. The downpour did nothing to improve their musicianship, but Caudell recognized “Maryland, My Maryland.” As it had the previous two summers, the Army of Northern Virginia stood once more on Northern soil.
Thanks to the rain, that soil clung to Caudell in abundance. Similarly bedraggled, Dempsey Eure observed, “If this really was my Maryland, I’m damned if I’d go boasting about it.”
“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Caudell agreed. The wet weather kept him from seeing a great deal in any case; even the long, low bulk of South Mountain to the west lay shrouded in mist and rain. But he remembered Maryland as distinctly poorer country than the fat farms and houses farther north in Pennsylvania.

This is a short interlude to end the chapter, showing Nate's unit crossing into Maryland. Nate and the rest dream of taking Washington City and ending the war, fight a few brisk actions with Union cavalry, and keep advancing.

quote:

“Maybe.” Caudell looked southeast. Nothing lay between Lee’s soldiers and Washington City but its ring of forts. It was a big but. He suspected Marse Robert would keep the army too busy for it to do much wrecking for wrecking’s sake.

Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




I've had little motivation to keep going since War Were Declared, but I do intend to get back to it eventually.

Kchama's told me he intends to get back to his as well.

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Gnoman
Feb 12, 2014

Come, all you fair and tender maids
Who flourish in your pri-ime
Beware, take care, keep your garden fair
Let Gnoman steal your thy-y-me
Le-et Gnoman steal your thyme




cock hero flux posted:

it's pretty much the same in worldwar where some random wehrmacht guy will bumble into the story, do something extremely lovely, and then die at the precise frequency required to satisfy most people that it's not perpetuating the clean wehrmacht myth without pissing off wehraboos.

Not really. In that series, the only Nazis that really get a favorable depiction are Heinrich Jager's panzer crew and the commandant of the later military spaceport.

Of the two whose heads we get inside, Jager remains willfully ignorant of the evils of the regime (much easier to justify for a panzer crew) until getting his face rubbed into it, and Drucker is largely supportive of things (albeit not really thinking too hard about what it means) until his wife gets nabbed as a secret Jew. Everyone else we see is monstrous, even if Skorzeny doesn't really show it until later on.

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