Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

A smile tugged faintly at one corner of his mouth. She’s a mere maiden — merry, though not Mary; a commoner, albeit comely — yet oh, so very England! I recall how I, a youth first visiting this isle, when steeplechasing, wished that I might fall and break my neck, to leave these bones in England.

Yon English wheatfield, stalks as slim as she, sun-ripened, goes in ripples like her walk; its hue and heaviness bespeak her hair; the soul above it is no butterfly to flit and preen on jewel-broidered wings, but rather is, I think, a youthful hawk already riding lonely on the wind. He shook himself. Ha done! Belike I’ll never see her more. Or if I do, in peaceful after years,’twill be with puffed politeness to her spouse and presents for their eight or nine plump children. I hope he doesn’t seek to curry favor… That’s if the King wins. If the King wins. If.

A sharp curve appeared in the tracks ahead. Rupert took back the steering.

Between lowering sky and shouldering shaggy mountains glowed a last brimstone bar of light. Against it hulked the ruins of a fortress, upon a conical hill a mile or so beyond settlement. The town was roofs and steeples rising out of dusk along the River Dee. From its railway station, downstream, one glimpsed the gracefulness of an ancient arched bridge. Bells chimed through a cold, muttering breeze. A pair of great pole-mounted lanterns cast glow upon the terminal, though this walled off any clear view elsewhere. Approaching, Will asked, “Why yonder lamps whan tha western liane ben’t in use?”

“Perhaps it is,” Rupert replied. “If a loyal force is posted hereabouts, they may well send a train on short runs after supplies. Let’s trust the cargo can feed us ere we tumble into bed.”

“Could be a pallet in goal, thic.” Will stooped to peer through dimness. “I zee no kindlin’ o’ thy ring.”

“Should there be? I thought it was to shine at extraordinary help or opportunity, not simple friendliness.” Rupert stood quiet for a clock-tick. “Aye, conceivably the enemy’s won this far. Keep that blunderbuss ready; here’s the pistol in my belt. We’ll not debark till we’re sure. At need, I’ll back us out again, and we’ll be gone to earth well before they can organize their chase.”

As he slowed to a halt, his eyes scouted. A few wagons stood on a siding, lumps of black. On the station pavement were the usual boxes and barrels, a pair of the usual horsecarts for carrying off freight.

Otherwise was emptiness. No candelight showed in the stationhouse windows. “Holla!” Rupert hailed through a final gush of steam. “Who’s here?”

A dozen buff-coated musketeers leaped from the door and pelted to disperse themselves. Their captain poised boldly in place. His helmet and sword gleamed beneath the lanterns. “Hold!” he shouted. “Declare yourselves!”

“Tha’ spied us from afar an’ maede ready—Let’s go,” Will chattered.

“Who are ye?” Rupert demanded.

“General Cromwell’s Independents,” the captain snapped. “Speak.”

“Tha’ war ahead of us, Fiend thunder’em,” Will hissed.

“Get between him and me,” Rupert whispered back. “Let him not see my hands readying us for escape. I’ll talk meanwhile—

“Ah, good,” he responded aloud.

“You say that, from under hair like yours?” the captain scoffed.

Rupert thickened his accent. “Dis iss no var uff ours, good sir. Ve’re artificers from de Dutch statholder, come to study your British trains for him. Ve vere trying dis vun, by leaff uff de master in Stoke-on-Trent, ven ve saw such a vild-looking gan uff men ve t’ought best ve make speed. Good to see ve haff come in de same hands ass ve left in Stoke.”

The captain’s tone grew more amiable. “They’d not have known, there.’Twas but this day we entered.

Semaphores’ve stood idle and trains been frightened off whilst fighting was in these parts.” His alertness never slackened. “Well, come on down. I’ll need to bring you in for questioning. Have no fears if ye’re honest. Why, no doubt General Cromwell himself’ll wish to talk with you.”

“Vun moment, pleasse, vile ve make de enchine ready—Ah!”

Pressure was back at the full. Rupert threw in reverse drive. The locomotive clanked into motion.

The captain yelled. Muskets barked, not only from around the paving wherever cover was to be had, but from the sidetracked vans. Bullets clanged off the boiler and whined away.

Two soldiers darted out of shelter of a crate. They hurled themselves against a horsecart. Will saw their intention. His blunderbuss belched orange flame, inky smoke, leaden hail. The wagonbed shielded the men.

They shoved the vehicle across the tracks and shook triumphant fists. “Do your worst, heretics!” one taunted.

“I’ve naught to do it with,” Will keened, clutching his discharged weapon.

The tender struck the wagon. Wooden frame crunched beneath iron wheels, to block and jam them.

“Out, out, men!” the captain cried. “Ring them in! If they surrender not, slay them!”

Fearless in their faith—or shrewdly gauging that they would meet no more serious gunshot—the Roundheads swarmed from both sides. Rupert drew saber and slashed at the ropes securing the ale barrel.

A welter of soldiers hurried to form a line on the pavement beside the track.

Rupert dropped his blade and seized the cask. Muscles swelled to rip his shirt down back and front. In one swing he raised the great object over his head and hurled it among those Puritans.

He was a very light drinker. Will alone had not much diminished thirty-six beer gallons. Counting the oak itself, some four hundred pounds struck ground.

Staves splintered and flew on an outward volcano of brew and foam. The sundering crash was followed by screams, gurgles, and strangled un-godly curses.

Rupert retrieved his saber and was in the air before the barrel smote. Landing on shattered” flagstones, blade aloft, “ En avant!” he roared, and led Will through a chaos of drenched, overbowled, lurching, beer-blinded or half-drowned Ironsides. More darted from behind locomotive and tender. Three of them, fast runners, sped at a slant to intercept the fugitives near the stationhouse. One, who had not used his musket in the volley, brought it up. Rupert shot him. It was no mortal wound; to hit with a pistol at that distance was rare. But the man sank to his knees, hugging a broken shoulder. His companions had their swords out. “Thou to the right, Will, me to the left,” Rupert called. He attacked. A spark-showering blow knocked the Roundhead weapon loose. On the return, Rupert laid the man’s thigh open. Meanwhile Will hurled an otherwise useless blunderbuss at the nose of his opponent, which made it easy to disable him too when they closed.

On past the station, into the dusk. “They’ll rally and be after us,” Rupert said in rhythm with his feet.

“Reinforcements; dogs if they can get’em; surely guides, willing or not, who know this country. Those’re wildwood hills before us. Be thou our leader.”

“We’ll need moare than woodcraft, my loard,” the other answered.

Somewhere in the thick wet tangle of forest, a stream clucked. Louder came snap and crash as Rupert fought his unskillful way through brush which his companion parted easily. Faint but clear tolled the voices of hounds.

“Dood en ondergang!” Rupert panted. “I’d liefer meet a line o’ Switzer pikemen than these damned claw-twigged withes. How canst thou find thy path?’Tis black as an Ethiop’s bowels.”

“Fiand it we boath must,” replied grimness from the murk. Thunder boomed. “E’en if yon rain comes zoon to wash out our slot,’tis too laete. Tha’ be on our track itzelf, broaken limbs an’ trampled shrubs.”