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Chapter 12


Diarmid O’Connor saw the sails of the packet boat coming into the Hamburg harbor long before his companion did.

“Fitz!” he hissed, poking Oisin Fitzroyce in the ribs. The other man, dozing on a stack of boxes in the early morning sun, awoke with a start and a snort from his long nose.

“What in all the hells?” he sputtered.

For answer, O’Connor pointed.

“Ye think that’s it, after all this time has passed?”

“All this time? It’s been no more than ten days, and ye know it,” O’Connor said, weary of his companion’s griping after four months in Europe with him. He knew the shape of Fitzroyce’s complaints as well as he did the man’s prominent black side-whiskers, in which Fitz took enormous pride. “It took us longer than that to come away from Amsterdam two weeks back, and well ye knew it. We were lucky to catch the outgoing ship to take our messages then. I’d have preferred to stay in the Lowlands, but it’s too hot for us now.”

“Ach, well, that’s so. His lordship won’t have been pleased with our report.”

The two men, along with seven or eight others, had been in the direct employ of Finnegan, his lordship’s favorite confidant and man of all work. Afterwards, well, O’Connor was ready to give it up and return to Ireland, but his lordship had dangled a purse before them, and sent them all out in search of connections to the Americans. How twenty people, some of them children, and all their goods, had vanished into thin air like spirits, not showing a trace of their passage, had enraged his lordship to the point where he was spending money like water to find their accomplices and bring them back to London, to what was left of the Tower, for justice.

Since the previous spring, he and Fitzroyce had gone from one European city to another in search of witnesses who could state that they’d seen the Americans come to shore, and who had assisted them. They had chased rumor after rumor through various ports. In O’Connor’s own opinion, it was no use chasing down individual Americans. They were everywhere on the continent. If not actual visitors from the future, then people whom they had influenced. Almost everyone for whom O’Connor had bought a drink or with whom he’d struck up a conversation had an opinion. Americans were largely popular, mainly for their often absurd levels of generosity. Although he did find that there was a mild undercurrent of disdain for the manner in which they had seemed to take over and change things, with or without the will of those who came to be affected by those changes. It was like the story of the juggernaut, from the Bible or some such, running over anything in its way. Still and all, the general opinion was that the advent of the Americans was a good thing.

O’Connor had months ago come to the realization that his lordship would have been better off calling the whole kettle of fish a loss and turning his attention elsewhere. Considering the firepower that O’Connor saw brought to bear in the Baltic during the war—over the loss of a single American, or so he had heard—the English could not possibly win against them if a war was declared. The Americans had explosives to spare and the will to use them, as well as some devastating tactics.

What forced him and Fitz to flee from Amsterdam was pure bad luck, in his opinion. Someone had noticed that they were still asking questions about the damage to the Tower of London, when the attention of the whole country seemed to be turning to the dispute between Sweden and Denmark. Their curiosity seemed out of place. In sober retrospect, they had not paid attention to the mood surrounding them, and drawn attention to themselves.

Poor excuse for spies, that’s what they were.

Well, to be honest, they were not naturals at espionage. They’d been hired from the west of Ireland, from County Tyrone, to be bully boys. That, they were good at. When they could get someone alone, away from help, any secrets that the victim possessed were soon in the hands of Fitzroyce and O’Connor. Fitz was especially good with the razor-sharp knife he kept in the back of his belt. O’Connor prided himself on being able to make a weapon out of anything on which he could lay his hands. That had included a potato, once. No one dared to laugh at him about that except Fitz, of course. That was why they got on so well.

They’d managed to get a message out to the Earl of Cork on a trading ship leaving for Tilbury and London, letting him know they were going onto Hamburg. That was the nearest port town to Magdeburg, the Americans’ capital. His lordship had said that it was the most likely place to gain information. A few of his spies had already infiltrated the city and the surrounding countryside, though the two who had claimed they had made it to Grantville had dropped out of contact completely. O’Connor reckoned that they had been discovered and put to death. It’s what would have happened in England or Ireland. Why should the new country be any different?

It had been a slow and difficult slog to traverse the three hundred miles in between. They had walked from Amsterdam to Volendam, taken passage on a trading ship to Bremen, then took shank’s pony again from the port until they flagged down a passing wagon. An unlucky peddler had been kind enough to pick them up not far outside Bremen town. Unlucky, because he had been unwary about keeping his money concealed from his passengers’ eyes. They’d robbed him and left him tied up in the trees. A while later, they’d abandoned the cart and horse at a posting inn a day’s walk out of Hamburg. O’Connor consoled himself that at least they hadn’t killed the boyo, leaving him where his cries could attract the next traveler’s attention to rescue him.

So far, they had been able to live well enough on the peddler’s coin, though they needed his lordship to send them money along with further orders, if he had any. O’Connor was weary of traveling and had half a prayer that his lordship would simply tell them to return to London, or even go home to Ireland.

The deep harbor at Hamburg droned with business like a beehive. Morning brought in near as many ships as evening tide. The trading clipper on which they had their eyes fixed flew a British flag. When it got closer, O’Connor could read the name on the prow: Meadowlark. The crew shouted to one another as they made ready to dock, and German longshoremen moved close, hoisting looped hawsers for the Meadowlark to make fast. With efficient movements, they got the ship moored, and began to help the deck hands take cargo ashore.

The captain came down the gangplank, and the harbormaster’s man approached him. They had a loud and energetic conversation that O’Connor guessed was about harbor fees. Yes, that was it. At last, the captain pulled his purse out of his belt pouch, and handed over a trickle of coins. O’Connor’s mouth watered to see the glint of gold among them. But he didn’t want to rob the man. Who knew whether they would have to board this ship one day to make their escape from Hamburg?

The captain was done with his negotiations, and turned away to oversee the unloading.

O’Connor made his way toward him with a smile on his face.

“Captain, sir, are ye carrying any mail? We’re expecting a letter from London.”

“My lieutenant is in charge of that, man. See him.” The ship’s master pointed up the gangplank to a spry-looking youth—a boy, really—with light brown hair. The lad was seeing to the debarking of a couple who looked bent with seasickness, and their servant, who was in much better trim.

“Have ye any post from London?” O’Connor asked the mate. “I’m looking for a letter.”

“Yes, yes, we do,” the young man said. He sounded as though he was from the English countryside, but had some education under his belt. Officer material, then. Why was he not in the Navy? O’Connor wondered. “Let me see these passengers on their way, then I will look through the box for you.” He escorted the couple to the bottom, where a cart awaited them.

“James, we’re ready to go!”

Another passenger, a young, fashionably-dressed woman, appeared at the top of the gangplank. Young, pretty, proud, with light brown hair, which O’Connor realized was much the same shade as that belonging to the mate. Brother? A boot-faced girl in a bonnet was at the woman’s shoulder. Servant, surely.

“A moment, Margery,” the mate said. He dashed upward and disappeared behind the gunnels of the ship. In a moment, he returned with a leatherbound box and carried it down the gangplank. The box was full of folded letters, small bags, and a few wrapped parcels.

“What name, please?” he asked O’Connor.

“Seamus O’Flaherty,” O’Connor said. They changed aliases on a regular basis, in case anyone intercepted the post and went looking for them. The boy nodded, and extracted a thick letter written on plain foolscap and sealed with a plain blob of wax. No way to trace that back, neither. O’Connor accepted it, and pressed a small guilder into the mate’s hand. Even though it was a small tip, perhaps smaller than was really decent for safe delivery, the mate accepted it graciously.

The two ruffians retreated a few yards away, and O’Connor broke the seal. A small, tightly wrapped paper packet fell out. It lay heavy in the hand, meaning there was coin inside. Ah, thank “Divine Providence,” here was the money!

The young officer swung up the side of the bobbing wooden walkway to escort the two women down.

“What’s it say?” Fitzroyce asked.

O’Connor had his letters, but wasn’t the best of readers. He always preferred to have someone tell him what they wanted him to do. But the Earl of Cork’s secretary’s script was as plain as speech.

“Not happy that we withdrew from Amsterdam. Seems as though there was valuable information to be had about the Americans’ armaments. As if we were going to get any closer to those giant ships than the Danish did. Curse him, he has no idea what we went through.”

“What else?”

O’Connor grimaced. “Only to keep our eyes open, which don’t we always do just that? And we’re instructed to go into Grantville and ask questions. Ah, may the Good Lord give him mercy, he’s not leaving off.”

“We’ll need to do with more subtlety than Amsterdam,” Fitzroyce said. “My left ear was nearly shaved off in that last discussion.”

“Aye, we will.” A thought struck O’Connor at that moment. He glanced up at the three people behind him. “England’s no friend to Germany at this moment, are they?”

“…No…”

“Then, what’s a slip of a girl from the Midlands doing here?”

O’Connor raised a sandy eyebrow. “Surely that’s worth investigating, in his lordship’s eye?”

Fitzroyce grinned. “We might have found something that will please him, then. Write him back and tell him what kind of a scent we’re on.”

“And send the letter back on the same ship that brought her here?” O’Connor said, with a deep laugh. “That’s a jape that even his lordship would appreciate.”

The two of them retired to a nearby inn to write a letter. O’Connor foresaw praise and more money in return, although not much of either, knowing the Earl of Cork.



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Framed