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The Brothers

Walter H. Hunt


28 August 1636
Don Estuban Miro

State of Thuringia-Franconia
United States of Europe


Most Esteemed Don Estuban:

It has taken me some time to summarize our activities here in the New World, and you will have already received an account of our interactions with the Danish colony, New Amsterdam, Maryland and Virginia, as well as a brief description of our time in New England . . . and it is there that I have been remiss, as I think you would put it.

In June, I did hold a private interview with Governor Winthrop, and was called to speak before the Massachusetts assembly. Captain Thomas James briefed us on what’s currently chafing the Puritans—and their allies the Pilgrims—a dispute over someone getting killed in the Connecticut Valley. What I didn’t tell you, primarily because I wasn’t sure how you’d take it, is what we decided to do about it.

Pete was against it at first.


“You know,” Pete said, “based on what you say, this is a situation that is beyond us. This isn’t really about the French claims on English colonies at all. We should cut our losses and leave.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“It is that easy, big bro. You wave to the nice little zealots on shore”—he waved again, making the same soldier scowl up, hand on his musket—“and you say sorry, we’ve got nothing, bye bye. Y’all come visit us if you’re ever in Magdeburg.”

“We might be condemning them to death.”

We? History is condemning them to death, Gord, if they don’t change their attitudes. Not you. Not me. Them.”

“I don’t know how much we can do to stop it—except for one thing.”

“Which is what?”

“Based on what I’ve read of history to come, the Massachusetts Bay and Plymouth colonies are within a few months of getting into a war against the Pequots. Once it gets started, whites and Indians will fight to a bloody conclusion that leaves lots of dead and lots of resentful survivors. It’s only the first of a number of bloody wars that they’ll fight—at least according to up-time history. Maybe it’s something we can stop.”

“Did you say the Pequots?”

“Yes.”

“The casino guys?”

Gordon frowned for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah. The casino guys. In our time line, the soldiers from Massachusetts Bay and the Connecticut Valley massacre a whole pile of them in the spring of 1637, and what’s left of the tribe gets swallowed up by its neighbors.”

“I’m not clear about why we care. Aside from the whole casino thing, what does the Pequot tribe mean to us? Do you really think they’re going to become USE allies?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Miro give you any direction on this—or, better yet, Piazza?”

“Other than peeing in France’s corn flakes, Estuban didn’t give me much direction at all. Neither did Ed.”

He chewed on his lip a moment, before continuing. “It’s tricky, since we’re officially in a state of peace with France and England. The Puritans have essentially declared independence—they have no interest in bowing to the French king; they were scarcely willing to bow to the English one. But I do know that this area stands a better chance of repelling a French invasion if the people here aren’t fighting among themselves. The French have allies among the Indian tribes, and if they start arming them . . . I think that the big picture is bigger than anyone here will be able to see. If the Puritans and the Pequots don’t go to war, maybe they can be allies.”

“But you don’t want to . . . scare them by flying a dirigible over their heads.”

“No. Not really.”

“I still think you’re giving up a tactical advantage, big bro.”

“All I can say is, we’d have to land sometime. I’d rather approach the colonists with open hands, even if it means giving up a ‘tactical advantage.’”


Captain James wasn’t in favor of it either. He thought we’d do better to get involved with technology by using the talents of Ingrid Skoglund, our expedition’s doctor. They’d already had trouble from us about that; when I spoke before the assembly, I demanded that she be allowed in. They told her to shut up and sit down, but they let her in.


“There is something you can do for them.”

“I’m all ears.”

“They fear divine judgment, as we all do,” James said. “And they fear the Indians. But there is something else they fear: disease. In the last few years the pox has ravaged the settlements along the Connecticut River, and has made the occasional visit here in Boston. From what I have heard, you up-timers have a solution for this problem.

“If you want to do something for these benighted Puritans, Chehab, you should send your doctor to them. You might not convince the most extreme zealots, but you’d win a lot of friends.”

“Huh.” Gordon leaned his head back against the wall behind him and looked up at the sky. Above, the great mast of Baltic fir framed the sky of deepening blue. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

James didn’t answer. Gordon sat up straight and looked at James. “Is there a doctor here in Boston? Someone we could meet with?”

“None worth the title,” James said. “They brought a chirurge—a poseur, I would not hesitate to characterize him—named Gager, the first year of the colony here, but he died. There was a doctor in Plymouth, though he has passed on as well; they may have replaced him. It is possible that you might speak with Richard Palgrave—he styles himself Doctor, as does old Oliver—but I do not have much faith in him. Thompson is something of an apothecary, but I do not think he leaves his island very often.”

“Do you think any of them would be receptive to Ingrid Skoglund? And what about Winthrop and his advisors?”

“I cannot say.”


In any case, Ingrid didn’t think it would fly.


“They will never accept me. And even if they did, they would never consider the solution.”

“They fear the smallpox more than the cure, Ingrid,” Gordon said. “If you explained it . . . ”

“I was afraid of the idea when I was studying medicine,” she answered. “I resisted the inoculation at first—if I had not trusted James Nichols as I do, I might have caught the pox myself. You have no idea—”

“Hold on,” Gordon interrupted. “Don’t get started with the ‘you up-timers’ argument. I’ve been back in this century for almost five years, and I served as an army medic. I know what seventeenthcentury medicine looks like.

“The people of Massachusetts Bay are terrified of smallpox, Ingrid. They might already know that we can solve it—and they might even know how. But that’s not what they’re afraid of. It’s not what you’re afraid of either. You’re afraid they’ll reject you because they do not hold with women doctors. When Governor Winthrop considers it, he’ll weigh the natural bigotry of his constituents against the real possibility of saving them from contracting a painful, agonizing disease, and he’ll come down on the side of accepting your help.”

“You cannot be sure.”

“No, not until I ask him tomorrow. Then we’ll see.”


The Puritans were suspicious. Instead of being in favor of the idea of us curing smallpox, they asked what our motives were, and what our price would be. I thought I had a pretty decent answer. They even let Ingrid explain it to them—how variolation would make them immune, and why that was good for everyone. But they didn’t go for it immediately.

They had bigger concerns, and asked us for our help. They were dealing with the problem up on the Connecticut River, in which the Pequots were refusing to surrender the guys that killed Captain John Stone.

That’s about the time we met John Endecott. He’d already shown during the assembly what he thought of us, and had asked that we be sent away because we had some hidden motives that he didn’t like. He basically called me a liar, and I called him on it, and made him apologize. I guess I’m less of a diplomat than I thought. But we weren’t done with him yet. He was all ready for the Puritans to start a war. Fortunately, there were a few cooler heads, like Thomas Dudley, the Deputy Governor.


“Brother Dudley,” Endecott said. “I have a question.”

“Your servant.”

“You are possessed of a trained and armed band of soldiers at Sovereignty. Why did you not merely go to the Pequot and demand that they turn over the villains who murdered Stone?”

“It would have been peremptory and provocative, Brother Endecott. We are trying to prevent a war, not initiate one.”

“They have no stomach for war,” Endecott answered. “More provocative acts than that have been committed, with no consequence. Standish does not hesitate to make his presence felt whenever he feels that Plymouth town is threatened.”

“I do not wish to measure my acts by the standards of Captain Standish,” Dudley answered. “As Plymouth is our ally, he is on our side,” Winthrop said.

“God guide and protect us nonetheless,” Dudley replied. “I make free to speak of him among the men of Massachusetts, but he shall have to be informed of the outcome of our dealings—and will likely suggest something similar. But on the river, even Winslow has no interest in provoking the ire of tribes that surround us. It is a war we could win, but would cost many, many lives.”

“Say on, Brother Dudley,” Winthrop said. “What was the outcome of your negotiations?”

“As I said, Governor—we were told that Sassacus would return in due time and the matter would be continued. Winslow remained, while Oldham and I departed our separate ways.”

“Oldham?” Gordon said.

Dudley turned to face him, surprised to hear him speak. “‘Mad Jack’ Oldham. Yes, he had planned to depart shortly after I set sail.”

“Is this man known to you, sir?” Winthrop said.

“Yes. I mean—no, I don’t know him, but I know his name. He’s a trader, a merchant of some kind.”

“Correct,” Dudley said. “He trades with various tribes. He was planning to go to Block Island to meet with the Niantics.”

“He’s in terrible danger. He’s going to be killed there—and if history follows its course, it will bring you into war. It’s in the up-time history: I was rereading it just yesterday. After he’s killed, you”—he gestured toward Endecott—“will lead a war band that will commit genocide against the Pequots.”


And that’s when we became involved.


Gordon Chehab assumed that John Endecott, and others, were watching from the lookout point on Fort Hill as they laid out the canvas for the dirigible on what would someday be called Castle Island. He had wanted to go through the process on shore outside Boston, but Maartens, Thomas James and Pete set him straight—there was no reason, no reason at all, to make them vulnerable to the Puritan captain.

“See what they make of that,” Pete said, looking back toward the shore.

“It’s all part of the up-time magic show.” Gordon sat down on the crate that had held the fan. “Damn it. Our first chance to do something to affect events, and things aren’t playing out like the history books.”

“There was no guarantee. So many things have changed. I don’t think Winthrop, or any of the others, think we can make a difference. It’s several days’ sail, he told me. I have a dirigible, I told him. We can be there before sundown.” Gordon looked up; the afternoon sun was still high in the sky.

“Tactical advantage.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Gordon glanced at the dirigible; it was just beginning to take shape as air was flowing into the bottom of the sack. In a few minutes, they’d have to start manipulating the control surfaces to assure an even distribution of air, and make sure that the whole thing didn’t start drifting away. “I’d trade it for one of Jesse Wood’s airplanes for this mission.”

It took almost two hours to inflate the dirigible, attach the catenaries to the passenger car, and connect the control ropes and wires. John Wayne seemed almost eager to slip from its anchor and go aloft; and after weeks at sea, Gordon was eager to do so as well.

As they were preparing for liftoff, they saw a boat being rowed across the harbor from Boston. The late-afternoon sun reflected from the helmets and breastplates of some of the boat’s occupants; without even being asked, Pete found himself a protected perch out of sight as Gordon stood and waited for the Puritan soldiers to come ashore.

They were led—unsurprisingly—by John Endecott. He had another, shorter man with him, who carried himself with the same proud martial air; Gordon could tell that the two were not particularly friendly.

The Puritan captain scowled at the huge form of John Wayne, inflated and almost ready to take off; then he turned his steely gaze on Gordon.

“These are the up-timers,” he said to the other man. To Gordon he said, “May I present the representative of Plymouth plantation, Captain Standish.”

“Standish?” Gordon said. “Myles Standish?”

“That is my name,” the man said. He glared at Gordon.

“You mean, as in, ‘Prithee, why do you not speak for yourself, John?’”

“Art thou mocking me, up-timer?” Standish said. He looked ready to draw his blade—which, Gordon noticed, was at least three or four inches shorter than any sword he’d seen.

“No—no,” Gordon said. I played you in a school play, he thought to himself. John Alden and Priscilla something or other. Longfellow. I got to stand off stage while Priscilla delivered that line to the boy who was playing John Alden—courting Priscilla for Myles Standish. For you.

“You are going after Oldham,” Endecott said, not sure precisely what was going on.

“We’re going to try and warn him of the danger,” Gordon said. “If the natives are waiting to ambush him—”

“He’ll not listen to you, American,” Endecott interrupted. “And neither will the savages.”

“Indeed not,” Standish agreed. “Mad Jack Oldham listens to no one.”

“I’m willing to try.”

“We are coming with you,” Endecott said matter-of-factly. He gestured to Standish and the other two soldiers, then glanced again at John Wayne; Gordon heard nothing but bravado in his voice, but thought he saw a glint of fear in the Puritan’s eyes. As for Standish, he seemed surprised by the remark, and didn’t seem at all eager.

“You can’t.”

“Oh, I daresay we can,” Endecott replied. His companions had muskets in their hands, and although they did not aim them at Gordon—or the dirigible—they seemed to grasp them a bit more firmly when their captain spoke the words.

“No,” Gordon said levelly. “You can’t. Not because I . . . not because I don’t appreciate the offer of help: it’s just that the craft can’t lift that many people. Too much weight.”

Endecott frowned. “I do not understand.”

“I’ll try to explain. The airship envelope is filled with hot air, which rises, and pulls the passenger gondola up with it. It’s not magic—the dimensions of the envelope, and the continued flow of air into it, create a certain amount of lift, a measurable amount. It’s designed to carry three—maybe four— people on board.”

Endecott looked at his three fellow soldiers and back at Gordon, as if to say, I don’t see a problem here.

“Someone has to pilot it. Preferably two or three people who know what they’re doing. This dirigible is irreplaceable, at least here in the New World. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks. If I tried to lift with four extra men aboard, especially with all of the armor and gear, I’d probably make it thirty miles before I ran out of fuel. There’s just too much weight. I can’t do it.”

“How many can you take?”

“One. Maybe one extra person. I could carry one of your men and three of my own—”

“You said that you only needed two pilots. Myself and one of my companions could accompany your two men.”

“Captain Endecott, I am hard-pressed to understand why I would have any of your men accompany us. This is not a military mission, sir—we are hoping to help prevent men from being killed.”

“It is a pointless mission,” Standish said. “You should leave Oldham to his fate—and the savages to theirs. I do not understand why you have any interest in preserving him.”

The dislike—perhaps even disgust—in his voice was palpable. There was clearly some history there that wasn’t being discussed.

“Because this isn’t about Oldham,” Gordon said. “This is about Massachusetts Bay and Plymouth, and about whether you want every Native American—every Indian—as your enemy.”

“They are already our enemies.”

“No, they’re not,” Gordon said. “Maybe they’re your enemy, Captain Standish, but they’re not the enemy of your colony. Not yet. And but for the Indians, you—and your colony—wouldn’t even be here. Isn’t that right?”

“That was years ago,” Standish growled, but he looked away, as if it wasn’t a very convincing argument.

There was no answer for several moments, and Gordon wasn’t sure if the encounter was about to become violent.

“You may choose your own course,” Endecott said. “But if you seek alliance with Massachusetts Bay, and possibly with Plymouth as well, we should accompany you on this mission. We can be friends—or rivals.”

“By which you mean ‘enemies.’”

“I did not say that.”

Is that a slow match in your holster, Gordon thought to himself, or are you just happy to see me?

Despite the obvious tension of the situation, he had to resist laughing.

“If you are threatening me, Captain Endecott, I hope that you have thought it through.”

Endecott gave one more glance to the dirigible, and then turned to his three soldiers and gestured to the boat; they walked back and climbed aboard.

Standish just stood there silently, his arms crossed over his chest. “Very well. I shall accompany you alone,” Endecott said.


If you had been standing there on that island, Don Estuban, I expect you’d have given me a long lecture about operational security. The number of things that could go wrong by bringing a loose cannon like John Endecott aboard the only dirigible in North America was a pretty long list. But I wasn’t sure I had a choice—and even though Pete and Captain James and Captain Maartens and Ingrid all thought it was a pretty bad idea, I had strong feelings about it.

Without us, the war against the Pequots would go about as history had originally played out. Stubborn natives and hotheaded Puritans would fight, and in the end a lot of people would die. I wasn’t about to stand by and watch, or sail away knowing I might be able to prevent it. With John Wayne we might be able to stop it all.


The ceiling for John Wayne was eighteen thousand feet, but Gordon had no intention of taking it up that high. Two thousand feet was plenty; it took only a few minutes to catch the wind with the inverted V-shaped tail and maneuver the dirigible into the air.

Pete was completely comfortable slouching in the back of the car, his rifle leaning on the seat beside him. Gordon stood at the front of the car with the yoke held loosely in his hands.

Endecott had likely never been much further in the air than the top of Fort Hill. At five hundred feet of altitude he held onto the side of the car and looked off into the distance as if he was viewing a pastoral scene—a Vermeer, perhaps. At one thousand feet he had stopped looking out but merely stood there, hands gripping the car hard enough for Pete to see white knuckles.

By the time they’d reached cruising altitude Endecott had found a seat in the middle of the car, holding on to handgrips with his eyes shut. Gordon looked over his shoulder and saw the tableau and smiled; Pete gave him a little wave.

“We’ll be there in a few hours, Captain,” Gordon said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“If God had meant man to fly,” Endecott said shakily, “He would have given him wings.”

“I can’t believe that you just said that,” Pete said.

“You doubt my—” Endecott began.

“No,” Pete said, laughing. “It’s just that it’s such a damn cliché.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Where we came from, Captain,” he added, “everybody but everybody says that, and it means nothing. We had airplanes, we had helicopters, we had dirigibles, we had freaking gliders. They all could fly. It had nothing to do with what the Lord God wanted us to have, or not have.

“You are in an airship, Captain Endecott, sir. You are two thousand feet in the air, give or take a hundred feet or so. Almost half a mile. Nothing but sweet air a foot under your feet, three hundred some-odd man-lengths to the ground. God protects you up here too, Puritan John, never fear.”

Endecott opened his eyes and squinted at Pete. “If you were a member of the community of the Elect in Boston town, you would wind up in the bilboes with a bare back covered with lashes. You take the Lord’s name in vain—”

“If you don’t like the accommodations,” Gordon said without turning around, “we can leave you off anywhere. I’m not sure, but I’d put us somewhere over what will be called Narragansett Bay.”

Pete looked over the starboard side. “Long swim, especially in the armor.” Endecott gave Pete a murderous look, but didn’t answer.

“Leave off him, Pete,” Gordon said. “Captain Endecott, my brother is a blasphemer—among other things. He is not, however, a member of your community. Neither am I.

“You can make whatever judgments you want about our conduct, or our suitability for entry into Heaven, or whether we were meant to fly. But you can do it after we do what we’re headed to do.”

* * *

To his credit, John Endecott willed himself to stand and come to the bow end of the car as the day wound toward sunset, though he came no closer to the side than an arm’s length. Gordon was not sure whether that meant that he only conditionally trusted in his God to be this high in the air, or if his will was only just strong enough; but he had to respect the Puritan captain’s courage.

John Wayne was clear of the string of islands that separated Buzzards Bay from Vineyard Sound— names that belonged to a future that would never be, since these places would more than likely be named by Frenchmen. The island that Gordon’s up-time map named as “Cuttyhunk” was off to starboard, and the long, sandy stretch of Martha’s Vineyard lay to port; according to Endecott, that island was inhabited by Wampanoags, and had been considered by Massachusetts Bay as a likely site for a new settlement before King Charles had set them adrift. He did not recognize the name that appeared on Gordon’s map—he called the place by its Wampanoag name, Noepe, “the land of the streams.”

As they made their way across Vineyard Sound, half a mile in the air, Gordon wondered if there were any Wampanoags looking up at the sky, wondering what was being lit by the orange light of the setting sun. The same thought had occurred to him as they came across the land west of Plymouth; perhaps some Pilgrim farmer might have looked up in wonder from his plow. In any case, no one tried to take a shot at the dirigible—not that there was a weapon in North America with the range to hit it . . . at least until it descended.

* * *

“I don’t know very much about this Oldham,” Gordon said. He was beginning to consider where John Wayne might be putting in to land. They were nearly three hours into the flight, and though the wind had been favorable enough that he had been able to conserve fuel, they’d likely be spending the night on Block Island, waiting for Challenger to catch up with them.

There had as yet been no sign of Oldham or his ship. “What would you like to know?”

“Is he a friend?”

“Brother Oldham is brave enough,” Endecott said. “It takes a strong man to sail the coasts and to travel the Indian trails.”

“That’s not quite an answer, Captain.”

“He is a member of the faith and a citizen of our commonwealth,” Endecott answered. “He has been a member of the general assembly.”

“I get the impression that you don’t personally like Oldham.”

“I do not see how that has anything to do with this mission, Chehab,” he said. “We are not undertaking this journey because John Oldham is a particular friend of mine.”

“You call him brave and strong, but you don’t call him a friend. I get it. Why is he going to Block Island, anyway?”

“He is a trader, and a canny one. As we are cut off from England, trade with the savages has become more important to us. He . . . is very successful in his dealings with the tribes, particularly the Niantics, though some like him better than others.”

“Why is that?”

“He may be brave and canny, but he is also quick to anger. You know, of course, that Plymouth Colony exiled him?”

“Do tell.”

“He drew a knife on Captain Standish and called him a beggarly rascal. They put him and his pastor, John Lyford, on trial and banished them. Oldham was forced to run a gauntlet of muskets, where the men beat him with the butts of their weapons.

“But not everyone thought that Oldham was in the wrong—a fair number of Plymouth men chose to become Strangers and went to Nantasket, Oldham’s settlement in exile. His personality makes its own trouble,” Endecott added. “But he is a brave man and true to the faith. As for Standish . . . he is mischievous by design. He is William Bradford’s catspaw, and if he tries to stir up trouble in Boston there will be a number of knives drawn on him, I daresay.”

“About that,” Gordon said, adjusting the direction of the dirigible slightly as he spoke. “Governor Winthrop indicated that your colony and Plymouth had entered into some sort of alliance.”

“We have some irreconcilable differences of faith,” Endecott answered. “Our alliance—if it can be called that—is for mutual protection, no more. I do not doubt that men from the ‘Old Colony’ will be working toward their own goals, just as we work toward ours.”

“If you spend enough of your energy fighting each other, though, the French will have no trouble defeating you in turn. You—Plymouth—every Indian tribe—and everyone else.” Gordon glanced over at Endecott, who didn’t seem too happy with the conclusion. “Nobody wants that.”

* * *

The last quarter moon was partway up in the sky, casting a rippling reflection on the ocean below, when he saw the first dark outline of Block Island to the south. He breathed a sigh of relief: John Wayne might, or might not, have enough fuel to keep itself aloft all the way to Long Island. Montauk Point, a long rugged finger of land, was somewhere off to the west, twenty or twenty-five miles away—assuming he didn’t miss it entirely and go out to sea.

“We’re going to have to make landfall on Block Island,” Gordon said quietly. He couldn’t read an expression on Endecott’s face in the shadowed moonlight; but he suspected that Puritan John was disappointed—or perhaps frustrated that this had been a fool’s errand.

But then Pete, who hadn’t had ten words to say during the three-plus hours they’d been aloft, said, “Not so fast, big bro.”

Gordon reached under the control yoke and drew out a spyglass. “You see something?”

“Two or three points to port,” Pete said. “The sail catches the moonlight. It’s a sloop all right, moving at a good clip. Fore-and-aft rigged.”

Gordon looked where he’d been directed and saw it at once: a small sloop, smaller than a sloopof-war, sailing close-hauled and heading south for Block Island. If there hadn’t been as much of a moon to sail by, they would likely have waited until morning to cross the sound. They’d be on top of it in less than five minutes.

Not far away, cutting through the water with good speed, Gordon picked out four canoes making for the sloop. It wasn’t clear that the canoes had been sighted yet.

“There’s the ambush,” Gordon said. “Pete, how close do you have to be to get a good rifle shot?”

“Two or three hundred yards,” Pete said from the darkness in the back of the car. “You’re going to have to lose some altitude.”

“Once it’s lost, it’s gone until Challenger meets up with us.”

“You were going to make landfall anyway.”

“True enough.” Gordon reached up and pulled on the cables attached to the control surfaces above; they could hear air beginning to vent. “You’re going to have time for one, maybe two shots.”

“From this distance?” Endecott said.

“He’s a pretty good shot, Captain,” Gordon answered without turning. “Even in moonlight.”

They had dropped a few hundred feet during this conversation, and Gordon had turned John Wayne partially into the wind, slowing her down further. Through the spyglass, he could make out the four canoes; they were filled with men rowing for all they were worth.

“Captain,” Gordon said. “Are your pistols primed?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t hit anything at this range.”

“You don’t need to. I just want to get the attention of your pal Oldham. Let’s make sure he knows we’re here. Pete will handle the target shooting.”

Endecott nodded and drew out a pistol. Gordon turned back to the business of piloting the dirigible, but a few moments later felt Pete standing directly next to him, his rifle held loosely.

“Something wrong, little brother?”

“Not so far,” Pete said. “Just making sure that Puritan John’s pistol is aimed in the right direction.”

Endecott began to say something, but Gordon heard him hesitate, then he heard the sound of the pistol’s mechanism being operated.

Gordon glanced at the altimeter. The Duke was down under a thousand feet, and had passed over Oldham’s sloop: the shadow cast through the moonlight was running across the waves below. He wondered what the Indians must have thought they were seeing.

“Fire that pistol of yours, John,” Pete said. “Aim high. I’ll be aiming low.”

Almost at once, two shots rang out: the click and boom of Endecott’s wheellock pistol, and the crack of Pete’s rifle. On the lead canoe, the frontmost Indian was thrown back into the lap of the man behind him. Their rowing stopped and they all began to whoop loudly.

They could hear shouting from Oldham’s ship as they passed over it and left it astern.

“It’s going to take me five minutes to maneuver back into position, assuming the wind is right at lower altitude. But it looks like they all know we’re here now.”

“Right,” Pete said, ejecting the shell from his rifle. “What’s the plan, big bro?”

“I didn’t have one,” Gordon answered. “I was just focusing on getting down here. I didn’t expect to interrupt the ambush—that’s pure blind luck.”

“Or Divine Providence,” Endecott said. Gordon didn’t like the level tone that the Puritan captain used: it sounded a bit too fervent.

“Whatever it is, I’m not going to be able to stop them from carrying out their attack,” Pete said. “I can’t kill an Indian once every five minutes and expect to drive them off.”

“The important thing is that Oldham has been warned,” Gordon said, as he manipulated the steering controls, trying to catch a cross-breeze to bring them back toward the sloop and the oncoming canoes. “It looked like he hadn’t known that they were coming. Now he knows.”

“He should have no trouble dispatching the savages,” Endecott said. He was working at reloading his pistol.

No,” Gordon answered. “No, damn it. That’s not what should be happening at all.”

“They were ready to kill him.”

“And you’d do the same?” Gordon tugged on a catenary cable, losing some altitude. “You call them savages. What will that make all of you if you kill all of the attackers? Or, I don’t know, take them as captives and sell them into slavery? You need to make peace with them. You need to make them allies.”

“That’s absurd,” Endecott said quietly, emerging from the shadows, his pistol in his hand.

Gordon couldn’t read Endecott’s expression in the moonlight, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it if he could. The Puritan held the pistol loosely in his hand, not raising it—but in a few moments he could do that, and fire a shot at Gordon that would do a great deal of damage at short range.

And I’m the damn medic aboard, Gordon thought to himself. Ingrid Skoglund is back in Boston, hopefully saving some lives.

“This vehicle is the perfect weapon against these heathen natives,” the Puritan said. “They’ll be afraid of it, and they’ll heed our wishes. The Lord of Hosts could not have provided better than He has done in sending you to us.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Endecott said levelly, “that we will use your airship to make these natives—and all the rest of them, eventually—clients of God’s Kingdom in Massachusetts Bay.”

Gordon didn’t answer for several seconds; there was silence in the car, until it was broken by the action on Pete’s rifle.

“It’s a long and lonely fall to the ocean, Puritan John,” Pete said without emotion. “They’ll never find your body.”


It didn’t take us long to find out Thomas Oldham was also a bit of a bastard. We made landfall on Block Island, near where Oldham’s ship had anchored. Once we were down and secure, we were stuck there as well—at least until Challenger showed up: there was nowhere near enough fuel to get us back to land. Oldham and Endecott had a sort of reunion.


Oldham’s ship had sent a launch to meet them, and when it pulled ashore with four men, Gordon got his first look at the Puritan adventurer.

He was of average size, and lanky—weather-beaten, really—but there wasn’t too much that they could make of his features in the light of the waning moon. He had a musket in his hands and wore a metal helmet, but appeared to have left the breastplate behind. He had two young boys with him, who stayed well behind.

Gordon began to approach, but Endecott laid a hand on his arm. “Brother Oldham,” the Puritan captain said into the darkness.

“Is that you, Brother Endecott? It sounds like your voice.”

“It is. I am with up-timers. We have come on their airship, as you saw out to sea.”

“Aye, and an impressive craft it is,” Oldham said. “Scared the life out of those Indians. Good bit of work, Brother Endecott. I didn’t know you were so solicitous of my welfare.”

It was spoken with a sort of sneer that set Gordon’s teeth on edge.

“The up-timers said that it was to happen, and they were right. Apparently your death in their future world caused quite a stir. They’re here to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Well, now.” Oldham lowered his musket and smiled; if this had been a cheap movie, Gordon supposed, there would have been a telltale glint off the gold tooth in his mouth. But there were no gold teeth. “I suppose it’s good to be remembered in history. Are those the up-timers with you?”

“Yes.”

“And are they a part of the confession of the Faith?”

“No, Brother. They are not.”

“Then it seems your duty is clear, is it not, Brother Endecott?”

“I would put those thoughts aside,” Endecott said, glancing at Peter Chehab, standing beside him. “You are in the sights of an accurate firearm, and well within range.”

Oldham seemed to squint toward where Endecott and the two Chehab brothers were standing. Evidently, even in moonlight, he could make out the three figures—and the rifle, held at aiming position.

“Peace,” he said, leaning the butt of his musket against his leg and extending his hands outward. “Now, let’s not be hasty here. I didn’t mean them any harm at all.”

“Are they all like you, Puritan John?” Pete whispered, not letting his rifle fall away.

Endecott didn’t answer. They walked across the beach, and when they were a dozen yards away, Pete lowered his weapon.

“John Oldham,” Endecott said by way of introduction. “Gordon and Peter Chehab, of . . . the up-timer kingdom in Europe. They are here on a trading mission, or so they say.”

“My sons,” Oldham said, gesturing to the boys. Then, back to Gordon, he said, “You’re here to help us against the heathen Indians. A blessing.”

“Not exactly,” Gordon said. “I have come out here with the express permission of your Governor Winthrop. You are familiar with the Ring of Fire, and how our town has come back from our time to this one?”

“I cannot say I understand it, but yes.”

“We don’t completely understand it either, but that’s neither here nor there. In any case, in the past we know, you—John Oldham—were attacked by the very people who were meant to seize your ship tonight. As a result of that attack, you were killed and your ship was plundered. That’s how we know who you are.

“This incident touched off a campaign against the Pequots as well as the western Niantics, and resulted in a terrible slaughter. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of natives were killed.”

“Thus removing the threat to white settlers,” Oldham said. “It seems we could have the best of both worlds: the threat removed, and I don’t have to die for it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I don’t know what the point is, up-timer. You say that the Pequots were killed? Or driven away? Good. They’ve been a thorn in the side of Massachusetts Bay ever since we began to settle in the Connecticut Valley. They always try to cheat us in trade, they intrigue with the Dutch; they know no law, and they’re vicious and ill-tempered. They have refused to surrender the killers of John Stone, and they were apparently out to do me in as well. We put down dogs that behave less poorly.”


That was the attitude. Pete was all for shooting him just out of spite, but cooler heads prevailed. I didn’t know what to say, but I told him we weren’t around to fight a war for him— the same as we’d told Endecott. Oldham wasn’t happy to hear it, and he made a point of telling us that if it wasn’t one thing, it was another: there’d be some other incident, and the war would happen anyway.

While we were cooling our heels on Block Island with Oldham, the natives showed up.


The brothers arrived on the scene to see Endecott, as well as Oldham and his crew, facing a group of natives who had just emerged from the trees. The natives did not have their weapons drawn, but their faces were painted with colored patterns. Gordon didn’t know quite what to make of them, but assumed the worst: that they wore what Western movies used to call “war paint.” There were at least a dozen of the natives, with a few still coming into view.

Neither side had said a word. Endecott was scowling; Oldham looked as if he could barely contain his anger. But no one had started shooting.

At last the natives were all assembled, in a sort of semicircle. One, taller and older than the rest, stepped forward. “Oldham, my brother. You do not greet us as we are used to hearing.”

“My heart is not full of friendship, Chief,” Oldham answered. “I do not greet men as brothers who seek to kill me.”

“I do not understand,” the man said, spreading his arms wide.

“Do not lie,” Oldham said. “Your face speaks your thoughts. You tried to take my ship last night.

You sought my death.”

“There is no blood upon our hands.”

“I have these men to thank for that,” Oldham said, gesturing toward Endecott and Gordon and Peter.

“Ah,” the native said. “Then we should prefer our suit to them. Blood of my people is upon their

hands.” He placed one hand upon his short-handled axe, tucked into his belt.

Pete looked at Gordon, then locked eyes with the chief. There was no attempt to dissemble or deny the charge.

“Last night,” Oldham said, “your war canoes were bent on attacking my ship. A wise warrior does not wait until the bowman looses his shaft to make his own attack: so yes, an attack took place—but not against my ship.”

“Arrows came from the sky-bird. These men—are they shamans? For this is evil medicine, friend Oldham. The sort of medicine your god forbids, is it not?”

“The Lord God was not specific about airships,” Endecott growled. “You should feel fortunate, Chief, that any of you are here to speak today.”

“What happened in darkness remains in darkness,” the chief said, somewhat cryptically. “I do not forgive so easily,” Oldham snarled.

“But I do,” Endecott said, stepping forward. “The chief is right, Brother Oldham. What happened last night should be a memory, no more. There are more important things to discuss.”


They eventually made their deal. We were surprised at how much of a peacemaker Puritan John turned out to be, but Pete was pretty sure that he’d counted heads and figured out how outnumbered we were. As he always reminded me, up-timers could be killed by downtimer weapons just as easily as anybody else, and as long as we might be allies, Endecott wanted to make sure we survived.

Since he’d cheated the up-time history that killed him, Oldham wanted to know what we’d do next. And this is the next part of the story I hadn’t told you. There was going to be a meeting at Fort Sovereignty in Connecticut, and I decided that we were going to be there. Endecott wasn’t very happy with the idea of just letting Oldham sail away—after all, we were alone, the three of us, on an island where there were natives who were none too happy that we’d killed someone from above.

But I violated operational security—again—and showed Puritan John our radio.


With Endecott’s help he moved a heavy box to the middle of the car. He unlatched it and pulled out a contraption that drew a curious glance from the captain: a metal disk mounted on a footing with pedals attached to either side. Two wires extended from a square block mounted on the top of the disk.

“What is this?”

“A little contraption invented for use in the Outback—a remote part of the world, up-time.” He set it near another trunk and sat down. “Human powered. It generates the power to operate a communications device.”

Endecott didn’t answer; he watched intently as Gordon opened a black box secured to the deck of John Wayne. It was divided into two sections: on one side was a radio receiver, something apparently pulled from someone’s old transistor box; on the other was a contraption consisting of four small wine bottles with bolts driven through their corks, attached to wires. Each bottle had a strip of silvery metal inside, attached to the bottom side of the bolt.

Endecott scowled at it, as if it personally offended him. “I don’t understand this machine. What is it for?”

Gordon didn’t answer. He connected an extension cord from the pedal block to a connector on the side of the black box. He closed the lid and secured it, then turned a knob on the side to a position labeled TRANSMIT.

“Pete, give me a hand with the antenna hookup.”

“On it, big bro.” Pete was stringing a length of wire from the catenaries to the radio rig.

“It’s a radio,” Gordon said at last to Endecott. “A communications device. We’re going to talk to the ship.”

Talk to . . . ”

“Is it hooked up, Pete?”

“Far as I can tell.”

Gordon placed his feet on the pedals. They’d been taken from the remains of a beat-up bicycle that had been scrounged from somewhere in Grantville.

The only trick, he’d been told, is not to pedal too hard. There was a little dial on the top, with sections marked in green and red; he was to go hard enough to keep it in the green, and not so fast that it went into the red—that might be enough to short out the machine. He wasn’t sure just how that might happen—It’s a black box, after all, he thought to himself—but he took their word for it; with the main radio gone, this was all they had left.

He took a headset out of the pedal case, put it on his head, and plugged it into the side of the black box, and picked up a notepad and a pencil.

Then he began to pedal. The radio set slowly came to life, like television sets used to do when he was very small.

It would have been great if Challenger and John Wayne were equipped with wireless radio telephones, if only to see the look on John Endecott’s face when he heard Maartens’ or James’ voice on the other end. But it would have cost almost as much as equipping the ship with everything else it was carrying for them to have had that technology. Instead, Gordon had had to spend a few weeks learning the most basic forms of radio communication: Morse code.

Now, somewhere out near Vineyard Sound, someone aboard Challenger would be picking up his slow, steady keying: CQ, CQ, CQ—calling anyone, please reply. It was conceivable, though unlikely, that there was anyone else in range of the device that would be equipped to hear, actually listening, and able to reply; he wasn’t expecting an answer from anyone except Challenger.

He moved the switch from TRANSMIT to RECEIVE. There was a long pause, then he heard Morse code signals in his headset: CH1 DE JW2 JW2 KN. CH1 was the agreed-upon identifier for Challenger; “JW2” for John Wayne, and the KN was an invitation for JW2 to reply.

He moved back to TRANSMIT and sent a greeting and their location: RST 577 NORTH SHORE BLOCK ISLAND. The “RST” numeric told them that the signal strength and tone was good. He appended another agreed-upon code—5X5—“five by five,” which in radio parlance meant the best possible reception; but in this case was meant to indicate that they were not in danger. In the case where Gordon might be forced to transmit under threat, it was to reassure the folks aboard Challenger that they need not arrive ready to rescue the folks on the dirigible.

That last had been Pete’s idea, and Gordon allowed that it was a good one.

DISTANCE 12 MI, 6 KNOTS, 2 HR TO LAND, Challenger reported. GOOD TO HEAR 5X5.

GOOD 2CUAGN, Gordon keyed back.

2 HR, the operator on Challenger replied, and then sent “SK”—signing off.

He let off the pedaling, and the lighted dials on the set dimmed and went dark. “Well?” Endecott said.

“They’ll be here in two hours,” Gordon answered. “I told them everything is all right. Now let’s see to getting John Wayne ready to fly again.”

* * *

At midday, Challenger came in sight off the coast, and within an hour had anchored. A boat was sent ashore bearing Captain Thomas James and three men whom Gordon recognized from the pier in Boston. They were armed and looked wary.

“So much for my five-by-five,” Gordon said, walking out to meet them.

“Ah, well,” James said as the boat was rowed back toward Challenger, “Governor Winthrop was expecting trouble. When he learned that we were intending to sail to Fort Sovereignty he suggested . . . well, truly, he insisted that some of his own men accompany us.”

“How many?”

“A dozen. These are just a part of the welcoming committee. And another captain.”

“A captain?”

“Yes,” James said, his face showing distaste. “A man of . . . small stature.”

“Standish?”

Gordon’s answer came from a glance toward the ship. He could see the Pilgrim captain on the foredeck, waiting for the boat to return.

“What does he expect to do with these soldiers? We’re not invading Pequot territory—we’re trying to make peace with them. That doesn’t come out of the barrel of a snaphaunce musket.”

“It’s one of the things they best understand,” Endecott said, coming up to stand beside him. “Before you approach them open-handed, Chehab, you’d better make sure you have their attention.”

“And if they . . . fail to understand my message?”

“Then you’re ready for their attack,” James said. “I agree with the captain, here. Injuries done to both sides cannot be resolved in a single day.”

“Does Captain Standish understand that as well?”

“He’s along to represent Plymouth’s interests.” James looked out to sea, at Challenger and beyond. “He understands that his little colony, like Massachusetts Bay, is clinging to its land at the edge of a hostile continent; that it’s been abandoned by its king and is surrounded by enemies. They’ve made an alliance with people they despise only a little less, because of the threat of people they hate even more.

“He wants to play the long game, Mr. Chehab. But he wants to live long enough to play it. Now.” He gestured to the soldiers, who began to lift the fuel cylinders from the boat. “Let us see if we can get your machine aloft again, shall we?”


Pete had wanted us to show off as we approached Boston, which we didn’t do: it would have made the Puritans think we were servants of the Devil. As we cruised up to Fort Sovereignty, I decided on a different approach. Puritan John approved: not only would we impress the natives, he said, we’d scare the Dutch. I’d approached this assuming that the Dutch and the English colonists were friendly rivals, not bitter enemies: I was schooled when we got to New Amsterdam, as you know. But Endecott was just the same.


“When did the Dutch become your enemy?”

Endecott turned to face Gordon, while still keeping a tight grip on the side of the car. “They have always been our enemy, Chehab. There is a vast land between the Hudson River and the river valleys in eastern Massachusetts, and their patent claims all of it—though they do not try to enforce their rights very far inland. There are too many deep forests, too many barrens and impassable swamps known only to the Pequots and the other heathen tribes.

“Three years ago Governor Bradford of Plymouth sent Edward Winslow, an undertaker—”

“An undertaker?” Pete interrupted.

“Yes,” Endecott said. “An investor. One who has undertaken to seek profit in the New World.”

“Please go on,” Gordon said. Undertaker. Best remember that one, he thought.

“Edward Winslow is an undertaker for the Plymouth colony. He had just returned from England— and probably already knew about the plan by the king to sell away his claims, though he spoke nothing of it. Bradford sent him to Boston in order to persuade our people to join in a trading expedition to the Connecticut River to thwart the ambitions of the Dutch.

“A year or even six months earlier we would likely have turned him away—for we had enough to do trying to protect our inland settlements from the savages; but with the news of King Charles’ arrangement with the French, we realized that we must make friends where we could.”

“This is the basis for your alliance with Plymouth.”

“Just so,” Endecott said. “Oldham volunteered to lead a company, and he and Winslow went overland together and returned with specimens of furs and plants, as well as other items of interest to our colonies. He set up his trading post at Pyquag, and within a year all manner of persons who could not suffer the rule of the Elect were moving westward to settle. Now there are forts and posts of ours, and Dutch ones as well. They suppose us weak because our mother country has abandoned us, but they may soon find that it is not the case.”

“Preparing for war, are you,” Pete said.

Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum,” Endecott said. “Governor Winthrop quoted that to me.”

“I don’t know Latin,” Gordon said. “Translation?”

“‘Let him who desires peace, prepare for war,’” Endecott said. “It’s from a book called Rei Militaris. I should like us to beat all our swords into plowshares, Chehab: but only once we are finished with them.”

“What about Captain Standish? Will he lead Plymouth Colony to war with the Dutch over this as well?”

“I am not able to predict what that man might do. But in the former future that your people experienced, he carried out a murderous attack against the Indians, so he does not lack for ardor. How he might act against fellow Christians . . . ”

“Haven’t your colony and Plymouth Colony come close to war?”

“We have had our disputes, of course. But nothing like this. We are rivals, not enemies—and a real, open conflict with New Amsterdam would be yet different. They have the patronage and support of their own government—”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

“Indeed?” Endecott’s right eyebrow went up. “They are willing to force a conflict without support from home?”

“I don’t think they’re forcing a conflict, Captain,” Gordon said. “They simply believe that they have the right to these territories, and that—between hostile Indians and the act of King Charles of England—you’re simply unable to do anything about it.”

“There are certain . . . things that would change that balance of power.”

Gordon looked away, surveying the dirigible’s controls. “You need to remember who the enemy really is, Captain. And I think you’d better keep those swords sharp for a while longer.”


When we reached the fort, Challenger was already docked. We took a little side trip up the valley, which gave me a chance to have a little chat with Puritan John. I don’t mind telling you that it got me a little hot under the collar.


“This is amazing,” Gordon said. They were drifting slowly northward, following the course of the Connecticut River. “You can’t imagine what this looks like in the twentieth century. Or would, if . . . ”

“I understand,” Endecott said. “Or, let me say, I know what you mean. I do not think that any of us truly understand.”

“Fair enough. But my point is that—well, this land is so empty. All I can see is hills and trees.”

“As opposed to . . . ”

“Towns. Roads. Farms and factories. This is Connecticut—it’s heavily populated, sandwiched between Massachusetts and New York. Half Yankees fans and half Red Sox fans.” Endecott looked puzzled. “Forget it. I’m just overwhelmed by the—wilderness.”

“It is a testament to the savage nature of the natives, Chehab. They have not tamed the land. When we spread across it, this will all change.”

“What about them?”

“What about them?” Endecott looked away from Gordon, shielding his eyes against the late-afternoon sun. “Are you asking me what I should do about natives’ homes? I do not know why I should care at all. They will submit to civilization, or they will die. What does your history say about that?”

“I already told your governor. There are some Indians who took your religion—they called them ‘praying Indians.’ But many did not—and eventually their anger erupted into war—King Philip’s War.”

“‘King Philip’?”

“The name taken by Metacomet, son of Massasoit.”

“The Pokanoket sachem? He is a friend of the Plymouth Colony—he saved their lives when they first arrived. He has only one son, as far as I know: Wamsutta, who is only a boy—the name ‘Metacomet’ I do not know.”

“He might not have been born yet; I’m not sure. He and his older brother—Wamsutta, I’d guess— took the names Philip and Alexander, but Alexander was killed. That was the last straw. Philip— Metacomet—waged war on all of the colonies in this part of the New World. He burned towns, killed civilians, women and children, and it took a year to pacify it all.

“Relations between natives and the colonists were never the same. They never trusted each other again . . . not here and not in other places. It was a terrible tragedy.”

“But we have avoided it, have we not? Saving John Oldham avoids this future. We will not carry out our revenge attack on the Pequots.”

“But that’s just one thing, Captain Endecott. One event. One tragedy avoided. There will be other points of friction and other misunderstandings. Somewhere out there a great leader is waiting, maybe even now waiting to be born, who will want to undo all that you have done while it is still in his power to do so.”

“A son of Massasoit, eh?” Endecott said. “Maybe we can strangle this ‘great leader’ in his cradle.”

“God damn it,” Gordon said, “will you listen to yourself?” He could see Endecott bristling at the blasphemy and decided he didn’t care. “Listen to what you just said. If it isn’t enough that strangling someone in his cradle is a violation of one of the ten fucking commandments, it’s the same mistake King Charles made. Yes, if you kill Metacomet—King Philip—before he’s old enough to make trouble for you, then he won’t make trouble for you.

“But as long as you push against the Indians, cut down their trees and take away their hunting lands, cheat them with land transactions and kill them indiscriminately, you’re adding fuel to the fire. Maybe in this time line it’s not Metacomet. Maybe it’s Wamsutta. Maybe it’s Sassacus, or some other Pequot chief, who won’t be killed because the raid on Mystic never happens. Maybe it’s some great chief from further west armed by and in the pay of the French. Maybe it’s someone we don’t know yet.

“There’s no way to know. And if you and the Plymouth colonists and the rest don’t learn to get along with the natives, there’ll be some kind of war and a lot of innocent people will die, and any chance of living in peace will be gone forever. In this time line you’ll be weakened enough that the French will eat you alive.”

“You paint a grim picture.”

Gordon Chehab closed his eyes; in his mind’s eye he could see the pictures he’d found in history books—woodcuts of the Mystic massacre, King Philip’s War, and all the rest. In the time he’d come from, Indians were pictures in books, poor people on reservations, casino owners whose people’s best days were no more than museums full of flint arrowheads and videos on National Geographic.

He didn’t know if he could stop it all—but he knew that he could do something in this here and now. He knew he had to try.

“It can all be avoided,” Gordon said, opening his eyes. “At least there’s a chance.”


Pete tells me that my idealism is out of place in this century, Don Estuban, and sometimes I agree with him. He rolls his eyes and talks about ‘saving the whales’—I guess you can ask Mr. Piazza what he means by that. But I felt that we had a chance to change things for the better and not make the same mistakes that we made as down-timers. Hindsight has its uses, and maybe my twentieth-century idealism can do a little good.

While I was touring upstate with Puritan John, Pete was gathering intel. Apparently every tribe in southern New England had sent a group to this gathering. Imagine a whole group of little parties of natives, along with representatives from Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay, all ready to take their knives or muskets out and kill each other. I could make an up-time reference, but I think you get the idea. Captain Standish had already been talking with the captain of the fort and a guy named Stanton, who was serving as translator. He had a plan, as you’ll see—but I went forward as if he didn’t. Pete was skeptical; when he told me that everyone seemed scared, I told him that everyone had something to lose, and they had something to gain if they allied together. This was me playing high politics, I know: I expect you’d be ready to give me a smackdown for doing it. Pete asked me if we’d been sent to the New World “to save the red man from the white man,” or if this was just for show; I told him it was our chance to make a difference.

He told me that they’d be at each other’s throats as soon as we sailed away. He called it a “house of cards,” even if we managed to get them to agree. He may wind up being right. But in the meanwhile, we had a chance to actually be diplomatic.


Gordon and Pete had become accustomed to waking with the sun, usually to the sound of the watch changing, or the calling of the soundings as the ship traveled through shallow waters. But this morning the situation was different: there was a commotion above-decks loud enough to wake them from their hammocks.

Pete had his rifle in hand by the time Gordon had his feet on the deck. “Don’t shoot, little bro.”

“Not you, anyway.” Pete laid his weapon beside him and pulled on his trousers. He picked it up again. “Let’s see if there’s anyone up top who needs shooting.”

“Wait for me.” Gordon reached for his own pants and a shirt, but Pete was already out of the cabin and headed up to the ladder, pulling his suspenders over his shoulders with one hand as he went.

* * *

By the time Gordon reached the deck he was more awake but the noise level hadn’t died down.

The scene before him was unusual: it had attracted the attention of most of the crew.

There were four natives on deck standing opposite Captain Maartens, who was flanked by two able seamen. Captain James stood nearby, leaning against the rail. Smoke from his pipe swirled away into the morning. Pete stood next to him, rifle held loosely in his hands.

In between natives and crewmen was a carcass of a very large animal. Gordon wasn’t sure at first glance but concluded that it was a bear. It was apparently very dead.

“Chehab,” Maartens said. “About time you got here.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Maartens looked about to erupt but managed to say, “I should think that would be obvious.”

“The . . . bear.”

“Yes, of course the bear. These four . . . visitors just hauled themselves on to my deck and dumped it here. I want it off my ship.”

The natives scowled at this. One, a bit taller and more decorated than the others, stepped forward. “You do not accept?”

“I don’t—” Maartens began.

“Wait,” Gordon said. “Friends,” he said to the natives, “You have brought something to us. What is the meaning of this offering?”

“It is a gift,” the native leader answered. “Makwa. The great hunter, awoken from his winter sleep and fattened by his spring hunting. You . . . do not wish it?”

“Of course we accept it,” Gordon said. Maartens appeared ready to say something but Gordon immediately added, “You will take our thanks to your sachems, Great Warrior, and inform him that we will bring you a worthy gift in return.”

The native leader did not answer for a moment; then he nodded, placing his hand over his heart. “You speak with honor,” he said, with a smile that showed all of his teeth. He paused to give Maar- tens a fierce look, placing his hand on the hilt of a small axe he wore tucked in his breechcloth.

Then he stepped back, and with his companions he climbed over the side of Challenger and down to the water. A minute or so later, Gordon could see them paddling away in a dugout canoe to the shore where the natives had camped.

After the natives had gone, Maartens approached the bear carcass and poked it with the toe of one boot.

“I hope you have room in your cabin for this, Chehab.”

“I just wasn’t going to turn it down.”

Maartens grunted. “Ach, very well. I’m sure we’ll find someplace to dump it over the side.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Ingrid had appeared from belowdecks. Unlike Pete or Gordon, she appeared fully dressed and ready for the day, as if she hadn’t been sleeping at all.

“Eh?” Maartens managed before Ingrid arrived next to him. “I suppose you intend something.”

“Indeed I do.”

She knelt down and extended her hand to the bear’s body, almost tenderly. She passed her hand over it, glancing up at Gordon. She looked sad, distant. “There is a pelt here, which has trade value. The bones can be used to make needles. And the meat—if properly and thoroughly cooked—will be good for stew. I shall have to instruct the cook.”

“Bear meat,” Maartens said. “I don’t know . . . ”

Ingrid stood up straight. “In northern Sweden, Captain, bear—and many other large animals—are delicacies. I am sure this fine animal will well provide.” She looked at Gordon. “You know how to dress game, I assume?”

“This is a bit bigger than the sort of game I’m used to.”

She looked more amused than disappointed. “I know what to do. I shall fetch my scalpels—but I think we may need carpenters’ tools as well.”


The damn thing must have weighed four hundred pounds, but Ingrid took care of it. She claimed she’d learned how to do that sort of thing in Salerno, where there’s a big school for doctors. I expect you already knew that.

No one did much of anything for seven days; they were all waiting for the Pequots to turn up. Their chief, a man named Sassacus, was the most important, most influential chief of them all. From what I was told, he was like a king, but no one actually called him that. Captain James told me that it would have been far easier if he actually was a king—then there wouldn’t have to be this great show.

But there was a show anyway.


Gordon was aboard Challenger, trying to work through his notes on Dutch and English settlements upriver, when Pete came into the cabin.

“He’s coming,” Pete said. He was out of breath, as if he’d been running all the way. “Who? Sassacus?”

“Yes. Five canoes, apparently a half dozen sagamores and a good-sized warrior band. But we’ve got trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Standish.”

“Slow down. What sort of trouble is he causing?”

“I was at the fort,” Pete said. He seemed to be gathering himself, as if he was making a report to an officer. “Standish was talking to John Mason. It would’ve been a funny scene, really, like that movie with Schwarzenegger and DeVito.”

Twins. Though why my brain is bothering to retain that five years on is beyond me. Go on.”

“Yeah. Twins. Standish is like five-two, and Mason is built like a tall middle linebacker. Anyway, they were talking quietly, and I happened to overhear: they have plans for Sassacus.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. It seems that the Pequots raided a settlement somewhere on the river within the last year and took two Plymouth girls as captives, and they haven’t shown much interest in giving them back. They’ve also killed several settlers on the Connecticut and refused to give compensation.”

“Have the colonists from Plymouth tried to negotiate?”

“As if. Their idea of negotiation is to demand that the killers be turned over and that the women be returned unharmed. They won’t even talk about giving up warriors, and apparently the clan that grabbed the girls wants payment, and the governor of Plymouth has told them to go to hell. So Standish—and Mason, and a few others at the fort—are planning to grab Sassacus as soon as he sets foot on land, to trade him for the two girls. They apparently have someone on the inside of Sassacus’ traveling party to help.”

Gordon stood and remembered at the last minute to bow his head so as not to smack it against the ceiling beam. “That kind of trouble. Does Endecott know about this?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Puritan John is in on it,” Pete said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t all hell going to break loose if they try this—in front of all the Pequots, and all of the other Indians camped around here?”

“Yes,” Gordon said. “All hell is going to break loose—unless we stop it.”

* * *

Sassacus came with five canoes, crossing the north cove toward the beach near where Challenger was anchored. When Gordon and Pete came up on deck, they could see Standish and his men stalking through the high grass, muskets in their hands.

Gordon ran for the gangplank. When Pete made to follow, Gordon turned to his younger brother. “Can you hit him from here?”

“Standish?”

“Standish.”

“Not quite yet, but I can probably hit him over there”—he gestured toward the place where the canoes would come ashore—“if I stand near the bow.”

“Lock and load,” Gordon said. “And I’ll do my best not to get shot.” He ran down the gangplank to the wooden dock, not looking back.

“Are you—” Crazy, Pete wanted to say, but realized that he knew the answer to that. Of course his brother was crazy—the whole idea of being here was crazy.

Shoot Standish. Jesus, Pete thought. That’s no way to form an alliance.

But right now it looked as if Myles Standish wasn’t looking for an alliance—not with the USE, not with the Pequots. He was looking to demand, or maybe exact, justice. And if Standish and his men started shooting, there would be lots more of it.

He went back to the ladder and climbed down to grab his rifle.

Gordon ran along the dock and onto the open ground as if he were chasing a deep fly ball. He kept his eye on the Plymouth captain and his squad of men—their metal breastplates reflected the sun— and he could see the Pequot canoes coming closer to shore as they cut through the calm water.

The colonists were wearing armor and he was not, and he was willing to believe that they’d chased a lot fewer fly balls than he had. He headed for a spot in between the approaching Pequots and the advancing Pilgrims.

Sassacus and the other Indians hadn’t noticed him, but Standish did, and raised his hand, halting the march.

“Chehab?” he shouted as Gordon came closer.

Gordon stopped running and glanced over his shoulder at the canoes. “What do you think you’re doing, Captain?”

“The savage chief has to be apprehended, Chehab,” Standish said. “His tribe holds two Christian women. I mean to get them back.”

Gordon walked slowly toward Standish, keeping his hands visible. “Captain Standish,” he said, “if you try to take Sassacus—or any of his men—there’ll be a lot more shooting.”

Standish stepped in front of his squad of men. “You don’t understand them, up-timer. They respond to force: they will not fight. I will take their king in charge, and I will have my countrywomen returned.”

“That’s not why we’re here.”

“Oh, indeed.” Standish scowled; his hand was still on his musket, though it did not appear to be aimed at Gordon—at least for the moment. “Why are we here, then? Have you not just come from an encounter with Indians who are subjects of this chief? It seems you have an argument with him as well.”

“I’d rather find a way for him to become an ally.”

“Of your United States of Europe?”

“No,” Gordon said. “Of your colony—and Massachusetts Bay. You will benefit far more by having him as a friend than as an enemy.”

“Benefit?” Standish laughed harshly. “Benefit? What have we gained by association with the Pequots? With the Pokanokets, perhaps—but the Pequots are liars and thieves.

“You saw it yourself. They killed Stone; they meant to kill Oldham. ‘Mad Jack,’ as they quaintly call him, is a scoundrel, a man without honor, but he is yet withal a Christian and an Englishman—or whatever we have become in this new world.

“You do not understand,” he repeated. “They are no friends of Plymouth. If the men of Massachusetts Bay think they can be friends, they are deluded—or, worse yet for them, they have become soft and indulgent. If that is what they believe, they cannot survive what is to come.”

Gordon had walked close enough to stand a dozen feet from Myles Standish, and could see the righteous expression on his face. It seemed illuminated by zealous fire; he’d seen a little of that from Endecott, and suspected that it might have come out under the right circumstances. What was happening now was just that for the Plymouth captain.

“And what is to come?”

“A great cleansing,” Standish said. “Here, in the Connecticut Valley, and in all the Pequot lands to the east. All of this will be ours, because God wills it. He granted us dominion over all of the earth and all that dwells upon it, and through His Grace we were able to survive the harshness of our first few years in the New Jerusalem. These Pequots will submit—or die.”

“I’m asking you to reconsider.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll have my brother change the course of history,” Gordon said, gesturing toward Challenger. They could all see Pete, standing at the bow, his rifle aimed and ready.

Standish looked from Pete to Gordon, anger in his eyes. “I could shoot you where you stand.”

“I imagine you could,” Gordon said, hoping it didn’t come to that. “But I expect that Pete could drop you before you put slow match to flashpan. And, of course, you’d make an enemy of the USE.

“The French are already looking forward to rubbing Plymouth off the map. How do you think Governor Bradford would feel about having two enemies?”

And this is where I find out if I’m a complete moron for reasoning with this extreme lunatic, he thought. If Pete sneezed, or the rifle jammed, or any of a dozen other things happened, the only person for whom the course of history would change would be him.

Standish waited a few more seconds, which were the longest seconds of Gordon’s life. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will accede to your wishes. For now.”


I realized later what a very, very stupid move that was: not because of what I achieved, but because I was betting that Pete actually could drop him before he shot me. We hadn’t come to North America to get me shot, or to kill Myles Standish either. Sometimes you play poker; sometimes you play Russian roulette. I got lucky.

I should take a minute to describe Sassacus. He reminded me of a weird combination of Nelson Mandela and Samuel L. Jackson—sorry, Mr. Piazza will have to explain that to you. But he brought quite a crew with him. He didn’t speak, and no one else spoke either—from the moment he put his foot on the shore he was the man in charge.

I made my pitch to all of them—but I was mostly talking to Sassacus.


Sassacus bent down and touched the earth with his right hand, then brought it to his nose and mouth and took a breath. Then he stood erect and looked at Standish and his men, scowled, and turned his glance to Gordon.

“You are the one who crossed the great water in the sky ship,” he said.

“I am the visitor here,” Gordon said. He decided that it wasn’t time to correct the Pequot sachem on the details.

“My shaman tells me a story,” Sassacus said. “He says that you are also come from the time-tocome. Some great work of the higher powers that we do not understand. Is this true?”

“It is true, Great Sachem.” Gordon looked at Standish, who looked angrily back. “We do not know how, or why, but we were brought to this time. But we are here.”

Sassacus made a gesture, and the other Pequots began to disembark behind him. “Do you now speak for the Englishmen?”

“I speak only for my brothers across the great water,” Gordon said. “The Englishmen”—he again decided not to sweat the details—“speak for themselves.”

“The Englishmen speak much,” Sassacus said, “but say little.” He gestured to some of his companions; they began to unload bundles from the canoes. “We will take our place here, in the shadow of the great English house. When all is ready, we will speak again.”

Gordon wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but didn’t have a chance; the great Pequot chief turned away from him and began speaking rapidly in his native tongue with another younger man, similarly attired, standing behind him.

* * *

Within a few minutes, Gordon was joined by his brother and Thomas Stanton, who surveyed the scene and said, “Chief Sassacus is making a statement, no doubt.”

The Pequots were assembling a long, low tent from skins and wooden poles they had brought along for the purpose. Sassacus—who had not spoken another word to Gordon or any of the English—was watching the progress while standing, motionless, with his arms crossed in front of him; it was like a woodcut from an old book.

The man he had originally spoken to, by comparison, was taking a more hands-on approach; he also seemed to be glancing in every direction—but particularly toward the spot where Standish and his men were now sitting, and where Gordon and Pete and the English interpreter stood. Stanton nodded to him—they seemed to be acquainted.

“Friend of yours?” Gordon asked.

“I would not term it thus, but we know each other. That is the sachem Uncas, who has at times been a friend to the English. He is in . . . a precarious position at the moment.”

“Do tell.”

“A few years ago after the death of Sassacus’ father, he made a move for the top position and rebelled—but received little support among his people or his allies in the Narragansett people. He had to flee, and could only return after humbling himself before the great chief.”

“How old is Sassacus?” Pete said, looking at the Pequot sachem. The man was clearly old, but looked as if he could handle himself in a melee.

“No one is quite sure,” Stanton said. “But based on what I have been told, he is no younger than seventy-five.”

Pete whistled. “You’re joking. He could probably kick anyone’s ass in sight, including Captain Standish.”

“I would not underestimate that one,” Stanton said; he looked as if he was resisting the urge to glance over. “But I suspect that Sassacus is still a match for most warriors. As long as that is the case, Uncas is powerless. But no one lives forever, and eventually there will be a struggle for control. Captain Mason would prefer that Uncas be the one to win that struggle—but there are no guarantees.”

* * *

It was dim and smoky inside the long tent. There was a fire—which Gordon considered entirely unnecessary, given the balmy temperature of the evening outside—and the tent had been constructed in such a way that it vented directly up and out. The smoke came from tobacco, which was being consumed by the many Indians that had gathered within. Belts of wampum were hung along the main supports of the tent. From what Gordon had been told, together it amounted to a small fortune.

Standish and one of his men sat uncomfortably near the entrance; Stanton, John Mason and Endecott were more at ease, finding comfortable places on blankets spread near the fire.

All of the natives were watching Sassacus, who sat perched on a low stool near the fire, sucking smoke from a long clay pipe.

Gordon and Pete had found a spot opposite. Pete was more at ease than his older brother. Don’t worry, he said; if things go sideways, it’ll be just like a rumble at a biker bar. Gordon knew he could take care of himself in a fight, but wasn’t completely sure that this was that kind of fight, and wasn’t eager to find out.

It all had the feel of the sort of drama he’d been forced to read in high school English. Sassacus was drawing it out, waiting for the right moment to speak. Gordon wanted to tell him to get on with it, but he was fairly sure that even if he said so it would do no good.

Okay, tough guy, he thought, looking at the great Pequot sachem. It’s your play.

Sassacus finally handed the pipe to one of the other natives and placed his hands on his knees.

“I am Sassacus. All men in all tribes know me to be fierce to my enemies, generous to my friends.” He cast a glance at Uncas, who reclined nearby, his face partially in shadow. “Our clans have roamed the fields and forests of this land for many suns, long before the newcomers arrived.

“There was a time that we rejoiced in the coming of the new people from across the great water: they brought us tools and fine weapons and asked only for small places to build their houses. In the time of the great sachem Tatobem, they observed the laws of sky and earth and took only what they needed.

“But like children who have been given all that they want, they became greedy, and their greed grew like a snake twisting inside them. They were not content.” Above the murmuring, he repeated, “They were not content. I have come to think: Is there any amount of land that is enough for these strangers? Is there any limit to their greed or does the snake grow and grow?”

The great tent was quiet now as Sassacus looked from face to face in the firelight. “What do you have to say to us, Englishmen?”

Gordon looked at Standish and then at Endecott; the little Plymouth captain looked eager to reply, while the Massachusetts man made the smallest of gestures. Go ahead, he seemed to say. Say your piece, up-timer.

“I am not an Englishman,” Gordon said, “but I would answer you.”

“We are all listening,” Sassacus said, gesturing with each hand in turn to the many natives sitting to either side.

“I come from another time,” Gordon began. “It is not the time to come, for the time to come for this place will not be the world where I was born. That world may no longer exist.

“Almost five years ago my home, and the land around it, was brought to this time by some means I cannot explain. Our . . . shamans have no idea how, or why: but it happened, and we are here now. This is our time now. We have tried to make the best of it; our presence has changed history so much that the path we all walk will never lead back to the time when I was born.”

He looked around at the audience; there were many furrowed brows. You’re losing them, you moron, he thought.

“You know that we have books in our town that came back with us. There is knowledge there of many things—about Captain Standish and his Plymouth town, about Massachusetts Bay, about the French and the Dutch and the English. There is even knowledge of you, Great Sassacus.”

The Indian sachem made a gesture. “What do these books say of me?”

“I . . . cannot tell you exactly,” Gordon said, “but I do know that the Pequot nation—in our time line— came to blows with the English, and suffered a great defeat so that its people were scattered. Your brothers and sisters, Great Sachem, died, or were exiled, or were made slaves—and the lands were given over to the English colonies.”

“Did we not fight?”

“Yes. You fought. All of you”—Gordon swept his hand in a circle, indicating the many warriors in the tent, now murmuring to themselves—“all of you fought. The many wars between whites and natives cost untold lives and brought immeasurable misery. Indians were used as pawns in the wars between Europeans, and rarely did well by it. In the time from which I come, their lands had been shrunk to nearly nothing and their pride was crushed by poverty.

That is the legacy of wars with Europeans. If all else had remained the same, there would be little possibility of avoiding it, and little chance that anything could be done to change it.

“But something has changed, Great Chief. The great king of England has abandoned his children in the New World, and another king—the king of France—has claimed all of these lands as his own: not just the English colonies, but the Dutch territories as well, and all of the native lands.

“The French king is an enemy of my people. True, there is no state of war at the moment, but his goals run counter to ours. We seek to be your friend, and a friend to the Englishmen who have made their home here, and even a friend to the Dutch of New Amsterdam if they will accept us as such. But there is a price: we seek to have you be friends with each other.”

“We want nothing else,” Sassacus said mildly, his face relaxing into a slight smile. “We would live in peace with the Englishmen.”

“How?” Standish said at once. “By killing our people? By kidnapping them? What do you say to that, Great Sachem? How do you answer for these crimes?”

“You call them crimes,” Sassacus said. “What of your greed, Englishman? You make treaties with one hand and hide your other behind your back. Your people made a solemn promise about settlements here on the great river, and then sent my people away when you wanted more land. You cut down and clear the forest so that we must travel further afield for game. You cheat us at bargains, and try to trick us with your teachings about the world in the sky.

“There should be enough land, enough trees, enough game for all. But you will not rest until you have your portion and our portion as well.”

Standish looked ready to reply, but Gordon cut him off. “There are faults on both sides,” he said. “But it doesn’t have to reach the point of bloody war. You have much to gain by being friends and allies, and much to lose if you don’t. You can avoid the mistakes that were made in my time line, but it requires trust on both sides.”

“How will we ever reach this trust?”

The question came out of the dimness from Captain John Mason, who had not spoken a word during the entire proceeding. Mason, Gordon knew, had a foot in many camps: he was a Massachusetts man, a Connecticut settler, a devout Puritan, but a one-time friend to the rebel sagamore Uncas. Somewhere in that tangle of beliefs, loyalties and commitments were motivations about which Gordon couldn’t be sure.

Gordon glanced at his brother for a moment, remembering Pete’s comment. It’s a house of cards. “You need someone to guarantee it,” he said. “Ultimately it will be up to settlers and natives to

make sure peace is maintained, especially in the face of the threat from the French and their Indian allies. But in the long run, the guarantor can be the USE.”

Gordon was going way out on a limb here. He didn’t have the authority to commit even the State of Thuringia-Franconia to such a diplomatic position, much less the entire United States of Europe. But he figured the old biblical axiom applied here: Sufficient is the evil unto the day thereof. If he could help keep the peace in North America, he’d worry about covering his ass later.

Sassacus did not immediately respond. He stared at Gordon for several moments, the firelight flickering in his deep-set eyes.

Then he turned aside and whispered something to Uncas, who leaned forward to hear and respond. Gordon looked at Thomas Stanton, who sat, frowning, trying to make it out.

“We should trust an invisible people from across the sea,” Sassacus said at last, “to keep the Englishmen here from killing us and taking our land.”

“And we should trust—whoever you might be,” Standish said almost immediately, “to protect us from devil savages who kill and kidnap our people?”

In the long run,” Gordon said. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. In the long run you trust us to guarantee peace between you. If you can keep from going at each other’s throats, both settlers and natives can benefit from what my government—and my people—have to offer. But I can’t offer it myself. This is about the future, Great Sachem. This is about survival, Captain Standish, Captain Mason, Captain Endecott.”

“Kumbaya,” Pete said under his breath, smirking.

Gordon wanted to smack his little brother, but decided instead to ignore him. “So?” Gordon said at last. “What do you have to say?”


You’ll be relieved to know, Don Estuban, that they didn’t really have much to say. Sassacus didn’t give in; Standish and Endecott left empty-handed. As far as I know, there’s been no war to exterminate the Pequots, and there might not be. But it would be ironic if the French decided to send an expedition to New England to take the colonies there and no one was at home because they were carrying out a crusade against natives who they thought were no better than dogs.

It’s taken me a while to put this all down for you. Despite our intention to just gather information, I actually made them offers—to ward off smallpox, to be an honest broker against a common enemy, to . . . I don’t know, to save the whales. To this moment they haven’t accepted any of it, at least as far as I am aware. The USE has not been committed, so you can rest easy on that account.

As Pete told me when we left Boston, they were “a bunch of useless assholes.” That’s about what we found in New Amsterdam as well. When the French arrive—and they will, even if there’s no Cardinal Richelieu to direct them—all of these colonies, and all of these tribes, will be easy pickings.

I still hope to get back to the USE by Christmas. From here I’ll have to go back to Virginia to pick up Pete, unless he’s completely gone native. I’m entrusting this letter to what I believe to be a trustworthy courier. I wanted to make sure you had the full story, even if it involved me going out of bounds. I hope I’ve represented the USE—and the twentieth century—with honor and integrity. It matters to me, even if all the whales can’t be saved.

With respect,
Gordon Chehab


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