or old … an’ sir, God save the King.”
Will shifted from foot to foot. “We be none too far from where we left yestre’en, Highness,” he warned.
“Aye. Fire up our oliphaunt.” Rupert clapped the hunched shoulder before him, turned, and soared ontothe platform. Gauges told their tale, the shovel clattered and grated before brawling flames, arms rocked on eccentrics, the locomotive jerked into motion.
The operator stood tiny beneath the semaphore, waving till his visitors were out of sight.
FURTHER SOUTH.
The countryside remained hilly but had changed from pasture to cropland. Cornfields ripened beneath the sun, hayfields reached smaragdine. The latter were being harvested, mostly by lines of scythemen followed by women rakers—for hereabouts independent farms survived among estates, half-timbered homes and outbuildings, wind-gnarled apple orchards—though sometimes the whirling blades and teeth of a modern horse-drawn mower might be seen, worked by three or four hirelings. The fragrance was so overwhelming that it blessed every reek of tar or oil. Clouds were piling in the west, enormous white and blue.
The train banged on its way. Rupert clutched wheels, hauled levers, peered at meters and at the shining road before him. It was joy to brace legs against the pulse and shake of speed. Heat and smoke were an honest breath of freedom. They did not really bar off sky or land. He laughed, a flash amidst soot, and broke into a riding song of the Continental wars. From time to time he pulled the whistle lanyard.
“Morgenrot,
Morgenrot,
Leuchtest mir zun frühen Tod?
Bald wird die Trompete blasen.
Dann muss ich mein Leben lassen,
Ich und mancher Kamerad!” (Toot, toot!)
Will Fairweather saw the firebox gorged for a while, gusted a sigh, and racked his shovel. He tapped Rupert’s arm. “B’r leave, my loard.” When the prince glanced around: “I ben’t ungraeteful, zir, for your foarezight what guess God might zend this heare roallin’ kettlealong for us,” he said through the din. “But ben’t we, well, zort o’ bound to faere where it wants to? An’ I doan’t reckon one nest o’ rebels smells any sweeter’n another.”
“Nay. However, I know these roads.”
Will gaped. “You do? I never put credentials in them stoaries ’bout your Highness’s pets bein’ his familiars; but now—” He scratched his gritty head. “A little tin mouse?”
Rupert set wheels and levers, lowered himself to a bolted-in bench, and explained: “See thou, I was ever taken with mechanic arts as well as alchemy and the like. Herein Sir Malachi and I are of the same breed, beneath raised hackles. He was delighted to show me what he had and what he planned. No doubt he thought it might help convert me, too—he was often after me to receive the
soi-disant
minister whose church he attends in Leeds, and would give me no chaplain for myself—” His scowl grew dark as the dust upon it.
“Sine tha Bread an’ Wine wouldn’t be forthcomin’ anyhow,” Will observed, “your Highness might’s well tighten his belt an’ go thirsty for tha Spirit.”
Rupert nodded. “Not the first time. At Linz they were Jesuits I refused to see.” Memory of that liberation brightened his mood in this. “Well,” he continued, “among other things, Shelgrave took me for a good many rides on his private train, letting me drive when I wished: pistols cocked and primed at my back, of course. We talked much of what he and fellow magnates have done, and what they hope to do in future. No denying, they dream grandly. I looked at maps, timetables, bills of lading; and I’d naturally studied similar things earlier, when planning my campaigns; and there aren’t but a few long stretches of railroad in England; and a military chief needs an exact memory. The upshot is, I know the web as well as anyone. Indeed, since I can recall what we Cavaliers tore up, belike I know it better than Shelgrave.”
“Than tha general has a plan?”
Will shifted from foot to foot. “We be none too far from where we left yestre’en, Highness,” he warned.
“Aye. Fire up our oliphaunt.” Rupert clapped the hunched shoulder before him, turned, and soared ontothe platform. Gauges told their tale, the shovel clattered and grated before brawling flames, arms rocked on eccentrics, the locomotive jerked into motion.
The operator stood tiny beneath the semaphore, waving till his visitors were out of sight.
FURTHER SOUTH.
The countryside remained hilly but had changed from pasture to cropland. Cornfields ripened beneath the sun, hayfields reached smaragdine. The latter were being harvested, mostly by lines of scythemen followed by women rakers—for hereabouts independent farms survived among estates, half-timbered homes and outbuildings, wind-gnarled apple orchards—though sometimes the whirling blades and teeth of a modern horse-drawn mower might be seen, worked by three or four hirelings. The fragrance was so overwhelming that it blessed every reek of tar or oil. Clouds were piling in the west, enormous white and blue.
The train banged on its way. Rupert clutched wheels, hauled levers, peered at meters and at the shining road before him. It was joy to brace legs against the pulse and shake of speed. Heat and smoke were an honest breath of freedom. They did not really bar off sky or land. He laughed, a flash amidst soot, and broke into a riding song of the Continental wars. From time to time he pulled the whistle lanyard.
“Morgenrot,
Morgenrot,
Leuchtest mir zun frühen Tod?
Bald wird die Trompete blasen.
Dann muss ich mein Leben lassen,
Ich und mancher Kamerad!” (Toot, toot!)
Will Fairweather saw the firebox gorged for a while, gusted a sigh, and racked his shovel. He tapped Rupert’s arm. “B’r leave, my loard.” When the prince glanced around: “I ben’t ungraeteful, zir, for your foarezight what guess God might zend this heare roallin’ kettlealong for us,” he said through the din. “But ben’t we, well, zort o’ bound to faere where it wants to? An’ I doan’t reckon one nest o’ rebels smells any sweeter’n another.”
“Nay. However, I know these roads.”
Will gaped. “You do? I never put credentials in them stoaries ’bout your Highness’s pets bein’ his familiars; but now—” He scratched his gritty head. “A little tin mouse?”
Rupert set wheels and levers, lowered himself to a bolted-in bench, and explained: “See thou, I was ever taken with mechanic arts as well as alchemy and the like. Herein Sir Malachi and I are of the same breed, beneath raised hackles. He was delighted to show me what he had and what he planned. No doubt he thought it might help convert me, too—he was often after me to receive the
soi-disant
minister whose church he attends in Leeds, and would give me no chaplain for myself—” His scowl grew dark as the dust upon it.
“Sine tha Bread an’ Wine wouldn’t be forthcomin’ anyhow,” Will observed, “your Highness might’s well tighten his belt an’ go thirsty for tha Spirit.”
Rupert nodded. “Not the first time. At Linz they were Jesuits I refused to see.” Memory of that liberation brightened his mood in this. “Well,” he continued, “among other things, Shelgrave took me for a good many rides on his private train, letting me drive when I wished: pistols cocked and primed at my back, of course. We talked much of what he and fellow magnates have done, and what they hope to do in future. No denying, they dream grandly. I looked at maps, timetables, bills of lading; and I’d naturally studied similar things earlier, when planning my campaigns; and there aren’t but a few long stretches of railroad in England; and a military chief needs an exact memory. The upshot is, I know the web as well as anyone. Indeed, since I can recall what we Cavaliers tore up, belike I know it better than Shelgrave.”
“Than tha general has a plan?”
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