“Jack, we’re living like brutes in the middle of the wilderness-what could I possibly do with a story as old as I am? And for God’s sake, what else is there to do, when I lack thread and needles?”

“There you go again with the thread and the needles. Where do you suppose a brute in the wilderness would obtain such things?”

“Ask those miners to pick some up when next they go to town. They fetch oats for Turk all the time-why not a needle and thread?”

“If I do that, they’ll know I’ve a woman here.”

“You won’t for long, if you don’t tell me a story, or get me thread and needles.”

“All right, then. The part of the story to which you’re almost certain to over-react is that, although Sir Winston Churchill was not really an important man, his son John was briefly important. He’s not any more. Probably never will be again, except in the world of courtiers.”

“But you made his father out to be one notch above a Vagabond.”

“Yes-and so John never would’ve reached the high position he did had he not been clever, handsome, brave, dashing, and good in the sack.”

“When can you introduce me to him?”

“I know you’re just trying to provoke me with that.”

“Into what ‘high position’ exactly did he get?”

“The bed of the favorite mistress of King Charles the Second of England.”

A brief pause for pressure to build, and then volcanic laughter from Eliza. Suddenly it was April. “You mean for me to believe that you -Half-Cocked ‘don’t call me a Vagabond’ Jack-are personally acquainted with the lover of a mistress of a King?”

“Calm yourself-there are no chirurgeons here, if you should rupture something. And if you knew anything of the world outside of Asiatick Harems, you wouldn’t be surprised-the King’s other favorite mistress is Nell Gwyn-an actress. ”

“I sensed all along that you were a Person of Quality, Jack. But pray tell-now that I’ve finally set your tongue in motion-how’d John Churchill get from his papa’s regiment in Dorset to the royal sack?”

“Oh, mind you, John was never attached to that regiment-just visiting with his Dad. The family lived in London. Jack went to some foppish School there. Sir Winston pulled what few strings were available to him-probably whined about his great loyalty during the Interregnum-and got John appointed as a page to James, the Duke of York-the King’s Papist brother-who, last I heard, was up in Edinburgh, going out of his mind and torturing Scotsmen. But back then, of course, round about 1670, the Duke of York was in London, and so John Churchill-being a member of his household-was there, too. Years passed. Bob and I fattened and grew like cattle for the Fair on soldiers’ table-scraps.”

“And so you did!”

“Don’t pretend to admire me-you know my secrets. We plugged away at duties Regimental. John Churchill went to Tangiers for a few years to fight Barbary Pirates.”

“Ooh, why couldn’t he’ve rescued me?”

“Maybe he will, some day. What I’m getting to, though, is the Siege of Maestricht-a city in Holland.”

“That’s nowhere near Tangiers.”

“Try to follow me here: he came back from Tangiers, all covered in glory. Meantimes Charles II had made a pact with, of all people, that King Looie of France, the arch-Papist, so rich that not only did he bribe the English opposition, but the other party, too, just to keep things interesting. So England and France, conjoined, made war, on land and at sea, with Holland. King Looie, accompanied by a mobile city of courtiers, mistresses, generals, bishops, official historians, poets, portrait-painters, chefs, musicians, and the retinues of those people, and the retinues’ retinues, came up to Maestricht and threw a siege the way common kings throw parties. His camp was not quite as handsomely furnished as the Grand Vizier’s before Vienna, but the folk were of higher quality. All the fashionable people of Europe had to be there. And John Churchill was quite fashionable. He came. Bob and I came with him.”

“Now, that’s where I have trouble following. Why invite two naughty lads?”

“First: we hadn’t been naughty recently. Second: even the noblest gathering requires someone to empty piss-pots and (if it’s a battle) stop musket-balls before they reach the better folk.”

“Third?”

“There is no third.”

“You lie. I can tell there was a third. Your lips parted, your finger came halfway up, and then you reconsidered.”

“Very well then. The third was that John Churchill-courtier, sometime gigolo, fashionable blade-about-town-is the best military commander I have ever seen.”

“Oh.”

“Though that John Sobieski was not half bad. Anyway-pains me to admit it.”

“Obviously.”

“But it’s true. And being an excellent commander, about to go into a real battle, he had the wit to bring along a few people who could actually get things done for him. It may seem hard for you to believe, but mark my word-whenever serious and competent people need to get things done in the real world, all considerations of tradition and protocol fly out the window.”

“What did he suppose you and Bob could get done in the real world?”

“Carry messages across battlefields.”

“Was he right?”

“Half right.”

“ Oneof you succeeded, and the other-”

“I didn’t fail. I just found more intelligent ways to use my time.”

“John Churchill gave you an order, and you refused?”

“No, no, no! It came about as follows. Now-did you pay any attention to the Siege of Vienna?”

“I watched with a keen eye, remember my virginity hung in the balance.”

“Tell me how the Grand Vizier did it.”

“Dug one trench after another before the walls, each trench a few yards closer than the last. From the foremost, dug tunnels beneath a sort of arrowhead-shaped fortress that lay outside the city-”

“A ravelin, it’s called. All modern forts have them, including Maestricht.”

“Blew it up. Advanced. And so on.”

“That’s how all sieges are conducted. Including Maestricht.”

“So, then-?”

“All the pick-and-shovel work had been done by the time the swells arrived. The trenches and mines had been dug. Time was ripe to storm a particular outlying work, which an engineer would properly call a demilune, but similar to the ravelins you saw in Vienna.”

“A separate fortress just outside of the main one.”

“Yes. King Louie wanted that the English gentleman-warriors should, at the conclusion of this battle, either be in his debt, or in their graves, and so he gave to them the honor of storming the demilune. John Churchill and the Duke of Monmouth-King Charles’s bastard-led the charge and carried the day. Churchill himself planted the French flag (disgusting to relate) on the parapet of the conquered fort.”

“How splendid!”

“I told you he was important once. Back they came over the trench-scarred glacis, to our ditch-camp, for a night of celebration.”

“So you were never asked to carry messages at all?”

“Next day, I felt the earth turn over, and looked toward that demilune to see fifty French troopers flying into the air. Maestricht’s defenders had exploded a vast countermine beneath the demilune. Dutchmen charged into the gap and engaged the survivors in sword- and bayonet-play. They looked sure to retake the demilune and undo Churchill’s and Monmouth’s glorious deeds. I was not ten feet from John Churchill when it happened. Without a moment’s hesitation he was off and running, sword in hand-it was obvious muskets would be useless. To save time, he ran across the surface-ignoring the trenches-exposing himself to musket-fire from the city’s defenders, in full view of all those historians and poets watching through jeweled opera glasses from the windows of their coaches, just outside of artillery range. I stood there in amazement at his stupidity, until I realized that brother Bob was right behind him, matching him step-for-step.”