Grantville Gazette, Volume 66 Read online

  "Good. And the store beside this one? Who owns it?"

  "Oh, when the town was taken in the Ring of Fire, he was out of town. Why?"

  "There is a pipe in the window I wish to purchase."

  A few minutes later, one of the people from the mayor's office arrived, opened the door and sold him the pipe.

  ****

  "Mr. Walker?" Belva Nash stood at the door to the office. "We have a down-timer with a check written by Mr. Roth."

  Coleman Walker didn't even look up. "So? He pays a lot of bills that way. How much?"

  Instead of answering, she handed it to him. The bank manager looked at the check, then stood and walked out into the bank lobby. If it had been up-time, he would have taken one look at the weapons the man carried, the ease with which he carried them, and hit the silent alarm. But the man was merely looking up at the electric lights. As Walker walked toward him, suddenly the German looked down. He had the eyes of a wolf and a livid scar on his head. "Herr. . ."

  "Richard Hartmann. And your name?"

  "Coleman Walker, the bank manager."

  "Is there a problem?"

  "Only if you want to take the money with you. We do not have enough cash on hand. If you deposit this," he held up the check, "I can give you enough for a week or more, and you can withdraw as needed."

  "It is a lot of money?"

  "Several thousand of our dollars."

  "And how much would I need for a week?"

  "With prices going up as they are, maybe a couple of hundred. Wait, do you have a place to stay yet?" At Hartmann's negative, Walker sighed. "Better make it five hundred. Belva, see to it."

  "A moment. They have built two orphanages side by side not far away. Do they have an account?"

  "Yes they do."

  "Then take one-quarter of this and put it in their account."

  "That is generous."

  "They now take care of children I sheltered. It is their due for school and apprenticeships." He considered. "And the hospital, take another quarter for them. They would not let me pay."

  It was short work to fill out the papers, and he took the small folder and paper money he was given. "Where can I get a meal? And a place to stay?"

  "The Thuringen Gardens," Belva replied, giving directions. "Addison Miller can find you a place, though you might end up in the refugee camp."

  ****

  Miller looked vaguely familiar and greeted him warmly, explaining that he had been one of the men Hartmann had confronted after the battle. When he found out how much money he had in the bank, the real estate agent asked him how much room he needed and showed him a ten-by-ten storage shed, on an older couple's land. It was small, but it was more than enough for him. He spent a few hours clearing the building out, moving the contents into the garage of the home. The agent gently reminded him that he didn't have to be fully armed in town, but after so many years he felt naked without something. So he left his caliver and wheellocks in the shed, carrying only his sword and dagger when he headed off to dinner.

  Hartmann heard the raucous singing a block away and smiled. Drunken song had never sounded so good. He saw a vehicle coming and paused to wait for it to pass when he heard a woman scream.

  "Can't you read, bitch?" A large up-timer threw a small woman into the street, causing the vehicle to slam to a stop with a blat of the horn.

  Hartmann leaped forward, pulling the sheathed sword from his belt. He swept it to take the man's legs from under him and nonchalantly tapped him on the head with it before setting the weapon down. Then he went into the street, holding out his hand. The woman squeaked, eyes looking past him wide with shock. Hartmann turned and dropped at the same time. A thin staff whipped past where his head had been.

  He scrambled forward, right hand catching and stopping the staff coming back. He punched the second man between the eyes. Hartmann drew the dagger as a fat man came running out of the building with a truncheon, yelling. Hartmann watched his eyes.

  "All right, that is quite enough! Beasley, put it down!" someone shouted behind Hartmann. "Legte die Waffe nach unten!" he shouted in very bad German. Hartmann lifted his hand from the weapon and held it in plain sight before returning to help the small woman to her feet.

  He was only half-listening to the argument between the big man in some brown clothes and the fat man with the apron that had come out. At a mention of a sign he looked at the window and read the hand-written sign there. Another man dressed also in the brown clothes came up to him with a small notebook in his hand. "Name, bitte?"

  "My English is better than your German. My name is Richard Hartmann."

  "How long have you been in town, Herr Hartmann?" the deputy gladly went to English.

  "I do not know. I was at Badenburg. I was let out of your hospital today."

  "Ah, one of the guys from the battle. What happened?"

  Hartmann filled him in, his hand caught in a death grip by the woman. When the deputy began questioning the woman, Hartmann translated.

  "Name, please?"

  "Marta Karcher. I am from Halle."

  "All right, Marta. Can you tell me what happened?"

  "I arrived this day, fleeing the army. I was so hungry, and I smelled the food." she motioned and sniffed. Both of the men breathed in. It smelled like roast boar and onions. "I went in and asked for food in return for work. But they shouted at me, called me 'kraut' and whore, then that one threw me out." She pointed at the one who was still shaking his head.

  "He called you a food?" Hartmann laughed.

  "It's also an insulting word for a German. Stay here, please." The man closed his notebook, then walked over to stand talking with his partner. Then in what was obviously a planned move, the opposite men went to the separated people.

  "They claim she came in offering to take every man in the place to bed, and when they refused her price, they kicked her out. Then her pimp, that means you, mein Herr, attacked those two men before drawing down on them and demanding the money she asked." The German was bad, but he understood after a short explanation of the accusation.

  "If you wish to take me to court, I can swear in truth that I had not met this woman before that schlaff schwanz threw her into the street. If they had not risked her life, I would have let it pass."

  The man was looking up words in a book. When he got to 'limp dick' he snickered. He held up his hand and walked back over to speak with his partner. Both chuckled, looking at Hartmann. Then the man who appeared in charge walked to the vehicle and sat for a moment. Then he came back, motioning the people together.

  "Beasley, if you're going to lie, at least check what can be found out. He," he motioned to Hartmann, "was released from the hospital today. So there is no way he's running a string of girls. And she," he motioned to Marta, "only arrived this morning. So he's telling the truth, and your lies don't work. Now get back in your hole, and stop bothering honest people. Scat!"

  "Jordan, you damn kraut lover!"

  "I am not a 'kraut.'. Hartmann pointed at the sign. "I am not German, I am Bohemian. Am I free to go, Herr Jordan?"

  "Yeah. Just stay away from the peanut gallery."

  Hartmann loosened his hand from the iron grip. "Come with me, Frau." He pointed over at the building where the singing was coming from. "I can afford to buy you a meal. And perhaps we can find someone who can suggest a place to work."

  October 3, 1631

  Grantville

  Hartmann picked up the last bushel basket of apples from the edge of a field, taking them to the cart. He wiped his brow, then sipped some water. The up-timer in charge signaled, and Hartmann joined the tired men heading back to town. They ended up at the Gardens. "A pitcher!" he shouted, taking a seat in relief. Marta came with the order, smiling at him. "Thank you." He handed her the money, then poured for his compatriots.

  "Back-breaking work," one of them commented. He remembered the man from the pike line.

  Hartmann reached across snagging his tankard before he could pick it up. "W
ell if a beer is too heavy, allow me, Franz."

  "Damn you, Lehrer! You know what I meant!" Franz laughingly stole Hartmann's tankard in return. They all laughed and drank. Someone came in, and suddenly there was a shout. "The up-timers are sending the army to Jena!"

  "Madness. What can Jena pay? Little money from paying tribute before, and only students to help," Franz mumbled. "I stayed out of the army for a reason."

  "It is not for everyone, even when we were soldiers." Carl tipped his tankard. "Maybe Hartmann there liked it, but I did not."

  "It is all I know how to do." Hartmann drank. He had considered joining the army, but the reasons he had fought were as dead as his family. "I haven't been called up."

  Carl shook his head. "That's right, men. He was in the hospital when we got that talk. Lehrer, they have volunteers. People who fight to keep this," he waved at the crowd around them, "safe. No forcing you to fight, no gold in your purse because you offer. Just fighting to save your family."

  "I have no family."

  "But you have those Studenten you always watched over."

  "Yes."

  "And do you think they will not try to come here if they sack Jena?"

  "Only if they want their dicks in a sausage grinder." Hartmann replied. They laughed. "But I am unsure. All I know of life is fighting and being hated even by those you fight for."

  Franz held up his tankard. " ’For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' / Chuck him out, the brute!/ But it's Saviour of 'is country when the guns begin to shoot!’ "

  Hartmann paused. "That was very wise, Franz."

  The man chuckled. "I heard it on a cartoon in the house I live in. You should really watch Dudley Do-Right."

  For the rest of the pitcher, Hartmann was silent, brooding. He stood, "I am for bed."

  The night was brisk, and he stopped outside the Gardens, lighting his pipe. The Zippo lighter was a godsend if you didn't have a campfire. As he smoked, he walked home to the former storage shed. There was noise from a building with an entire wall that lifted, and he looked in. He thought he remembered the man, but didn't know from where. Hartmann stepped back, hands out at his sides as the man turned, a long-barreled weapon in his hands.

  "Oh, sorry." The man waved the weapon. "You've never seen one of these." he waved for Hartmann to approach. As he came into the light, the man looked first curious, then delighted. "We weren't introduced, but I remember you. When we met you looked like something out of a horror movie walking toward us, and still ready to fight. Like Night of the Living Dead." At Hartmann's confused expression, he waved his hand. "Never mind. Name's Bobby Hollering, I'm a gunsmith. Check it out, M1 Garand. First semi-automatic service rifle in history."

  Hartmann took the weapon. "It is not as heavy as the one I have."

  Bobby took it back sliding the bolt back, and handed it back. Hartmann looked into the well. "I do not understand how it operates, but I know little of your weapons. Are you going to march to Jena?"

  "No. Worth more here, even though I am a decent shot."

  "I am not sure I should go." Hartmann looked at the weapon. "I have done nothing but fight and kill for so long."

  "Well as my daddy always said, it's a choice between doing what is necessary, or doing nothing. I know of a lot of horrible things that happened just during my life because people didn't take a stand. But they want me here to repair some of the weapons, so I'm stuck in town."

  So true. Hartmann remembered his own futile stand so many years before. He hadn't fought for glory; he had fought to protect his own from evil men. He handed the weapon back again. "Would you know where I go to volunteer?"

  "Sure. I can call over and let them know you're coming. But you don't have one of our guns, do you?"

  Hartmann shook his head. "I have my caliver, my wheel-locks and a sword."

  "Then you're undergunned. Wait a minute." Bobby popped up and a few moments later came back with what looked like a rifle. "My daddy's old Winchester 1887 lever-action shotgun. I think I have the only ten-gauge that came through with us, so unless it is reloaded, there aren't going to be more shells for it. Good thing it will take black powder if they just figure out how to make primers." He first showed Hartmann how to load, then handed over the weapon and two partial boxes of shells. "Only about fifteen shells remaining in double ought or slugs. Got a shitload of birdshot I can probably repack."

  "Why?" Hartmann held up the gun. "You do not know me."

  "Someone who was ready to fight even when he knew he couldn't win? Who was saved because a buncha kids got in the way screaming, 'Don't hurt our teacher'? What else do I need to know about you?"

  Hartmann looked at the grimly functional weapon. "How much do you want for it?"

  "Want for it? Not selling it to you, I'm loaning it. That's my daddy's old piece. Shoot, even if there are no shells, there's a place on the wall for it. Bring it back, y'here?"

  "Very well. And how much then for the shells?"

  "Boy, you expect to buy your ammunition?"

  "For the last eleven years, yes."

  "What kind of asshole makes you pay to fight?"

  "One who pays you to fight and then charges you for what you need to fight."

  "Not the way we do it. Take the shells and police your brass—pick them up off the ground after. I have enough primers and powder to reload them a couple of times at least."

  "Thank you, Herr Hollering."

  Bobby got on the phone, and told him where to go.

  ****

  "Another volunteer?" Tom Simpson asked.

  "Yes. Herr Hollering did not get his name, but he seemed steady." Heinrich Schmidt told him.

  Simpson merely shook his head. They had already assigned their people, though they could use some more steady men.

  The door opened, and for a moment nothing happened. Then Heinrich was on his feet hugging the man. "Lehrer! By God's name, I thought you dead!"

  The man returned the hug. "I have been getting that a lot the last few days."

  "Gut Tom, this is Hartmann, we called him Teacher. A lot of our young men learned their trade under his gentle hand."

  The huge American looked at Hartmann. "We can use him. Do you have a gun?"

  Hartmann held up the shotgun.

  Heinrich let him go, stepping back. "One thing, old friend. I am the junior officer."

  Hartmann looked at Heinrich for a long moment. "No problem for me."

  October 6, 1631

  Near Jena

  Hartmann knelt behind the barricades they had placed in the road. He looked to the left and the right. Some of the men looked nervous. "Have heart, lads. This time we have the good guns!" Some of the men chuckled, and the tension eased.

  "Will you look at that?" Johannes who knelt beside him commented. Hartmann looked at him, then in the direction the young man pointed. Two people were setting up a folding table. Women from the hair, which was the only way to tell with these up-timers. Then one of them sat, a rifle aiming forward. The one beside her used some huge tube and began making notes. What was this? Some woman thinking she was a warrior?

  He looked back toward the enemy. About a thousand men and twice that of camp followers. They were about five hundred yards away and marching toward the thin line. Hartmann could count and the lion's share of the soldiers sent were right here, not up-timers with their rapid fire rifles. So he expected to fight. Hartmann took the shells from his belt pouch and loaded them into the shotgun; five of the big fat cartridges. He jacked the lever, then put in another. "Watch your front, wait for the command to fire."

  As the enemy reached four hundred yards, a single rifle cracked. One of the men approaching went over. Impossible! He looked up. The woman there fired again, then began screaming profanely. Oh, she was still firing, and every time she did, one of those men on horseback died. But she was upset about her shooting? The man in command walked over, and she paused to listen to something. Then she was back at what she seemed to do so well.

  Hartmann stood
, scanning in amazement. The soldiers had gone into a hedgehog, and the few arquebuses they had were blasting the nearby shrubs. Like he had been in the battle, they didn't even understand what was killing them! The large vehicles, the APCs were advancing now. And behind the hedgehog the cavalry were riding in ready to fight. The enemy began throwing down their weapons. This battle hadn't even lasted as long as the one Hartmann had seen with those weapons!

  Then it started. Someone put his helmet atop his shotgun, stretching it into the air, and jerking it up and down as he shouted the same thing over and over. Hartmann found himself doing the same. "Joo-Li!"

  ****

  Hartmann picked up the wheellock that lay by the one dressed in the fanciest clothes. His heart had been blown apart by that very first shot, and he looked toward the hill where the woman had sat. They could kill at such an impossible distance with a rifle?

  "Coming?" The driver of the pickup that carried all of the captured weapons waved, and Hartmann climbed in. It was only moments before they were back with the German troops ready to head back to Jena.

  "Where is Frau Julie?" he asked.

  "Why?"

  Hartmann waved the gun. "Her kill, her spoils."

  The man took it, aimed it, and then handed it back. "Compared to that rifle of hers, that is a toy. I would keep it if I were you."

  "I wanted to ask her if she would teach me to shoot."

  "Better yet, ask just about anyone else. That gun, got it from Bobby Hollering, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Ask him. He used to teach a course back before the Ring of Fire."

  October 9, 1631

  Grantville

  Hartmann walked up to the house and knocked. Bobby opened the door. "Heard you guys were on the way back, Richard."

  "I came to return this," Hartmann handed over the shotgun, "and to ask a favor of you." Bobby worked the lever, made sure the gun was empty, then looked the question at him. "I ask you to teach me how to shoot one of your rifles. I can pay."

  "No problem. I can start tomorrow. But you have to pay for the ammunition like everyone else."