Grantville Gazette, Volume 70 Read online

  ****

  Snow had begun to fall, the graveyard becoming a white expanse in the early morning. One set of feet were walking through it, and they paused at the gravestone. Hartmann knelt, then sat, leaning on the stone, only it and death separated him from the people he loved the most. He set down the rifle, drew out his new pipe, and filled it. Then before he took out his lighter, he drew a flask from another inner pocket, pouring schnapps into a small glass he had dug into the soil in front of the stone.

  "I love the present. I wish Alexander were still alive; I would have liked to thank him." He sighed, looking up into the clouds. "I miss you." He opened the flask, tapped the glass with it. "To us forever."

  ****

  Hartmann looked at the sign; Die graue Katze. He snorted. Because all cats are gray in the dark. Maybe there was a more stupid name for a whorehouse, but he couldn't think of one. What in the hell was Hamner of all people doing here?

  He pushed open the door. The inside was all warm wood, tapestries, and the smell of furniture polish. One man, built like an ox and looking about as bright, watched him. If he had begun chewing a cud, Hartmann would have turned and walked right back out.

  "Welcome, Sergeant!" The woman who came into the hall was full-fleshed, with a wide open face and brilliant smile. "You I have not seen. Are you new to Magdeburg?"

  "I have been here almost a year," Hartmann replied. "I am looking for someone."

  “Everyone who graces our establishment is looking for someone, Sergeant. It is the nature of the business.”

  He sighed. “Madam, I am looking for a man.” Even as he said, it, he knew he had stated it wrong.

  The smile slipped. “Sergeant, we do not serve your kind here. However—”

  She stopped as Hartmann raised his hand. "No. I am looking for a particular man. Wachtmeister Hamner, who told his friends he would be here."

  At the name, the woman's smile returned. "Ah! Michel! I am sorry, Sergeant, we get all kinds of people coming here. I am Sophia, the proprietor." She hooked her arm through his, and like a tugboat began to drag him. They passed into another room.

  There were six women in the next room, all under-dressed to show off the wares. The women watched him with the same predatory air he had seen from wolves in winter, wondering how he might taste. The madam pulled him through, and the instant they reached the halfway point, the women ignored him as if he didn't exist.

  Down a hall, then to a door that led into a dining room. Instead of men and women enjoying a meal before their sport, a dozen boys and girls from around eleven to seventeen were seated heads down, writing. The woman motioned for silence. At the other end of the table, Hamner sat in uniform, glancing up, then at an hourglass before him. He stood, walking quietly to where his sergeant stood. “Just another few minutes please, Sergeant.”

  Hamner returned to the end of the table, and as the last sand fell he spoke. "Pencils down. Pass the papers to this end, please." Obediently the children did as instructed. "Now, go to your work. I will grade these tonight." He motioned, and they stood, the lines of silent, attentive students suddenly becoming a swarm of giggling children as they fled.

  “When I heard you were in a whorehouse this early in the evening, I imagined something else.”

  Hamner blushed. “I am affianced, Sergeant, and she lives less than three blocks away. I will allow you to imagine what she would do.”

  “So what you have been doing?”

  “I made my living as a tutor before I joined the Army, Sergeant. Madam Schreiber had spoken to the CoC here in the capital, hoping to find someone who could help the older children who had no chance of an education so they would not fall too far behind. They are paying me a stipend per student."

  "Which he spends here on tea and snacks for the children," the madam commented. "And once a week he teaches my girls how to speak and read other languages."

  "I don't know how your new commanding officer will feel about that," Hartmann said softly.

  "Sergeant?" Hamner looked stunned. "You are going to kick me out of the company?"

  "Nothing so harsh." Hartmann pulled a folder from his tunic and passed it over. "You have been transferred to the Third Division."

  "What?"

  "Some of their regiments are still being organized. All of us from officers down to sergeants have been asked to recommend men to transfer."

  "Oh."

  Hartmann smiled, but it was that gentle smile those who had known him for a while rarely saw. "As a sergeant, Michel. They may call it something else, but the top enlisted man in the company."

  Hamner clutched the folder to his chest. "I will try to follow your example."

  "Oh, I am not done with you yet." Hartmann commented, hands behind his back, rocking heel to toe in what his noncoms had begun calling the sergeant's training pose. "Since you are leaving, who would you suggest for a replacement?"

  "Kohlner." Hamner said instantly.

  "Explain your choice."

  "Sometimes he is adamant that he is right, and it took time to teach him otherwise. However, he pays attention when he is instructed and asks good questions. If others are too slow to understand, he is willing to explain until the last trump, though after four or five times, he does get a bit upset."

  "Will he grow out of it?" Hartmann's eyes bored into the younger man.

  "In time," Hamner grinned. "I did."

  "I agree." Hartmann stuck out his hand. "Do me proud, Sergeant." Hamner shook his hand. "Now I have to tell Becker he is going to Third Company. I wonder if he is as observant as you."

  "But first, we must celebrate!" The madam bustled out, then returned with a dusty bottle. She pulled the cork and poured. "Madeira wine, Sergeants." She handed them the glasses, then lifted her own. "Would you decide the toast, Sergeant? Or shall I?"

  Hartmann looked at the earnest face. "Absent friends." He drained the glass, set it down, and left.

  "Such a self-controlled man. He walked through the antechamber without leering even once! His wife must be proud."

  "She was." At her look, he added, "She died days before Ahrensbök."

  The woman looked at the closed door. "There must be something we can do about that."

  ****

  Suddenly, it seemed, Hartmann was a prize catch for a dinner partner.

  He'd had dinner with his lieutenant and of course Colonel Ludendorf, both with family. But considering his relationship with them, it would have been a surprise only because of his rank. But suddenly he was inundated with invitations even from civilians who would come up to him on the streets! He had gone to three before he saw the pattern.

  All had an unmarried woman younger than him as his table partner. If asked from that point on, he merely said he was busy—which was true. The personal invitations stopped, but that wasn't the end of it. Instead, there came letters.

  Frankly, it was beginning to irritate him. He had one of the feldwebel from his company going through them and told him that if any of them mentioned “perhaps you would like to meet my sister-cousin-niece-good friend Frau Whatever-the-hell-her-name-was,” they would be set aside to use to start the fire in the orderly room after he dashed off a quick note saying he was busy. If someone slipped one in without the mentioned woman, he would arrive, stay a polite amount of time, make his apologies, and leave.

  Worse yet, both the company and the training company had found out, and there was a lot of whispering that stopped when he was seen.

  He was lucky about Christmas at least. One of the letters had been from Bobby Hollering to invite him to Grantville. By then almost all of the training for his present unit would be done.

  Grantville

  December, 1634

  Hartmann climbed down from the train. It was a wonder. A seven-day trip in less than two. He swung the scabbard of his rifle aside to allow those boarding for the return trip to Magdeburg to pass. Ahead was one of the horse-drawn carriages, and he whistled.

  He stopped the cab at the bottom of
the hill. While one of the cars the up-timers used could have taken the hill, a horse-drawn one would have struggled. He climbed it on foot with few problems.

  The shack was still there, and he noticed the smoke rising from the small metal chimney. Had Kirsten and the others stayed this long? He was about to knock when he heard a plaintive meow. Kočka stood there, her paws on his boot, looking up at him.

  "Kočka." He knelt beside the door, her head pushing against his hand. But she kept walking toward the rear looking down the hill, meowing, then returning for more stroking. "You miss her, too." he whispered. The cat allowed him to pick her up—a rare event—and he held her to his chest. Hartmann felt his eyes tear up, and he buried his face against her fur. "I cannot bring her back," he whispered.

  "Minuette? What is wrong this time?" The door opened, and Hartmann looked up. Kirsten stood there, the baby held against her hip. "Oh, Richard!” She stepped down, then hugged the man as he stood. She let him go, backing up. "Henri!"

  Poirot looked out, then stepped down, hand out. "Please be welcome to enter our home," he said in halting German.

  "Thank you."

  The younger man smiled and ushered him in. The shack had been cozy with just Marta and Hartmann, well, and Kočka. But he got a glimpse of what could have been. One of the up-timers had made a hanging cradle for little Marta, with enough space for her to grow into for a year or more.

  But with three adults, it was like being in a full closet.

  Even crowded, Hartmann felt content, watching them both while sitting at the table with Henri perched on the edge of the bed sharing tea. Kirsten stood to go to the tea kettle, and for a moment, when she turned back with a teapot and cups, Hartmann saw himself watching Marta as he held his son, and she looked at him in happiness.

  "Richard?"

  "Sergeant?"

  He shook his head. "Sorry, just letting my mind wander."

  Kirsten leaned across, touching his hand gently. "You saw her for a moment."

  "Yes, and our son." He smiled sadly. "It was the most peaceful I have been since she died."

  "Well…" Henri tried to break the melancholy mood. "If you give us a day, you can have your home back again."

  "Nonsense. I am only in town for a few days. Stay here with my blessing. I will talk to the landlady and let her know." Hartmann flinched when Kočka jumped up onto his lap.

  "I see Minuette likes you. It had taken weeks before she accepted us." She looked stricken. "But that is not her name, is it?"

  "I always just called her Kočka, which is Czech for cat. You gave her a real name." He smiled gently scratching her ears. "I also called her žárlivý žena, which is jealous wife. Does she still sit on the table and steal butter?" The grins they gave him were answer enough.

  "I did not know you were here. I just came by to see her," he said, stroking the cat the way she liked it. "So I will be on my way."

  "Wait!" Kirsten leaped up, went to a chest in the corner, and brought him back a book. He took it, and opened the cover. "Polyxandres: The Trip to the Future."

  "My master had it printed here first to assure you would get the very first copy," Henri commented. He opened the book to a page entitled “The Ferocious Yet Gentle Warrior” bookmarked with a letter. "And he said farewell to you in his letter."

  "Did he at least stay long enough to see the railroad completed?"

  "He left the town just after it had been announced. In fact, he probably rode it to Magdeburg on his way home."

  "And you stayed?" Hartmann asked gently.

  Henri reached into his shirt and pulled out an oddly shaped cross. "Monsieur, I am a Huguenot. If this were seen in public in Catholic France, I could be dragged before the Inquisition." He put it away. "I would like to stay alive."

  "And we could get married here, even if we are of different faiths," Kirsten said. "Marta was christened in the Presbyterian church, so her soul is safe. Now Henri and I work for the library, translating books written in German into French and Danish." She giggled. "We even think of future demand; when one of us is asked to translate, I read it, and as I do, I translate it into Danish, he into French. Then we tell the library so if anyone asks, the translation already exists, and we get royalties when they purchase it."

  Hartmann stood. "I must go." The couple stood, and Hartmann reached out, gently rubbing the baby's cheek. "Long life, little one." Then he hugged the girl, shook hands with the man, and headed down the hill.

  "I feel such sorrow for him, Kirsten whispered.

  "He feels the pain, but will let no one know it is there," Henri commented.

  They looked to each other. "We cannot leave him in such pain," Kirsten said.

  ****

  His next stop was at the home of Bobby Hollering. Cassandra hugged him with their young son in her arms, which as an almost five-year-old, he protested at the top of his lungs. "Hush Bobby Hay, or you'll get swatted."

  The child kept complaining loudly.

  Hartmann knelt down, eyes even with the struggling boy until he had the child's attention. "Stop that," he said sharply. The boy shut up, and Hartmann continued in a tone of voice that can only be called You-Will-Obey. "Now I have some business to conduct with your father, and I see no reason I should have to shout because you want to scream. So we will make a contract, you and I. You will sit silent and obedient until my business is done, and afterward if you have behaved, and your parents agree, you can see this—" He lifted his shoulder to make the sheathed rifle bounce. "—in action."

  The boy considered and his wriggling stopped, then he tapped his mother's arm. "I accept, Sergeant. Would you please put me down, Mama?" Cassie gave a bemused smile as she set him down. "May I escort you to my father, Sergeant?"

  "Lead the way."

  As they headed toward the entrance to the garage, Cassie shook her head and chuckled. "I expected him to tan little Bobby Hay's hide! It's a pity his wife died—he would have made one hell of a father."

  ****

  "Hello, Richard." Bobby Hollering leaped to his feet and shook his hand. Then he looked at his son standing quiet. "And that ain't usual. Why did you stop caterwauling?"

  "I had a discussion with the boy." Hartmann looked down. "And he agreed to behave, at least as long as I am here." The boy's head bounced a nod like a bobble-headed doll.

  "Pity you don't live in town. You could start a military school, and he would be your first student. So, let me see her."

  Hartmann opened the flap on the doeskin case and drew out the rifle he had gotten as a birthday gift. Bobby took it, opened the breech and looked down the barrel. "What does she fire?"

  "Fifty-two caliber, four hundred forty grain bullet, with a powder charge of eighty grains."

  "Workable. Though back in 1997 when they tested the Sharps rifle they found out that the heavier five hundred and fifty worked better for long range." He went to a box against the wall. "I bought a Creedmoor Vernier sight for a friend in Fairmont. Of course, he got left up-time." The gunsmith, like a wizard of legend, ignored him as he marked the stock of the rifle, drilled two holes, and anchored the long-range sight. "Looks like they just copied the Buffalo rifle cartridge. Sharps made a cartridge that could take up to one hundred grains. Means we can too. But no loads from them, right?" Hartmann nodded. "I have a reloading kit made up for the rifle. So that is not a problem." He worked silently. An up-timer had commented once, “Never meddle in the affairs of a wizard,” and Hartmann understood it now.

  Bobby Hollering turned around. "Now the rubber hits the road. We can shoot using their top load of eighty grains of powder. You will have to use it in combat to figure the difference with one hundred grains. That needs a decent range. I have permission from the city council, so I have a section of the ring wall as a backstop." He looked down at his son, who was bouncing on his toes like someone preparing for a race. "Got something to say, squirt?"

  "Sergeant Hartmann said I could see the rifle shooting!"

  He looked at the boy, then at
Hartmann. "Well, Richard? Bobbie Hay don't lie unless it's something he really wants."

  Hartmann smiled. "I did say that he could watch, with your permission."

  "Then get your winter gear, Boy! We're goin' into the snow!" The boy squealed with glee, running into the house. Bobby watched him. "You made his day, Richard."

  Hartmann watched him as well. "Can you load one round light so he can shoot it without being hurt?"

  Bobby looked at him, then grinned. "Hand me one of yours. I'll reload it afterward." By the time the boy returned, the special cartridge was in his father's pocket. The trio headed out to Bobby's shooting range. There were targets from a hundred yards up to five hundred.

  To someone who was not an aficionado, it was as interesting as watching paint dry. Hartmann would fire a round, Hollering would comment either up or down, check the wind, and give directions left or right. Hartmann would adjust the sight and fire again. Then Hollering would say, “Good enough," and Hartmann would make a note of where the sight was set. They did it at every range from two hundred yards out to five hundred. After the third or fourth shot, Bobby Hay just paced back and forth grumbling.

  Bobby Hollering nodded. "It's all good, now." He leaned away from the spotting scope, then glanced at his son. "Want to let him shoot one?"

  Hartmann didn't answer the man. "Robert." He lifted the rifle and waggled it. "Want to fire it once?"

  "Can I?"

  "It's may I?" Hollering corrected, and the boy repeated obediently.

  Hartmann had the boy kneel, using the sandbag rest. He lowered the long range sight; the round was only twenty grains of powder, less than half of the original Sharps rifle. He patiently walked the boy through it—rifle tight against the shoulder, aligning the sights, breathing, being gentle, and squeezing the trigger-

  The gun fired. The bullet hit the one hundred yard target about two inches low, punctuated by Bobby Hay grumbling, “Owie!" over and over.

  "Good enough for a first shot. I can teach you to improve that."

  "Now?" The boy was rubbing his shoulder, but had eyes seeing a future where he was as good a shot.