1634: The Ram Rebellion: Section Eighteen

THE SUHL INCIDENT

by

Eric Flint and John Zeek

January 13, 1633

    Warrant Officer Hatfield was using a lever to hold the engine steady while Private First Class Cooper bolted it to the motor mounts when he saw Captain Pitre walk into the shop. Turning to Cooper’s assistant, who was nearby, he said, “Filss, take over here and hold this steady. It looks like the captain wants to talk to me.”

    “Good morning Ma’am,” he said, as he walked to meet the captain. “The second locomotive is looking good. All we have left to do is set up the controls and fit the wheels and it’ll be ready to test. Close to one hundred horse power and a ton heavier, it should out-pull number one by a goodly margin. Private Cooper here is a wonder as a mechanic. He does good work, and is just full of ideas.”

    “That’s great, Mr. Hatfield. Your engine shop boys are doing an excellent job.” Captain Pitre responded loudly enough so that the entire shop could hear. Then in a lower voice she added, “But the reason I stopped by was because General Kagg sent word he wants to see you and me this morning.”

    The New United States was now part of the Confederated Principalities of Europe, with the Swedish king, Gustavus Adolphus, recognized as its official military leader under his title of Captain General. After lengthy negotiations, President Stearns had agreed that Gustavus Adolphus could station one regiment - one, no more – in or near Grantville. The regiment he sent was one of his oldest “first guard regiments.” It was known as the Yellow Regiment, and while most of its soldiers and officers were mercenaries, usually Germans – as was true of the Swedish king’s army as a whole – the commanding officer was a Swedish general, Lars Kagg.

    As the two trudged through the snow, Hatfield wondered what Kagg wanted. He decided it couldn’t be about anything the train crew had done wrong. They all, even Jochen Rau, had been on their best behavior lately. And Kagg had been very polite at the reception for his arrival last month.

    Then the thought hit him that it might be about what Henry Johnson told him only this morning. General Jackson had wanted Pat, Anse’s brother-in-law, to watch for any movement of guns out of Suhl to people who were unfriendly to the CPE. Maybe a letter from Pat had arrived.

    “Ma’am, did the general say why he wanted to see us?”

    “No, but he did ask if you were doing anything really vital. I told him your crew could probably keep working for a while without you. You’ve done a good job of training them.”

    “Thank you for the compliment. You’re right, Ma’am. Benno and Jochen can run the train without me and I would bet Cooper can finish this new engine. Bringing in Bill Frank as an advisor was a great idea. But I hope General Kagg doesn’t want you to send me anywhere. The company might get called for active duty shortly, and I sure don’t want it to go without me. You’ll need me for that.”

    Captain Pitre gave her surroundings a somewhat sour examination. “Mr. Hatfield, from the look of things, we’re not going anywhere until winter’s over. Except to the regimental headquarters, and here we are.”

 

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    Through the closed door of the office Anse could hear the rumble of the general’s voice. That was no surprise. Kagg seemed to have only one volume setting, loud. Anse looked out the window to the outside. “Ma’am, was anyone else going to be at our meeting with the general?”

    “Not that I know of. Why, does it make a difference?”

    “Not to me, but, stay calm. Your friend and mine, Captain von Dantz, is walking across the parade ground. And it looks like he’s coming here.”

    Anse could sense the sudden stiffness in Captain Pitre. That von Dantz was both arrogant and incompetent was an opinion, he was sure, the two shared. The fact that von Dantz refused to accept the idea of women in the army, much less a woman officer, automatically insured there were going to be problems between him and Captain Elizabeth Pitre. Anse’s problems with the Pomeranian mercenary captain were more personal and had arisen out of a dispute over the captain’s baggage being crushed on the train Anse had commanded.

    Luckily the door to Kagg’s office opened just as von Dantz entered the building. As the general’s clerk came out the door they could see Kagg himself, who was walking toward the door, waving his hand for them to come in.

    “Captain Pitre, Herr Hatfield, come in. It is good of you to make time to see me.”

    Kagg’s English, though heavily accented, was fluent. Anse was pretty sure that was one of the reasons he’d been sent him to Grantville. The Swedish general also seemed to be punctilious about courtesy. Whether that was due to his own personality or blunt orders from Gustavus Adolphus, Anse didn’t know. Probably both, he suspected.

    The general spotted von Dantz coming through the outer office. “Come in, all of you. Captain von Dantz, you know Captain Pitre and Warrant Officer Hatfield. Captain Pitre, Herr Hatfield, I know you have met Captain von Dantz.”

    “Ja, I have met Fräulein Pitre and Hatfield, General.”

    “That is Captain Pitre,” Kagg said curtly. “You should remember that you and she are the same rank and use proper military courtesy at all times. And Warrant Officer Hatfield should be addressed as Mister or Herr Hatfield. You should think of him the same as one of our master gunners. You do not address them by their bare last name, I hope.”

    Von Dantz turned red. “Captain, Herr Hatfield.”

    Anse thought that was as close to an apology as they were going to get. It was not an invariable rule, by any means, but he’d found that lots of Germans who enjoyed the “von” business seemed to find it well-nigh impossible to be courteous to those they considered their social inferiors.

    Once they entered the general’s office, Kagg said: “Now everyone sit down, and I can tell you why you are all here.”

 

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    As the three found seats and the general moved behind his desk, Anse realized there was another man in the room, leaning against a side wall. It was the big Swedish lieutenant whom Anse had seen with Kagg several times. They’d arrived together, Anse thought. He was a bit older than Kagg, but had the same hard-as-nails look of a professional soldier.

    If the seventeenth century Swedish army worked about the same way the up-time American army of Hatfield’s experience did – always an uncertain proposition – then this unnamed lieutenant would serve General Kagg as one of his staff officers. It was hard to tell, however, just exactly what authority he possessed. No down-time army that Anse was familiar with used the same tight and clear system of ranks that up-time armies did. Generals and colonels commanded specific units, as a rule. But down-timers used the terms “captain” and “lieutenant” very loosely. It was not uncommon for “lieutenants” to command “captains,” for instance, since the term “lieutenant” might really signify direct subordinate to the big cheese, rather than very junior officer. But exactly how and when the authority of a staff officer superseded that of a line commander was something Anse still hadn’t been able to figure out.

    Once everyone was seated, Kagg spoke. “Captain Pitre, Captain von Dantz, Herr Hatfield, we have a problem. General Jackson has received reports that the gun-makers of Suhl are continuing to sell their products to anyone who will buy them, including the enemies of our king. He arranged for Herr Hatfield’s brother-in-law, Patrick Johnson, to look into it. Just this morning his report arrived and it looks like the earlier reports were true. He tells us that large shipments of weapons are leaving Suhl, going by way of Schleusingen. Toward the south. And I can assure you they are not being sent to General Baner in the Upper Palatinate.”

    “What do you expect? They are Franconians,” Captain von Dantz interrupted. “Catholics. We should send troops to hang the traitors. Suhl is in the territory given to the Americans, and all have sworn allegiance to King Gustavus Adolphus. In Pomerania we know how to deal with people like that.”

    “Not exactly.” Elizabeth Pitre’s voice was mild and calm. “True, its citizens have sworn allegiance. But that is because Suhl – the city – like Badenburg, became a state in the NUS by its own free will. That was months before the Captain General’s agreement with President Stearns concerning Franconia.”

    She raised one eyebrow. “Not to mention that you, as a Pomeranian, surely misspoke in saying that the town is Catholic when it is in fact Lutheran.” Her implication was that if she herself, as a lapsed Catholic, knew this much, surely the other captain should know more.

    Von Dantz took the bait. “Suhl’s city council became a ‘state’ of your NUS under false pretenses. It is not an imperial city. The council had no legal right to declare itself independent from the Saxon administrators of the Henneberg inheritance.” His disapproval of “do-it-yourself” politics was plain.

    Kagg frowned. “Captain von Dantz, if you would let me finish, I will tell you what has been decided. Your job is to carry out the orders you receive. And I do not want to have to remind you again that you are serving with American troops and the New United States is not – directly – part of our king’s territory. Neither, since last fall, is Franconia. So politeness toward our hosts is the order of the day.”

    Anse decided he liked the Swedish general. But he could see where this was headed, and started a mental packing list.

    “Now, before I was interrupted, I was about to tell you I have been in contact with General Jackson and President Stearns. They both agree that we need to send some people to Suhl. A small investigative party, however, not a large military force. There is already an American administration set up for Franconia proper. It is headquartered in Wuerzburg. But since Suhl is a state of the NUS rather than part of Catholic Franconia, Stearns’s people in Wuerzburg have no authority there. In any event, our group will be only looking for evidence of gun trafficking with the CPE’s enemies.”

    Kagg turned to Pitre. “Because of Suhl’s status, I do not want to send a large expedition, or a purely Swedish one, or even one under Swedish command, although” – he nodded toward von Dantz – “there will be someone along from our army. There is already a garrison in the town, should more troops prove necessary. The king placed it there before Suhl chose to join the NUS.”

    His expression became very bland. “Negotiations between the Swedes and Suhl’s city council in regard to its removal have been . . . protracted. Thus far, President Stearns has not seen fit to make its removal a priority. But we all feel that an American soldier should be officially in command, for political reasons. General Jackson specifically recommended Warrant Officer Hatfield. Captain Pitre, I would appreciate it if you would release him temporarily from his duties with your unit and loan him to me.”

    Captain Pitre frowned. “Well, certainly, if General Jackson says so. Although I’m not quite sure why he’d want someone from TacRail.”

    Kagg shrugged. “Nor am I. From what I understand, there is no early prospect of creating a rail line to Suhl. Not over that part of the Thueringerwald, certainly! But that was his suggestion.” He turned to Anse. “Mr. Hatfield, do you have any objection? If nothing else, you can visit your brother-in-law who is already residing in Suhl.”

    Anse was surprised, as well as impressed, that Kagg already knew that much in the way of the personal details of the American soldiers he’d be working with. “Of course, General Kagg. Captain Pitre, I’d like to take a couple of my own men with me.”

    “Let me guess. You want Private Schultz and Corporal Rau?”

    “Yes, Ma’am. Jochen Rau is the best man around for finding out what’s going on. And if we have to open any locked doors he has a lot of experience. Wili Schultz could help be a cover story, too, if we need one. His sister is going to marry Pat. He could be going to check out the wedding arrangements and to see Pat’s business. I know that would leave you with only Toeffel as a trained driver, but Jim Cooper can drive an engine. Toeffel and he have worked together before. And in a pinch Chief Schwartz could drive short hauls.”

    “All right, Mr. Hatfield. But only those two, no more, and I’d like you back before the first of March.”

    Kagg nodded. “Better still, if you can send three of your own soldiers. In that case, I will only send Nils – he waved at the lieutenant – with Captain von Dantz. As I said, I’d rather avoid any larger Swedish presence in Suhl than we need, given the garrison that’s already there.” For a moment – a very brief moment – he seemed slightly embarrassed. “I’m afraid there’s something of a history of ill-will in Franconia toward the Swedish army.

    “That will make a party of five,” the general continued. “That is a perfect number; enough to frighten off most bandits and not enough to attract attention. Nils, step over here and meet Herr Hatfield.” The last statement was to the big lieutenant who was holding up the office wall.

    “Herr Hatfield, I would like to introduce Lieutenant Nils Ivarsson. He has been with me since I became a soldier.”

    Hatfield measured the Swede with his eyes, as he extended his hand. Ivarsson was a little taller than six feet and looked strong as a bull. “Pleased to meet you.”

    “Ya, I am happy to meet you also. Captain von Dantz has spoken of you often.” There might have been a twinkle in Ivarsson’s eyes. Anse had a feeling the big Swede was not a member of the captain’s fan club.

 

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January 14, 1633

    Anse looked up in surprise. It was early in the morning for one of the young Germans whom Ed Piazza had started assembling as part of his staff to be hand-delivering him a note. Or for anyone to be delivering a note at all. Ed’s staff were no slouches. The Secretary of State had several up-timers working with him also, of course, but he’d made it a point to incorporate down-timers as soon and as extensively as possible.

    Anse didn’t know this one by name, although he recognized him. A former student at the university at Jena, he thought. Eddie Junker - that was his name. Piazza tended to favor recruits from there, partly because Jena was not much more than fifteen miles away, and partly because Grantville had made it a point to develop relations with Jena that were as close as their relations with Badenburg.

    Anse wasn’t privy to the discussions in the inner circles, but he knew the general plan was to develop Jena into central Germany’s premier educational and medical center. It made sense. Given the nature of its West Virginian topography, there simply wasn’t room in Grantville – including the whole Ring of Fire, for that matter – to expand all that much. The town was already jammed with immigrants, and people were starting to build on hillside areas that Anse himself thought were questionable at best.

    As he opened the note, Anse couldn’t help grinning. However much the down-timers in the area were adapting to American custom, in many ways, the reverse was also happening. The note was just a three-way folded piece of paper, but the embossed wax seal keeping it closed was as ornate and fancy as you could ask for.

    The message was short, to the point-and surprising.

    Anse folded the note back up and nodded to the courier. “Tell him I’ll be there, as requested.” A moment later the young man was gone.

    In some ways, of course, Ed Piazza was not adapting. The Secretary of State could just as easily have required Anse to show up when he wanted to see him, and no “if possible” about it. But one of the reasons Piazza had made such a successful and popular high school principal for so many years was his meticulous attention to simple courtesy.

    Anse himself was too old to know personally, but rumor had it that even when Piazza had been chewing out some wayward student, he’d been as polite as possible. Which Anse himself certainly wouldn’t have been. Do as I tell you, you little snot, or I’ll whup your ass was more his style in such affairs.

    “Wonder what it’s about?” he mused.

 

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    He found himself wondering a lot more, after he was ushered into Piazza’s private office that afternoon. In fact, it was all he could do to keep his eyebrows from crawling onto his scalp.

    Piazza wasn’t there alone. Also in the office – a bit crammed, in fact, since it wasn’t all that big – were President Stearns, General Jackson, and Rebecca Abrabanel. Mike Stearns was smiling blandly, Jackson was frowning. The solemn look on Becky’s face made it clear that she was here in her official capacity as the National Security Adviser, not Mike’s wife.

    “Have a seat, Anse,” said Piazza. As soon as he’d done so, the Secretary of State nodded at Stearns.

    “As you’ve probably figured out, my invitation was something of a subterfuge. It’s really Mike who wants to talk to you.”

    “Sure is,” Anse heard Jackson mutter. Becky shot him a look that seemed to combine reproof with exasperation.

    Stearns chuckled softly. “As you’ll soon discover, there is dissension and dispute in the top ranks of what passes for our august government. Here’s the thing, Anse.” Mike nodded toward Jackson. “Frank here thinks what von Dantz suggested that Kagg ought to do in Suhl is just fine. Go down there and hammer any bastards who are selling guns to our enemies. But Becky has strong reservations about the project. So does Melissa Mailey, for what it’s worth. Between the two of them, they’ve convinced me that the situation is a lot more complicated than it looks.”

    “What’s ‘complicated’ about it?” demanded Jackson. “Treason is treason.”

    Anse was surprised to see Becky almost snarling at him. The young Sephardic woman, in his experience, was usually imperturbable and serene.

    “Idiot words that mean nothing!” she snapped. “What does ‘treason’ – or ‘loyalty’ – mean in Germanies that are not a nation and never have been? And loyalty to a Swedish king? Are we speaking of the same Swedes who conquered the area and behaved every bit as abominably as Tilly’s army or Wallenstein’s in the territories they occupied?”

    Jackson looked mulish. “Loyalty to us. Suhl is a state in the NUS. One of our own states. By choice. It should be living under our laws and making everyone in the town do the same.”

    But Becky wasn’t about to let up on him. “So what if there were no great massacres like Magdeburg? There were massacres enough carried out by Gustavus’s army south of the Thueringerwald, on a smaller scale, be sure of it. And all the rest! Rapes, arson, plundering. Name the crime and they committed it. Especially in the Catholic areas, of course, but the Swedes were none too gentle in Protestant areas either.”

    “Enough already,” said Mike calmly. Becky subsided, still glaring at Frank Jackson.

    Mike looked at Anse. “Here’s the point, Warrant Officer Hatfield.”

    The formality was unusual, coming from Mike Stearns. He was making clear that he was speaking as the President, now. Anse sat up a little straighter. What was coming, he knew, amounted to his marching orders – and, push came to shove, Mike was the boss here, not Frank Jackson.

 

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    “The people in Suhl have been making guns and other weapons for centuries. And, for centuries, they’ve been selling them to anyone who was willing to pay. It’s the local custom – hallowed tradition, if you will. Not to mention that it’s perfectly legal under the laws they’ve lived with all their lives, and we’ve scarcely had enough time to undertake extensive re-education in regard to American statutory definitions. If nothing else, Becky and Melissa have convinced me that we can’t just go charging in there like a bull in a china shop, expecting that anyone who lives there will see the situation in terms of concepts like ‘loyalty’ and ‘treason.’”

    Seeming a bit exasperated, he ran fingers through his thick hair. “The truth is, Anse, not even Kagg thinks the issue is really a matter of loyalty or treason. What’s really involved, from his point of view, is a simple matter of power politics. The Swedes conquered the region, and so now the Swedes have dibs on Suhl’s guns. ‘To the victor belong the spoils’ and all that stuff. Whether they are NUS citizens or not. Further south, whether he’s assigned the Franconians to NUS administration, or not. We’re damned lucky that Kagg is being more reasonable than von Dantz.”

    He gave Jackson a look that was not as unfriendly as Becky’s, but wasn’t any too admiring, either. “Why this fella-who did a tour of duty in Vietnam, just like you did-has so much trouble understanding that, I’m not sure. But what I do know is this: I don’t intend for Grantville to run roughshod over another NUS state. Suhl’s people are our citizens, even if they still have a lot to learn about the differences between up-time and down-time ideas of citizenship and national loyalty.”

    Mike raised his hand and brought it down firmly on his desk. That was a variation on one of his most familiar gestures, which could range from a gentle tap of the fingers to a resounding slam. This one was about midway between.

    “What’s more,” he said firmly, “I’m not going to let troubles develop in Suhl that could spill over into our Franconian territories. Whatever Gustavus had in mind, when he handed over Franconia for us to administer, I do not intend our rule there to be one of conquerors. I can’t see any point in it. If for no other reason, because with a war likely to break out between us and the French, we won’t have the soldiers to spare to occupy Franconia with more than a few small garrisons in some of the major towns. If we don’t get the co-operation of the people who live there – and get it pretty soon – we’re going to have a nightmare on our hands. There’s no law of geography or geology that I know of that says that ‘quagmires’ are restricted to Asia.”

    His eyes came back to Anse. “That’s why I specifically instructed Frank to recommend you for this assignment when Kagg raised it with us. First, because I think you’re level-headed. And, second, because I’m hoping that since you’re assigned to TacRail you won’t seem as threatening a figure as some other type of soldier might be, once you get there. You’re essentially a military engineer, not one of the guys who specializes in hitting people over the head.”

    Again, he ran fingers through his hair. “Ah, hell, Anse, I know I’m handing you a mess on a plate. Just do the best you can with it – and don’t assume the Swedes know what they’re doing. When it comes right down to it, remember, we are the people in charge in Suhl. Not Gustavus Adolphus’s mercenaries.”

    Seeing the look on Anse’s face, Mike chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Easier said than done-when they’ve got most of the muscle. Especially muscle like von Dantz, a good chunk of which seems to reside between his ears and who isn’t likely to respond well to having you in charge. I’m sending along someone to help, though. Noelle Murphy.”

    Seeing the look that now came to Anse’s face, Mike and Becky laughed out loud. Even Frank Jackson grinned.

    “She’s an accountant-and she’s planning to become a nun!” Anse protested.

    Becky waggled her hand. “Maybe yes, maybe no, as to the last part. She hasn’t decided, I don’t believe. But she’s very smart, and”-again, that sharp look at Jackson-“unlike some people, she’s actually studied the situation.”

    Orders were orders. Anse made only one last minimal objection. “What’s her cover story? I mean, I can’t very well . . .”

    Finally, Becky’s usually serene countenance made its appearance. “Do not be concerned. I have managed the thing.”

 

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    On his way back – none too cheerfully – Anse contemplated his new assignment.

    There were too many damn layers involved, was the main thought that came to him.

    Gustavus Adolphus, Mike, Kagg, Noelle, von Dantz, the garrison commander, the Suhl city council, their militia captain.

    And him.

    Years ago, his wife Jo had taken him to a party where the hostess served something called an “eight layer chocolate dessert.” He’d only taken a sliver, but even so. Cake layers, tied together with chocolate whipped cream, with some kind of chocolate-raspberry jelly, with some kind of chocolate-and-cream-cheese spread. One layer oozing into the next. Worst heartburn of his life. He’d never run into anything like it again.

    At least, not until he had started to try to figure out who was in charge of what in these New United States. The overlapping layers of authority for this project gave him a mental indigestion at least as bad as the physical indigestion that incredible cake had caused.

    It had some kind of a German name, too, now that he thought about it.

 

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January 16, 1633

    Anse looked over the party gathered in Henry Johnson’s living room. Jochen Rau was seated near the door with his pack by his feet. Benno Toeffel had stopped by for any final instructions and was standing talking quietly with Rau. Henry himself and Ursula Eckhardt, Pat’s fiancee, were bustling around carrying packs of food for the trip from the kitchen. The combined Schultz and Eckhardt children were carrying the food out to the wagon. The only one missing was Wili Schultz. He and his wife Dora had wandered upstairs to say goodbye.

    “Uncle Anse,” Suse Eckhardt called from the door. “There are two women outside and they’re asking for you.”

    Going out on the porch, Anse found a woman in her late thirties standing with another woman, somewhere in her early or mid-twenties. Behind them was a handcart being pushed by a man Anse didn’t know, but thought was a down-timer. The handcart seemed full of what looked like luggage.

    Anse recognized the younger woman. She was Noelle Murphy.

    “Are you Anse Hatfield?” asked the older woman.

    When he admitted he was, she continued. “I’m Gaylynn Reardon. I heard you were going to Suhl and since my husband Gary works for Pat Johnson I’d like to tag along. My friend Noelle here agreed to come along with me. So, Mr. Hatfield, have you got room in your wagon?”

    Normally, Anse would have been inclined to refuse. But. whether or not Gaylynn Reardon’s reason for traveling to Suhl made any sense – or was even genuine – he knew perfectly well that Becky Stearns was using it as an excuse to quietly insert Noelle Murphy into the expedition.

    “We’re ready to pull out as soon as we finish loading the wagon. I hope you’ve packed properly, Mrs. Reardon. It’s a pretty rough road once we get past Badenburg, until we hit the trade route, and we’re traveling in winter.”

    “I’m already packed, and so’s Noelle.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the handcart. “Our stuff’s in there, ready to go. Everyone knows you’re leaving today. I spent four years in the West Virginia National Guard and winter maneuvers were no challenge.”

    She glanced at her younger friend, and smiled. “As for Noelle, she’s a lot tougher than she looks.”

    Anse did his best not to let his skepticism show. Leaving aside Noelle Murphy’s maybe-aspirations to become a nun, there was nothing about the young woman’s appearance to suggest she was any sort of sturdy frontier type. Noelle wasn’t frail. But she was of average height, rather slender, and her sandy blonde hair and moderately good looks fit a lady accountant a lot better than they did a reincarnation of Calamity Jane.

    But it was a done deal, so Anse didn’t argue the matter. “Come on into the house, then,” he said, “and get something hot to drink. We’ll leave within the hour.”

    He turned to Wili’s older son, who was tending the horses. “Wendel, help these ladies pack their stuff on the wagon.”

    Going back inside, he found that Wili and his wife had rejoined the group. Dora Schultz came over and, taking his collar in her hands, pulled him down to look him straight in the eye. “I want your promise. You will take care of Wili, and stay out of trouble.”

    “Sure, Dora. We’re just going to look over Pat’s shop and make some wedding arrangements.”

    “Ha, you are a terrible liar. You think Wili can hide anything from me. You just be sure I get him back in one piece. And you better come back whole, too. Men all act like little boys, sometimes.”

    “Speaking of coming back whole,” Henry Johnson interjected. “I have a couple of things that might help to that end. Jochen, here, I want you to have this.”

    Henry held a revolver out to Rau. “That’s a 1917 Smith and Wesson. It shoots the same ammo as Anse and Wili’s pistols. I packed five-hundred rounds of .45acp in the wagon and some half-moon clips so you can practice along the way. And because you need a long gun, I want you to have this Browning ‘Sweet-Sixteen.’ I packed three hundred rounds of 16-gauge buckshot in the wagon, too. Those are gifts, Corporal Rau. They are yours to keep.”

    “Ha, just going to see Pat’s shop,” sniffed Dora. “Come, Ursula. We go to the kitchen und let the boys play with the toys.” Dora led Ursula out of the room.

    Just then Gaylynn Reardon and Noelle Murphy came through the door. “Hello, Mr. Johnson. Are you about ready to put these fellows on the road, Mr. Hatfield? The sooner we get started, the sooner we get to Suhl.”

    Whether or not the woman was really that eager to be reunited with her husband, she was certainly playing the part.

    “Yes, they’re all ready to go,” interjected Henry. “Except for waiting for Captain von Dantz and Lieutenant Ivarsson. So you have time for a cup of coffee.”

    “Mr. Johnson, that’s the best offer I’ve had all day. A cup of coffee would be fine. Oh, Mr. Hatfield, in case you were wondering, my .30-30 is on the wagon and I’ve taken a deer with it every winter since I was thirteen years old, so I can hold my own if we have to fight.”

    He noticed that she didn’t make any mention of Noelle’s proficiency with firearms. Anse knew that Noelle had grown up in West Virginia, but he had a strong suspicion she did not and never had shared any of Gaylynn’s tomboy proclivities.

    After handing Gaylynn a mug of coffee, Henry waved Anse to the side for a private word. “Remember what I told you last night. Pat needs a contract to make rifles for the army. This business I hear about the people in Suhl selling guns outside the CPE is bound to make some of the big mucky-mucks in the government look to other places to buy guns.”

    “I’m sure Pat would have nothing to do with trading guns with the French. Hell, Hank. It might have been a reason to deny contracts, up-time. Here it seems to be standard practice. No one mucky-muckier than Frank Jackson would even wince, anyway.”

    Hank shook his head. “Look around. The French aren’t our only enemies. Ferdinand II, the Holy Roman Emperor, will have another go at us as soon as he can. So will Maximilian of Bavaria. I agree Pat is smart enough to avoid shipping guns to any of them, but if other gun makers in Suhl are shipping to our enemies it’s going to make it hard to get a contract for any factory in Suhl. You’re going to have to find out where the source is and make sure the government stops this trade as quick as possible. Shoot the treacherous bastards, if you have to.”

    “Sure, Hank.”

    Anse saw no point in getting into the complexities. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that most up-timers shared Hank’s opinion. It had been fairly obvious in the course of his interview with Stearns that General Jackson did, after all. Truth be told, Anse was rather inclined that way himself. But the cautions given him by Mike and Becky Stearns made him unwilling to come to any conclusions until he got down there himself. He had a bad feeling that the situation in Suhl was going to be the political equivalent of “some assembly required.”

 

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    The party pulled out an hour and a half later. Captain von Dantz had been a bit late. Henry’s old farm wagon, with its rubber shod car wheels, was driven by Wili, with Mrs. Reardon riding beside him. Wili had his pump shotgun propped against the seat beside him and Gaylynn had her rifle lying in her lap. Jochen Rau was riding on the back with his new shotgun across his knees. Rau, who was a bit of a conservative about his weapons, still had his long knife and wheel-lock pistol hanging from his belt, but the big Smith revolver was now holstered on his right hip.

    Ivarsson was riding a large horse beside the wagon and talking to Rau. He had tied the two baggage horses he and the captain had arrived with to the rear of the wagon, for remounts if needed. Anse noted that the Swedish lieutenant looked like an arsenal. He had two pistols in his sash, two more in his boot tops and another pair in saddle holsters. In addition he had a long heavy saber and a brand-new SRG carbine hanging from the back of his saddle.

    Captain von Dantz, who was riding a bit ahead of the wagon, was the lightest armed of the group. With only a saber and a single pistol, he looked almost unarmed compared to Ivarsson.

    Anse reviewed his own armament. The Remington auto loading shotgun was riding nicely in the saddle scabbard, and the Colt automatic on his belt was balanced by two double ammo pouches and the belt knife on his left side. The small dagger in his right boot was riding comfortably, but might be a problem if he had to walk any distance.

    To his surprise, Noelle Murphy had dredged up a horse somewhere and was riding it, adequately if with no great expertise. He wouldn’t have thought the woman had ever been on a horse in her life. To all appearances, she was completely unarmed. But the heavy winter clothing she was wearing could have easily concealed a small handgun, and Anse was beginning to suspect that Noelle Murphy was someone who was often full of surprises. So who knew?

    The road was well maintained and heavily traveled, so the group made good time. Twice they were passed by trucks from Grantville on their way to Badenburg, and once by one returning.

    Captain von Dantz rode up to a position just in front of Anse. He was scowling as he watched one of the trucks receding into the distance.

    “If we had taken one of the army trucks as far as Badenburg, we would already be on the road to Suhl, Herr Hatfield. This waste of time is poor planning on your part.”

    Anse kept his tone of voice even and level. “Captain, this leg of our little jaunt is just to settle the load in. We can check and see how everything is riding when we get to Badenburg and stop and fix anything that goes wrong. If we had started from Badenburg we’d be stopping in the forest.”

    That caused von Dantz’s scowl to darken. “I am also not happy with you letting those women come along. They are going to slow us down. I am sure General Kagg did not authorize that.”

    Anse was tempted to point out that the expedition was happening under the auspices of the New United States, not the Swedish garrison that the NUS had permitted to be stationed on NUS soil. So it didn’t really matter whether Kagg approved or not.

    But, for better or worse, he was still trying to keep the peace. So he simply said, “To tell you the truth, I’m not too happy with them coming along myself. But Mrs. Reardon was determined to rejoin her husband and her friend Ms. Murphy insisted on accompanying her. It was either take them with us or find their bodies along the road some place.”

    “How would that have been a great loss? Herr Hatfield, you are going to have to learn to weigh the value of people.” He spurred his horse forward into a trot.

    “She’s worth about ten of you, I figure,” Anse muttered to himself, as he watched the captain tiring his horse needlessly.

    “You should not insult ladies,” came an unexpected, heavily-accented voice from behind him.

    Anse twisted in the saddle and saw that Lt. Ivarsson had ridden up while he was watching the captain. Unlike Anse himself, the Swedish officer was obviously an expert horseman. Anse had never heard him coming. He raised his eyebrows.

    “Ten times nothing is nothing, Herr Hatfield. Simple mathematics.”

    Anse chuckled. “I like your arithmetic, Lieutenant. May I take it you are no more impressed with Captain von Dantz than I am?”

    Ivarsson shrugged. “An army makes do with what it has.” He seemed on the verge of adding something, but didn’t do so. Instead he changed the subject. “Since you are in charge of our little caravan, were you planning to stop in Badenburg or push on until nightfall?”

    “I thought we’d only stop if we needed to adjust the loads. We have – what? – forty-five or fifty miles to Suhl? I was figuring three or four days.”

    “That sounds about right. I would recommend we keep a sharp watch when we camp for the night. Our horses will be tempting to any local thieves. I will stand a watch.”

    “Well, I wasn’t planning on asking the captain. So with five of us we can switch off every two hours. Or do you think we should double up?”

    “Five? Oh, you want the older woman to stand a watch. She does seem competent, but I think we should double up, as you say, once we get well into the Thueringerwald. There have been reports of bandits in the area between here and Suhl. Or it could simply be disgruntled residents, acting like bandits. There were undoubtedly some people not too happy about turning into part of the New United States when you ‘slid’ the Wettins’ duchy out from under them.”

    Anse chuckled. He liked that way of describing it. “What about tonight we split the watch five ways, and the next two nights you and Rau take the first watch and Wili and I do the second?”

    “Yes, that will work and we can let the lady rest. Oh, I was talking to Rau. Was he really a house breaker before he became a soldier?”

    Anse laughed. “Breaking into houses is the least of Jochen’s skills. He’s a better tracker than I am, and can sneak up on a cat. The man is amazing.”

    The big lieutenant shook his head. “And you trained him to run that little thing, the locomotive. Seems a waste. He should be scouting for the army. Is that the right name, ‘locomotive,’ the thing that pulls the carts on the rails?”

    “Yes, that’s what it’s called. You’d be surprised what that little thing can pull.”

    The conversation soon meandered into a technical discussion on the advantages of rail traffic over wagon transport, and how the railroad would make an army less dependant on foraging.

 

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TOPTOP ... PostPost ... ReplyReply ... QuoteReply/Quote ... EmailEmail Reply ... DeleteDelete ... EditEdit PreviousPrevious ... NextNext ... Previous TopicPrevious Topic ... Next TopicNext Topic ... Entire TopicEntire Topic Topic: 1634: THE RAM REBELLION -- snippet 64 (1 of 4), Read 139 times Conf: Mutter of Demons From: Eric Flint ericflint@comcast.net Date: Friday, December 30, 2005 06:13 AM

    1634: THE RAM REBELLION – snippet 64:

January 17, 1633

    They stopped for the night a few miles past Badenburg. There were no incidents, as Anse expected given their proximity to the town. The worst problem they faced was the bitter cold, with such a clear sky. The temperature was well below freezing. Fortunately, they’d all dressed properly for the climate.

    Less than an hour after they started forward again the next morning, Noelle Murphy brought her horse alongside Anse’s. He was pretty sure she’d timed her arrival so that Captain von Dantz was up ahead a ways, well out of hearing range.

    May as well get started, Anse thought.

    “Okay, Ms. Murphy. Since I gather you’re my expert adviser, please advise.”

    Noelle winced. “Insofar as jury-rigged cram courses in ‘NUS constitution’ and ‘Franconian affairs’ make me an expert – which they don’t, not hardly. But I’ll do the best I can.”

    She took a long, slow breath, exhaling a visible cloud of moisture into the clear, freezing air.

    “We might as well start by being honest about the situation, Mr. Hatfield. When Gustavus Adolphus reached a deal with Mike Stearns that the New United States would assume responsibility for the administration of Franconia, there wasn’t anybody at all in Grantville who knew much about it. Truth be told, there weren’t a half-dozen people in town who had ever even been to anyplace in Franconia, and those had mostly been there in the military and lived on American bases. Those people thought it was the northern part of Bavaria – Upper Franconia, Middle Franconia, and Lower Franconia. Which it was, up-time. But which it is not, down-time. Bavaria hasn’t expanded to include it yet. It wouldn’t for a long time yet to come in our original time line and may never in this universe. The rest of the Grantvillers had not even heard of Franconia. That includes me.”

    Anse grinned. “Me, too.”

    She gave him a quick, flickering smile. “My training’s as an accountant, not a combination historian-sociologist and, I guess, Superspy Juniorette.”

    That made Anse laugh. Up ahead, he saw Captain von Dantz glance back at the sound.

    Frowning disapprovingly, of course. As if there were any danger of drawing the attention of bandits this close to Badenburg! Anywhere within two days’ ride of Grantville, for that matter. By now, bandits had learned to steer well clear of the Ring of Fire, where just a few months earlier a large expedition of Wallenstein’s Croat raiders had gotten torn to pieces.

    Noelle continued. “I’ve seen some of the correspondence that’s gone back and forth between Mr. Salatto and Mr. Piazza. The first headache Mr. Salatto and his team faced, as soon as they got to Wuerzberg, was figuring out what ‘Franconia’ meant in the first place. It turns out it’s a loose and slippery geographical term – especially when you have to factor in what the Swedes think about the issue. One of the first things Mr. Salatto and Mr. Piazza agreed on – President Stearns, too, I imagine – was that from the context of the deal reached with Gustavus Adolphus it was pretty clear that the king of Sweden did not mean for Grantville to mess around in the territories of his influential Protestant allies, even though they were clearly in Franconia, geographically speaking. That meant we had to steer clear of the imperial city of Nürnberg; the margraves of Ansbach and Bayreuth, et cetera and so forth.”

    Anse grunted. “In short, what ‘Franconia’ means to Gustavus Adolphus is really ‘the parts of Franconia that were ruled by Catholic church officials before I conquered them.’”

    “Exactly. What the king of Sweden wanted us to handle were the dioceses of Würzburg and Bamberg and the abbey of Fulda – even though, to a fussy geographer, Fulda is only sort of marginally Franconian. But since it was definitely Catholic and sort of between Franconia and Hesse-Kassel, President Stearns decided that Gustavus Adolphus intended the NUS to take over there. So we did. By last November, the NUS picked out its administrative teams, with Steve Salatto in overall charge, and President Stearns and Secretary of State Piazza sent them on their way.”

    He sighed, took off his cap, and scratched his scalp. “This is going to be a mess, isn’t it?”

    “Sure is. Like I said, Mr. Piazza showed me some of the reports Steve Salatto sent in. Our administration teams found out very soon that there weren’t many people who had been living in Franconia during the winter of 1631-1632 who were likely to ever join a King Gustavus Adolphus fan club. It didn’t seem to matter at all whether they were Catholic or Protestant, or whether they lived in the villages or the big towns. At a rough guess, at least ninety percent of the population of Franconia hate the Swedes. They were every bit as rough on people when they came through as any of Tilly or Wallenstein’s armies.”

    Anse hissed. “Rough on people” was a euphemism for what, up-time, would be a roster of every major felony on the books, starting with murder, rape and arson and working your way down. “That bad?”

    Noelle started to reply but had to break off to calm down her horse. The beast had gotten a little jittery about something. God knows what. Anse Hatfield wasn’t really much more experienced with horses than the young Catholic woman.

    “Well, I guess not quite,” she said, finally, once the horse settled down. “At least, so far as we know there were no major massacres. Certainly nothing on the scale of what Tilly’s army did at Magdeburg. But it was plenty bad enough-and nobody down there has forgotten, or stopped holding a grudge. Real, serious, personal grudges, too. Not just the usual ‘they made me convert to somebody else’s religion’ grudges. There were the ‘they burned my Ma as a witch’ grudges; the ‘somebody’s army stole all our horses’ grudges; ‘the Swedes devastated our property when they passed through in 1631-1632 on their way to crossing the Lech’ grudges.”

    “In Suhl, too? They’re mostly Lutherans themselves, I thought. Just like the Swedes.”

    “Yes, they are. For that matter, you can argue till the cows come home whether Suhl is really part of Franconia or Thuringia in the first place. But it doesn’t matter, Mr. Hatfield.”

    “Call me Anse, please.”

    “Okay. Look, Anse, here’s what I’ve finally figured out about this so-called ‘war of religion.’ Almost every army involved in this war is mostly made up of mercenaries, including Gustavus Adolphus’s army. The truth is, you’ll find plenty of Protestant soldiers serving in ‘Catholic’ armies, and vice versa. As often as not, religion is just an excuse for a mercenary army to do what it would have done anyway, once it enters territory it considers conquered from the enemy-and their definition of ‘enemy’ is going to be just as sloppy as everything else. From what I can tell, most of this war is just one plundering expedition after another. I think Gustavus Adolphus keeps a tighter rein on his soldiers than most commanders do. But that isn’t saying much, and even that gets really frayed when he’s just marching through a territory on his way somewhere else.”

    This, at least, was an area that Anse felt more familiar with. “Well, yeah, that’s a given. Not a one of these armies has a ‘logistics train’ that isn’t made up of spit, baling wire and chewing gum. In fact, that’s the problem us TacRail people are trying to solve. To a point, anyway. Without a good logistics train, an army on the march has no choice but to do what they call ‘foraging.’”

    Noelle’s expression got very tight, almost pinched. “What a fancy, antiseptic term.”

    “Ain’t it?” replied Anse, grinning coldly. “Anybody up-time tried to engage in such-like ‘foraging’ at home, they’d be looking at a minimum twenty-year sentence at hard labor. A fair number would be on death row, if West Virginia still had a death penalty.”

    Noelle shook her head. “I’ve always been glad West Virginia gave up the death penalty, back in 1976. But sometimes . . .”

    Anse shrugged, being careful to keep the motion minimal. Truth be told, he wasn’t any too sure how good a control he had over his own horse, especially traveling across snow-covered dirt roads. “It’s a moot point, here. I know Mike’s just fighting right now to get all the down-timers in the NUS to agree to restrict the death penalty to murder.”

    Noelle got that pinched look on her face again. At such times, Anse didn’t have any trouble at all picturing her as a nun. That might just be his own prejudices at work, though. Unlike most West Virginians, Anse didn’t belong to any church. But his background was old-time Protestant, and he tended to share the image of nuns as pale-faced, tight-lipped, mean-spirited old crones who disapproved of anything and everything.

    Which wasn’t fair, certainly not applied to Noelle. She might have the goofiest mother in creation, by all accounts, but at least so far she’d struck Anse as a pleasant and level-headed young woman. She was rather pretty, too.

 

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    “Keep talking,” he said softly. “This is a help.”

    “Well, the gist of what Mr. Salatto told Mr. Piazza in his reports was that there doesn’t appear to be any reason why the Franconians should like the Swedes any more than they do any of the other armies that have gone trampling through Franconia during the past fifteen years. Fortunately, we – the up-timers, I mean – do have some legacy of goodwill in the Suhl area, because it was our people who defeated that expedition Wallenstein sent into the area a while back. That doesn’t extend into Franconia itself, however. So the NUS administrators have to take this into account in their policies, which they are doing. They don’t talk about Gustavus Adolphus very much. Just sort of leave him on a back burner, so to speak.”

    Anse grimaced a little. “I can understand the logic, but . . . That might backfire, you know. When you come right down to it, ‘guv’mint’ means ‘we’re the guys with the big guns’ and the truth is the NUS has hardly any guns at all down there in Franconia, big, small or medium-sized. If the crap hits the fan – pardon my language – we’re going to have to call on Gustavus Adolphus to bail us out.”

    “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Noelle shook her head. “It might, though. To make things worse, when the NUS took over the administration of Franconia, the economy was shot. Conditions were a lot worse than in southern Thuringia, where things were bad enough. The only industry that was still doing well on the south slope of the Thueringerwald was munitions, in places like Suhl, Schmalkalden, and Schleusingen. Which aren’t exactly Franconia, I remind you. And even there, although Suhl itself is one of our states now, most of the arms manufacturers – maybe all of them – just don’t see this as an ‘us against them’ business. They’ll sell to anyone who has the money to buy, even if the guy is likely to use the stuff to invade the NUS the next year. They seem to think that since somebody is probably going to invade the region no matter what they do, and they can’t really predict in advance which side it’ll be, they might as well make as much as they can from the war. Especially since it’s pretty much the only good business going.”

    Again, she shook her head. “And that’s not all. There are also a lot of people who weren’t in Franconia during the winter of 1631-1632. That is, there are those Protestants who had gone into exile, mostly into Ansbach or Bayreuth or Nürnberg, after the Bishop of Würzburg started his re-Catholicization campaign, and who came tumbling back after the Swedes drove the bishop out. Some of them are demanding their own back-and some of them are demanding not only their own, but more, as compensation for all the pain and suffering they experienced. It’s sort of like letting all the Cuban exiles in Miami go home and then trying to manage all the property claims that popped up in Cuba.

    “Most of them hire lawyers. The lawyers have clerks. The clerks have apprentices. The NUS administrators don’t have three dozen up-timers total, counting the military attaches. At that – being honest – we’re pretty much scraping the bottom of the barrel. Small towns of thirty-five hundred people like Grantville just aren’t prime material for all of a sudden running a government for nearly a million people, counting southern Thuringia as well as Franconia, especially when it wasn’t even the county seat in the first place. And somebody has to stay home and keep things running there. Franconia is a sideshow, really. Anybody who takes a look at the comparative budgets for running Thuringia and running Franconia can figure that out.”

    Anse nodded. “Yeah, same old story. All the members of the NUS congress are from Thuringia, and like politicians anywhere, they think that their main job is to take care of their own constituents first. And, generally speaking, their constituents see eye-to-eye with them on the matter. Which means, until things in Franconia can settle down enough to hold elections – and figure out how Franconia fits in terms of Thuringia – they’ll keep getting the short end of the stick. So how are Steve and his people handling it?”

    “The first problem that Mr. Salatto and his teams have is to try to sort out which of the down-time Franconian administrators will be willing to work with them. Not support them, necessarily, but at least carry out orders and not deliberately undermine what they are trying to accomplish. That takes time, and they’re still working at it. The main problem with finding local administrators to work with, of course, is that any Franconian official who does agree to work with them is in serious danger of being denounced as a collaborator and taken out by his enemies if, in a couple more years, it turns out that Gustavus Adolphus can’t hold on to his conquests in Germany and the Habsburgs or Bavarians come back with a different slant on who should be running things.”

    “Can’t really blame ‘em, I guess,” said Anse. “Self-preservation’s about the most basic instinct there is. And it’s not likely to be just them if things go pffftt! It’ll be their wives and children, elderly parents.” He sighed. “The way things seem to work in this day and age, probably even their servants would suffer for the decisions they take, if it all goes sour.”

    “It’s helped a lot that the other Thuringian states that have joined the NUS sent along a fair number of down-time lawyers and clerks to help out. It doesn’t help at all that the Franconians consider Thuringians to be just as much ‘foreigners’ as up-timers and Swedes and, overall, consider the NUS to be just one more occupation force.”

    “Well, honest to God, what are we? Noelle, we are just one more occupation force. We may have better intentions than the others, but that’s what we are.”

    He broke off, watching Captain von Dantz trotting his horse past them toward the front of the party. “Well. Some of us have better intentions.”

    The pinched look came back on Noelle’s face. So strongly, in fact, that Anse involuntarily looked down at her hands, holding the reins. He was a little surprised to see that they were the smooth-skinned, rather delicate hands of a slender and attractive young woman. He’d been expecting to see heavy, gnarled fists. The sort that, arthritis be damned, hold and wield a great big ruler.