1634: The Ram Rebellion: Section Twenty

January 21, 1633

    When Anse walked into the factory office two days later, early in the next morning, Jochen Rau was waiting for him, along with another man.

    “Herr Hatfield, I would like to introduce Jorg Hennel, one of the members of CoC here in Suhl. Herr Hennel, this is Warrant Officer Anse Hatfield of the NUS Army.”

    Anse studied the man with Rau. He was a bit younger, in his early twenties at a guess, and a bit shorter. But, all in all, the two looked enough alike to be cousins. Given odds, Anse would have bet that a couple of years earlier Jorg had been in the same business as Rau. He had that look about him.

    Anse stuck out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Herr Hennel,” he said in German.

    Hennel replied in English, after shaking the hand. “Ich bin – I am – Jorg. You are Anse.” His smile was a brash sort of thing, the kind of smile a young man puts on when he’s trying to probe an older one. “Jochen was trying to impress me with how important you are.”

    Anse smiled back. “I’m not much given to formalities, myself. I assume you have some of the information I ask Jochen to find out.”

    “Yes. He asked for my help in finding who is selling weapons to those Bavarian and Austrian pigs. But perhaps you do not need my help.”

    Anse frowned. “Why do you say that? We still don’t know who’s shipping guns or how much they’re shipping.”

    Hennel shook his head. “You just visited – just yesterday – the man who is the worst offender.”

    “Blumroder? Ruben Blumroder? He’s shipping guns to unfriendly princes?”

    “You didn’t know?”

    Anse shook his head. “No. Are you sure?”

    Rau interjected. “Not only his own guns, either, Anse. It seems that Blumroder is something in the way of a general factor for all the gun-makers in Suhl. He puts together gun shipments from many shops and every two weeks he sends out a pack train loaded with guns to Nürnberg. But only part of the pack train arrives there.”

    “The rest is split off,” said young Hennel. “At Schleusingen, we think. What is your American expression? – ‘peeled away,’ I think – before it gets there. That part goes south to Bavaria, we think, probably Munich. From there . . .”

    He shrugged. “The Bavarians and Austrians are close. ‘Thick as thieves,’ I think you say.”

    “You’ve seen this?”

    For the first time, Jorg Hennel didn’t look brash. Indeed, he seemed a bit embarrassed. “Well . . . no. We know it’s true, but we are not woodsmen. Certainly not Jaeger – and Blumroder always has some Jaeger to guard his pack trains. If we tried to follow, they would surely spot us.”

    And might very well shoot you, Anse thought to himself.

    The Jaeger were nobody to fool with. They were seventeenth century Germany’s equivalent to forest rangers, game wardens, and professional hunters, essentially. The best-positioned worked on a salaried basis for a national authority. Well, for a principality, at least. For a duke or count. Younger men, or those less well-connected, worked on what amounted to a contract basis for local employers until someone retired or was injured or died and a cousin or brother-in-law put in a good word so he could get a permanent slot when it opened. There were Jaeger family trees almost as complex as noble dynasties, and stretching over as many local borders and political boundaries as those of specialty guilds such as the glassmakers.

    The Jaeger were crack shots, using rifled muskets instead of the normal smoothbores-and they were perfectly prepared to be ruthless. Even large bandit gangs generally stayed away from them.

    At the same time . . .

    Anse couldn’t help but wince. At the same time, the Jaeger were not rootless mercenaries, like the men who filled most of Europe’s armies, including the Swedish army. They almost always had close ties to their local communities. In that sense, they were more like the mountain guides of left-behind modern Europe – or their equivalent, along with bush pilots, in up-time Alaska. Which meant that if they were willing to work for Blumroder, the man – and his activities – had the tacit support of the inhabitants of the area.

    In short, a delicate situation just got a lot more delicate – and potentially even more explosive. If the NUS really pissed off the Jaeger, the Thueringerwald would become impassable for any but large military units.

    “Shoot, and I like the man,” Anse muttered. “So does Pat.”

    “That’s not all, Anse,” said Rau gloomily. “It gets worse. Tell him, Jorg.”

    What brashness had been in the young man earlier was gone now. Hennel took a deep breath and almost blurted out: “Some of the other CoC members – well, all of them, except me – have been talking to your officer, that Horton Scheissk-ah, up-timer fellow. And just last night, they and Horton met with the German officer you brought with you. Captain von Dantz. I think the commander of the Swedish garrison was there, too. I am not sure about that, though.” He shrugged. “I was not invited. Things have been strained between me and the rest of the CoC the past few weeks.”

    Anse had a bad feeling he could guess what the meeting had been about.

    “These other CoC members . . . They are, ah . . .”

    “What you call ‘hotheads,’” Hennel replied, scowling. “Or – what I think – simply lazy. They do not have the stomach for patient work. For . . . I forget the English word.”

    “Organizing?”

    “Yes, that one. Always they think of what they like to call ‘the bold move.’”

    Bold move. Anse was pretty sure the difference between that, in these circumstances, and terrorism . . . was just about nil. But it was the sort of notion that would appeal to impatient, inexperienced and angry youngsters. All the more so with someone like Horton to give it the blessing of “up-timer approval” and an arrogant ass like von Dantz to egg them on.

    For that matter, von Dantz might do more than simply egg them on. If he’d gotten the ear of the garrison commander . . .

    “Christ,” Anse muttered. “This is way over my pay grade.”

    He took a deep breath. “Well, I guess it’s time to find out if Mike Stearns is right.”

    Hennel cocked his head quizzically. Rau just said: “Eh?”

    Anse turned and started back into the shop, gesturing with his head for the others to follow. “Never mind. It’s too complicated to explain, and you’ll see for yourselves anyway.”

 

---

 

    Noelle Murphy was in her room, thankfully. She listened carefully to everything Anse had to tell her, with Rau and Hennel standing against a nearby wall. Throughout, her expression was simply attentive, and her slim hands were folded neatly in her lap.

    When Anse was finished, through, an expression came to her face. And she uttered a number of phrases that didn’t fit well – not at all, in fact – with her reported ambitions to become a nun.

    Admittedly, she did not take the name of the Lord in vain. Didn’t mention Him at all, even if there was no act involving procreation or the elimination of bodily wastes that was overlooked.

    “ . . .wrong with those fucking morons?” she concluded. Eventually.

    She brought her angry gaze to bear on Anse. “Wha – -exactly – is your authority here, Warrant Officer Hatfield?”

    Anse shrugged. “I’m not sure, really. But it doesn’t extend as far as handling this.”

    Noelle rose abruptly to her feet and stalked over to her handbag, perched on a shelf under the window. “Stalked” was the word for it, too. For those few moments, she bore no resemblance at all to a slender young woman. Anse was reminded of an eagle, shifting its talons on a limb to get a better perch for swooping.

    She hauled out a fancy looking envelope and handed it to Anse.

    “Read that, please.”

    It had a fancy seal and everything – except this one was embossed by the insignia of the President, not the Secretary of State. And when Anse opened it up, he recognizing the handwriting. No assistant had drafted this. Mike Stearns’ handwriting was pretty unmistakable. Large, looping letters. Not the world’s best penmanship, by a country mile – but it was legible, and the handwriting was about as forceful as the contents.

    When he was finished, Anse folded the letter back up and returned it to Noelle.

    “Okay, Ms. Murphy.” He smiled, slyly. “Or should I say Ms. Envoy Extraordinaire?”

    For the first time since he’d come in, that characteristically quick smile flitted across her face. “‘Envoyette Junior’ is the way I actually feel.” The smile vanished. “Is it good enough for you?”

    “Sure, Ms. Murphy. I have no idea if the President’s orders are legal, mind you. What I do know for sure is that I could care less. The way I figure it, he’s my ultimate boss and he pretty clearly put you in charge if, in your estimation, the situation called for your direct intervention.”

    Noelle stared at him for a moment. Then, seemed to swallow.

    “Well . . . It’s not so much that, Warrant Officer. The fact is, what I’m really doing is putting you in charge. But I guess I do provide you with the official cover.”

    “That you do,” Anse mused, thinking about it. “We’re both agreed, I take it, that any attempt to threaten or attack Ruben Blumroder – or any other gun-maker in Suhl – needs to be cut off at the knees?”

    “Yes.” She waved her hand, impatiently. “For now, anyway. Later on, if and when our authority here gets put on a solid basis, and clear laws are passed, things might be different. But for now, yes.”

    She took a slow breath and let it out in something that was very like a sigh.

    “I’ve spent months studying the down-time laws that apply to this stuff, Warrant Officer. And the fact is that Blumroder is doing nothing illegal. It might be unethical, depending on how you look at it. But he’s breaking no actual laws. Nobody in this time and place ties himself in knots over ‘trading with the enemy.’ We can’t change that in a few months. Even the Swedes really just want all the weapons without having to outbid the other guys, if you ask me.”

    Anse must have looked a little surprised, because Noelle sniffed. “Please, Mr. Hatfield! The dictates of a conqueror – and that’s really all Gustavus Adolphus is, here – are not ‘laws.’ Not in any sense of the term that our own Founding Fathers would have accepted, anyway. What Blumroder’s doing is possibly immoral, if you think in terms of ‘us the good guys’ and ‘them the bad guys.’ And it’s certainly dangerous for him, if the Swedes find out and get their backs up. But it is neither illegal nor, given the history of the area and its customs, is it even unpopular.”

    She ran slim fingers down her dress. It was a seventeenth century garment, although more severely cut than the norm. “So. The way I see it, our responsibility – for the moment, at least – is to forestall an explosion. Hopefully, down the road, we can persuade Blumroder and the others to cease and desist. But, in the short term, what we have to see to it is that his rights are respected.”

    She barked a little laugh. “It might be better to say, establish that he has rights to begin with.”

    Now, and for the first time, she seemed uncertain. “I admit, I’m not sure where to start or what to do.”

    But Anse had already figured it out. Most of it, at least. He rose from his own chair and turned to Hennel.

    “Do you know how to get to Grantville, Jorg?”

    Uncertainly, young Hennel shook his head. “Not really.”

    Anse nodded, and turned to Rau. “Jochen, tell Wili to guide him. I want them on the road as soon as possible. I wish we had a radio, but we don’t – and under the circumstances, we sure as hell can’t ask Horton to borrow his.”

    “And they are to . . . ?”

    “Wili is to report -- personally, and tell him not to take any crap – to Mike Stearns. Not Jackson, not Piazza – Stearns himself.” He turned back at Hennel. “As soon as you arrive, I want you to meet with Gretchen Richter. Tell her everything you know.”

    “Very well. And what do you want her to do?”

    Anse smiled, very thinly. “Plain to see, you’ve never met the woman. First, it doesn’t matter what I want, since – as she’d be the first to tell you – she doesn’t take orders from me. She doesn’t take orders from anybody. Second, it doesn’t matter. She’ll figure out what to do, all on our own. Unless I miss my guess, she’ll come right down here herself, like . . .”

    His smile widened. “You may as well get acquainted with another American expression. ‘Bat out of Hell’.”

 

---

 

    He turned back to Rau. “Jochen, do you have any idea if we’d have any influence on the garrison?”

    Jochen shook his head. “Not a bit, Mr. Hatfield. They’re bought and paid for, and they work for Captain Bruno Felder.”

    Anse wasn’t surprised. Most mercenaries in the seventeenth century didn’t hire on as individuals, paid directly by their ultimate employer – who, in this case, was the king of Sweden. They hired on as companies or regiments, and they got their money directly from their own commanders.

    “That means they won’t pay much attention to Ivarsson, either. If they pay any at all.”

    “You think . . . ?”

    Anse spread his hands. “Who knows? But I’m going to find out. Ivarsson struck me as a level-headed fellow. I’m hoping he’ll see it our way. Whether he does or not, though . . . ”

    He made for the door. “First thing we do, we make clear to all parties involved that if anyone wants a fight, they’ll have it. Follow me, everybody – except you, Jochen and Jorg. Round up Wili, right off, and get on the road. When you’re done with that, Jochen, meet me at Blumroder’s shop. Or I might be at Pat’s, next door.”

    About halfway down the corridor, he heard Noelle snicker.

    “What’s so funny?” he asked, a bit crossly.

    “You are,” came the reply. Her tone thickened, mimicking that of a man. “Follow me, all three of you – except two of you.” She snickered again. “That leaves me, the sole follower. Or should I say, fig leaf trailing in the wind?”

    Anse couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re okay, Ms. Murphy. My strength is as the strength of ten, because my fig leaf is pure.”

    That brought an actual, down-home laugh. The first one he’d ever heard coming from her.

 

---

 

    Anse found Ivarsson in a tavern on the next street. Oddly enough, given the reputation of Swedish soldiers in the area, having what seemed to be a convivial – even jovial – conversation with several other patrons of the place.

    All of them, in fact, including the tavern-keeper: some dozen men, all told.

    When the Swedish lieutenant spotted Anse entering the tavern, his tough-looking middle-aged face was split by a grin that belonged to a teenager.

    “You see?” Ivarsson demanded, lifting his tankard. “Did I not tell you all?”

    Everyone else in the tavern swiveled to study Anse, as he approached the big table in the center.

    “We still don’t know . . .” murmured one of the patrons.

    “Skeptic! For shame!” Ivarsson bellowed. He took a slug from his tankard, plunked it down on the table, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “Does anyone care to make another wager?”

    No one did, apparently. Whatever the bet involved.

    Anse drew Ivarsson away from the table, toward the doorway where Noelle waited, so they could talk privately.

    “Lieutenant Ivarsson, it has come to my attention that certain persons, it seems, plan to attack Herr Blumroder. I believe Captain von Dantz is involved in the business, along with the military liaison from the NUS, Lieutenant Johnny Horton. Probably Captain Felder and his garrison, also. Some other persons.”

    Ivarsson belched. “To be precise, six out of the seven members of the local Committee of Correspondence.”

    Ivarsson, clearly enough, had his own sources of inside information in Suhl. Anse wondered who they were, but decided this was not the time to try to find out. Most likely, members of the garrison who had their doubts about the whole thing.

    “Uh, yes. I need to know what you propose – ”

    “I propose?” Ivarsson’s expression was a comically exaggerated version of surprise and indignation. “Warrant Officer Hatfield, I am simply here as a representative of the staff of General Kagg. It has been clearly established – your President Stearns was most insistent – that you are the people in charge, here in Suhl. Not us.”

    He waved his hand airily. “So I have nothing to do with it. Other than to wish you the best, of course. Whatever you decide to do.”

    Anse studied him. Beneath the jovial, almost buffoonish exterior, he didn’t miss the keen gaze Ivarsson was giving him. The Swede was perhaps not completely sober, but he was very far from being drunk.

    So.

    Anse fought off a strong wish that he had been able to down a couple of tankards of beer, himself.

    So.

    He cleared his throat. “May I assume, then, that neither General Kagg – nor the king of Sweden – have in any way authorized these activities?”

    “You may.”

    “And will stand aside, whatever is done.”

    Ivarsson smiled. “Oh, yes.”

    “Will not criticize after the fact?”

    The Swedish officer’s smile widened. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

    So.

    Anse nodded curtly. Ivarsson headed straight back to the crowded table in the middle of the tavern, where he picked up his temporarily abandoned stein.

    “Heinrich and Wolfgang, you each owe me a beer,” he announced. “Kiefer, by now you owe me the whole tavern. But I’ll settle for a pork Schnitzel. No gristle, you understand!”

 

---

 

    “Well?” Noelle asked, after they left the tavern.

    Anse shook his head. “It’s weird. What I can’t figure out is whether Ivarsson is acting on his own, or whether Kagg gave him instructions.”

    “Probably both,” Noelle said shrewdly. “One thing I found out before we left is that Ivarsson’s been Kagg’s right-hand man since forever. Runs in the whole family – both families – it seems. Kind of like old feudal retainers, updated some.”

    “Um. So what you’re saying is that Kagg would have given him some general guidelines, and would then rely on Ivarsson to figure out the footwork.”

    “Pretty much. I think what’s happening is that Gustavus Adolphus told Kagg to see if we could handle the situation – and give us the leeway to do so.”

    Anse sighed, took off his cap, and ran fingers through his hair. Wishing there wasn’t so much gray up there.

    I’m too damn old for this-and it’s still way over my pay grade.

    But . . . there it was.

    “Or the rope to hang ourselves with. Okay, so be it. Let’s head over to Blumroder’s.”

 

---

 

    Once they were within sight of Blumroder’s shop, it was clear as day that Ivarsson wasn’t the only one with his own inside sources of information. Two very hard-looking men – Jaeger, from their clothing – were standing guard outside the door. And all the windows had been shuttered.

    Just to make things perfect, the shutters all had firing slits – and Anse could see musket barrels poking out of two of them.

    In fact . . .

    He scanned the whole street, up and down. All of the gun shops were shuttered – and he could see musket barrels in at least four of the windows. Even his brother-in-law Pat had the shutters up.

    “Swell,” he muttered. “One gunfight at the Suhl corral, coming up.”

    He headed for the entrance to Blumroder’s shop. Anse didn’t see any point in talking to Pat until he knew where things stood with the central figure in the situation. Noelle followed, a few steps behind.

    He wasn’t sure the Jaeger standing guard at the door would even let him in. But, as he approached, that problem became a moot point. Blumroder himself emerged from the shop.

    Carrying a flintlock rifle, and with a grim expression on his face. Out of the corners of his eyes, Anse could see several of the shuttered windows of the shops on the street opening a little wider. And, he was pretty sure, two more musket barrels peeking out. Fortunately, none of the weapons seemed to be pointed at him. So far. Directly, at least. But it wouldn’t take more than a second for that situation to change.

    “Yes, Herr Hatfield?” asked Blumroder. Despite the expression on his face, his tone was courteous.

    Anse didn’t see any point in beating around the bush. He stuck his thumb over his shoulder, more-or-less pointing backward.

    “First, I’m pretty sure an attack is going to be launched on you. The Swedish garrison will probably be involved.”

    “An attack has already been launched. Three shots were fired into my shop last night, through an open window in the rear. They barely missed me – and they did injure one of my apprentices. Fortunately, the wound was minor.”

    Anse had heard the shots himself, as it happened. He simply hadn’t thought much of it, because there were often shots being fired on that street. Just about every gunmaker had a firing range as part of his establishment.

    A firing range of sorts, at least. For Anse, accustomed to up-time firing ranges, the distances involved were ridiculously short – not more than ten feet, usually. The purpose of the ranges was simply to check a new gun’s reliability, not its accuracy. Even with the new flintlock muskets, accuracy still ranked at the bottom of the list, when it came to the qualities looked for in seventeenth century weapons.

    “That would have probably been some of the people in the Committee of Correspondence,” he guessed.

    “Almost certainly,” replied Blumroder. “Not even the drunken swine in the Swedish garrison would have missed, so closely did the would-be murderers stand to the window.”

    He jerked his head toward the Jaeger at the door. “You can be quite certain they will not miss, once they track down the culprits,” he said coldly. “The training we get as members of the Suhl militia is not bad, either.”

    “There’s not going to be any ‘tracking down of culprits,’ Blumroder.” Anse’s tone was every bit as cold. He turned and motioned Noelle forward. “Ms. Murphy is now in charge, here in Suhl. She has the documents from our president to verify that. And she’s placed me in military command. So I’m declaring martial law. Which includes assuming authority over the city militia, by the way.”

    Anse was pretty sure he was wildly exceeding any formal authority either he or Noelle had, in doing so. “Martial law,” to down-timers, was indistinguishable from “conqueror’s fiat.” And Anse remembered enough of the sketchy legal training he’d gotten to know that up-time American notions were tightly circumscribed by law.

    But he didn’t care, at the moment.

    Blumroder started to say something, but Anse waved him down.

    “Be quiet, Blumroder – and don’t act as if you’re just an innocent party in the business. You’ve been selling guns to the Bavarians – probably the Austrians, too. You know damn good and well such business is bound to stir up trouble.”

    “The Swedes,” Blumroder hissed. “Why are they supposed to be any different from – ”

    “Be quiet, I said.” Anse stepped forward, ignoring the rifles in the hands of the Jaeger – which were now definitely being pointed at him.

    “You’re not dealing with Swedes, any longer. You’re dealing with the New United States, which happens to be the sovereign authority in the city of Suhl. Since your actions aren’t technically illegal – yet – I don’t propose to do anything about it. Other than give you a private warning, I guess, that you’re playing with fire. But I’m not going to tolerate any ‘private justice,’ either. Not from you or anyone else.”

    Blumroder was now visibly angry. Anse forestalled the explosion by adding, a bit hurriedly: “’Private justice’ also includes any unauthorized actions on the part of the garrison here, or any of its officers or men.”

    Blumroder snorted sarcastically. “As if they will listen to you!”

    Anse shook his head. “It doesn’t matter whether they’ll listen to me or not. If they don’t, they are legally nothing but mutineers – and I will deal with them accordingly.”

    Another sarcastic snort came from the gunmaker. “You? And who else?” The musket still being in his hands, he pointed with his chin at Noelle Murphy. “The estimable Fräulein?”

 

---

 

    Blumroder’s eyes seemed to widen a bit. Turning, Anse saw that Noelle had pulled out a pistol from somewhere in her garment. An up-time weapon, at that-but at a glance, he thought it was just a .32 caliber automatic. A “lady’s gun,” suitable for fending off a mugger – and damn near useless for real military action.

    Still, she seemed quite determined. Particularly when she looked at Blumroder and announced that she would provide the mayor and council with official copies of her letter of authorization from President Stearns. Properly sealed.

    Then, over her shoulder, Anse saw that Jochen Rau had entered the street. Thankfully, he was carrying an up-time weapon that was quite suited for military action – a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun, that he’d have loaded with slugs.

    “My entire force,” he said, smiling humorlessly. “Along with the Suhl militia. Except for the posse, of course.”

    He turned back to Blumroder, who was now frowning. “What is a ‘posse’?” the German gunmaker asked.

    “You are,” Anse replied bluntly. “You and every able-bodied man in this area – and any Jaeger who work for you.”

    Hearing a little commotion, he glanced to the side and saw that Gaylynn Reardon had emerged from Pat’s shop, holding her rifle.

    “Able-bodied person, I guess I should say.”

    Blumroder was still frowning. Before Anse could say anything further, Noelle spoke up.

    “Warrant Officer Hatfield has the authority to deputize anyone he chooses, to serve in the posse. Under our laws, Herr Blumroder, a ‘posse’ is a band of persons temporarily enrolled in the officially authorized police force, to suppress criminal activity.”

    She cleared her throat. “Mutiny is a criminal activity.”

    Blumroder and his Jaeger stared at her. Clearly enough, not knowing quite what to make of her words — or of her, for that matter.

    It was time to settle this. Anse cleared his throat.

    “That’s the way it is, Blumroder. Do it my way, and you might get out of this alive. Might even keep your shops intact. Do it any other way, and the Swedes will be convinced that we can’t maintain order here. The consequences of that are nothing you want to think about. Unless you’re crazy enough to think you and your Jaeger can defeat Gustavus Adolphus – where Tilly and Wallenstein’s armies couldn’t.”

    After a moment, Blumroder looked away. “There is also an up-timer involved, on the other side. That Horton Scheisskopf.”

    Anse shrugged. “So? Grantvillers are just citizens of the NUS. They don’t enjoy any special privileges.”

    Honesty forced him to add: “Not legally, at any rate. If I tell Johnny Horton to stand down, and he doesn’t, then he’s just another mutineer.”

    Blumroder cocked his head, in a gesture that was quizzical as much as it was skeptical. “He is a lieutenant. I believe that outranks you, Warrant Officer.”

    “He doesn’t outrank me,” Noelle interrupted. “And I turned full authority over to Mr. Hatfield. Legally, that’s good enough.”

    Anse could almost hear the next two words, that she must have been thinking but – thankfully – didn’t speak out loud.

    I think. Noelle Murphy was jerry-rigging just as fast as Anse was.

    What the hell. Anse had seen plenty of jury-rigged machines work well enough, and long enough, in his fifty-four years of life. Maybe this one would, too.

    “That’s it, then,” he said.

 

---

 

    “I swear to God, Anse, I had no idea . . . ”

    “Shut up, Pat,” Anse growled. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I’ll accept that you didn’t know. But don’t tell me you had no suspicions that Blumroder – your own partner, fer chrissake – wasn’t involved in the business.”

    After a moment, Anse’s brother-in-law looked away. Then, sighed.

    “Well, okay. But, look . . .”

    When his eyes came back to Anse, there was as much anger in them as shame and embarrassment.

    “I live here, damn you. These people are my neighbors.”

    They were standing inside Pat’s shop. Pat used the rifle in his hands to point to the western wall. “Just three shops down, there’s a mother and her daughter who were gang-raped by mercenaries in Gustavus Adolphus’s army. The girl was only fourteen. When the mother tried to protest that they were Lutherans, too, the stinking bastards just laughed at her. Two of them were members – still are, goddamit – of the Swedish garrison here. When she tried to register a complaint with the garrison commander afterward – yeah, the same Bruno Felder asshole who’s still in command – he laughed at her, too.”

    Anse set his jaws. “I’m not arguing about that, Pat. I don’t like mercenary soldiers any more than you do. It still doesn’t change the fact that, within a year, we’ll most likely have fought a war – and some of our soldiers will have gotten killed with guns from here. And they’re going to be pissed as all hell, especially if they find out the gun trade with our enemies is still going on. You know that as well as I do.”

    Pat looked away again. “Yeah. Well. Look, I didn’t know what to do. But I did report the problem to Grantville, at least.”

 

---

 

    Anse took a deep breath, and let it out. There was no point in staying angry with Pat. If he’d been in the same circumstances, Anse wasn’t sure what he’d have done, either. Pat was a civilian. No fig leaf. No backup. Should he somehow have gone for the kind of private justice – vigilante justice – Anse was denying to both Blumroder and the CoC? Somewhere, in his own mind, was there still a sneaking feeling that it would be all right for an American to handle things that way, just because he was an American, but not for Germans who were NUS citizens to do the same?

    “All right, forget it. Water under the bridge, and all that. But for the moment, you’re a member of my posse also. Got any problems with that?”

    Finally, Pat smiled. “Not any, Anse. Not any at all.”

    “Good. In that case – don’t get squirrelly on me, Pat – I want every up-time weapon you’ve got in the hands of the Jaeger. They’re probably better shots than you are.”

    “Not mine,” said Gaylynn Reardon sharply. “Not Gary’s, neither.” Her husband, standing next to her, looked just as stubborn as she did.

    Anse shook his head. “Fine, fine. In the interest of maintaining American pride and morale – not to mention keeping peace in the family – you and Gary and Pat can each keep a modern rifle. But I want the rest in the hands of those who can do the most with them.”

    “I can shoot as well any damn Jaeger,” she insisted. “Got nothing to with pride.”

    “Who cares how well you shoot, Mrs. Reardon?” he demanded harshly. “How well can you kill? Not dark outlines against the snow or distant figures on a roof that you’d have had in your scope if we’d run into trouble on the trip down here. Men standing right in front of you?”

    She didn’t look away. But she did swallow.

    “Yeah. What I thought. We’re not deer-hunting, here. I want those guns in the hands of the Jaeger. If there are any left over, let Blumroder decide who gets them. Understood?”

    After a moment, they all nodded.

    “Do you really think it’ll come to that, Anse?” asked Pat.

    “Hell, who knows. But . . . yeah, it probably will.” He glanced at the shuttered windows. “Felder’s thugs aren’t just rapists. They’re also killers – and they’ve been the top dogs here, so far. I don’t think they’re just going to roll over and wave their paws in the air.”

    Noelle Murphy cleared her throat. “Still . . . Mr. Hatfield, you can’t simply wait until there’s an armed confrontation in the street. You have to send word to Captain Felder – to von Dantz and Horton, too – that you’re now in charge.”

    Anse made a face. “Ms. Murphy, meaning no disrespect, but it’s just a cold fact of life that if I march over to the garrison and start throwing orders around, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get shot. For sure, I’ll get arrested. And then where are we?”

    He took off the cap, laid it on a table, and scratched his head. “Look, face it. This so-called ‘posse’ of ours is shaky enough as it is. Take me out of the picture . . .”

    Noelle shook her head. “Yes, I understand. But I wasn’t suggesting that you do it, personally. Simply that you needed to send word.”

    “And who . . . ?”

    Her face was pale but composed. “I think it’s quite obvious. Since I have the documents from President Stearns, I will do it. After I give copies to the city’s authorities.”

    That odd, lightning-quick little smile came and went. “I’m really not what anyone in their right mind would call a ‘soldier,’ Mr. Hatfield. The only reason I carry that little pistol is because my boss insisted. I’m not sure I could hit anything with it, beyond a few yards.”

    Abruptly, she rose to her feet. “I’m just a fig leaf here, really – and, once the job is done, a fig leaf is disposable.”

    Pat looked alarmed. “Hey, wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? Felder’s guys – probably Felder himself – are a bunch of rapists. You go over there . . . I mean, you’re young, you’re pretty . . .”

    She issued that same insta-smile. “I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Johnson. But the same would be true for almost any woman you sent over there. And Mr. Hatfield is right. Any man would probably just get shot.”

    “But – ”

    “I am officially in charge, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Hatfield. So there won’t be any further discussion of the matter.”

    And, with that, she marched to the door. At her imperious nod, one of Pat’s apprentices opened it for her. A moment later, she was gone.

    “Oh, hell’s bells,” said Pat.

 

---

 

    Jochen Rau walked up to Anse. “Wili and Hennel are on their way to Grantville. We couldn’t get a truck. Horton has one, but he’s got it in the garrison compound. That’s where the radio is, too.”

    “Damn.” Anse shook his head.

    “So Wili and Hennel they took the best horses we had.” Rau grinned. “One of them was von Dantz’s.”

    Anse chuckled. “So we’re adding horse theft to the bargain, huh? Well, why not?”

    He sent Jochen over to the tavern where he’d found Lt. Ivarsson. “See what he’s up to – and, if you can, try to get him to come here.”

 

---

 

    Rau returned less than half an hour later. “Ivarsson’s gone,” he said. “Nobody seems to know where he went.”

    Anse muttered a curse under his breath. “What the hell is he playing at?”

    Rau just shrugged.

 

---

 

    An hour later, it started snowing. By nightfall, three inches of fresh snow had covered the town.