by Eric Flint
They had to pack up and hope they were in time to catch the last trading ship of the season. She rose, turned away and trudged slowly back to the cabin, dreading the thought of having to dig a grave with the children nearby.
The next ten days were a living hell for the survivors. Marta managed to get the grave dug, but broke down when she finally realized that there was no minister to say a blessing on the grave. The best she could do was a simple stick and twine cross that would not even last the winter. The boys helped, but Anna could not understand why papa was not coming with them. Marta finished packing up the last of their food supplies and looked around the clearing. Another storm seemed imminent, so she hurried the children on their way north, toward the trading post on the bay. Three cold, wet days later, they finally broke through the brush and reached the shoreline. Marta scanned the shore trying to spot the trading post.
Suddenly Michel let out a whoop and pointed toward the west. “There’s smoke. I think we should head toward it.”
“You’ve got sharp eyes. Help your sister over these rocks. We should reach there before sundown.” All during the struggle north, one worry had weighed her soul down. Would they get there before the ship? If they were stranded at the trading post, there might not be room for them. Their food was not enough to survive the winter.
As they rounded the last point, Marta could see a group of people camped along the shore by the post. More returnees. It seems we’re not the only ones returning to Thomasville. At least the ship hasn’t been here yet. They were almost to the walls of the post before a small boy spotted them and started pointing. They were met by two older women and three men, who asked their names and why they were there. The trading post’s owner, who was known simply as Hunter, stuck his head out a window to see what the commotion was about. “Another arrival, I see. What brings you here?”
Marta had dreaded this moment, but had vowed to keep the tale simple and concise. “My husband was killed in an accident. We have to return to Thomasville. We were just finishing our cabin when he died. Without a roof over our heads and winter coming on, I had no choice.”
“I hope you don’t expect charity. I only have enough room for me here. That’s why everyone is camped out. You’re lucky. The last ship of the season is two days overdue. That last storm must have delayed her.” Nods from the others confirmed his statements.
Marta shucked off her pack. “We have canvas for a tent, so we won’t have to impose on you. Can we set up here on the south side of the post? Hopefully, we’ll get some shelter from the winds off the bay.” The trader waved her on, not bothering to lend a hand, but also not denying her permission. The youngest of the three men walked over and offered to help. In talking to him, Marta learned that he was just waiting for supplies he’d ordered. He’d be making a couple of trips back to his camp, trying to beat the weather. When Marta described where they’d lived, it turned out he had been their neighbor, just three miles from where they had settled. They continued to chat as he helped her set up the tent. Within an hour, the family was bedded down for the night.
Two days later, a sail was sighted at daybreak, coming up over the northern horizon. The overdue coastal trader dropped anchor later that afternoon. Her captain came ashore with two boats. Both were weighed down with supplies. Hunter met them at the water’s edge. “What do we have here Captain? It looks like more supplies than I ordered. What do I do with them?”
Captain Nordqvist was brusque and ignored the question, “I need to sail with the tide. Please see to the unloading.” He nodded toward the prospector who had been waiting on his supplies. “That gentleman ordered and paid for the extra canned food when we landed this past spring. It’s his worry how he plans to get them all to his diggings.” He gave the expectant passengers a quick glance. “I suppose these are this year’s fools who want to return to civilization. I should have space for them, if they aren’t picky. Do they have the fare?”
“As long as it hasn’t changed, they do.” Hunter hoisted the pouch he’d brought along. “Gold dust for all.”
Nordqvist looked at the pouch with a thoughtful expression. “So many dreams in such a small pouch.” He walked over to the waiting group. “Get onboard now! Don’t bother with any fancy luggage, just the essentials. We don’t have a lot of room and you’ll all have to share a hold for this last stretch. The cabins are already filled. We should be in Thomasville by Sunday.”
One man asked timidly, “How many days is that? I’ve lost track of what today is.”
Nordqvist shook his head in disgust. “Six days, you poor excuse for a prospector. Now quit jabbering and get moving!”
Within the hour, everyone was loaded and the two boats shoved off. Marta stared at the receding shoreline, sorrow etched on her face. One of the women leaned over. “I hope that young man survives. I think snow is on the way soon. My knee says so.” Marta began to answer, but the boat gave a lurch as a wave struck and her stomach reminded her about her penchant for seasickness.
Captain Nordqvist missed his estimate for making port by five days. The weather steadily worsened as he beat to the east. In the hold, it was a nightmare for the passengers come to life. The smell, as seasickness struck, was overpowering. No one was allowed on deck, for fear of being washed overboard. Slop buckets remained below and were tossed overboard when the crew could find the time and a break in the weather. Marta had made some hardtack before leaving the cabin, and the family subsisted on that for the entire voyage. Two days before docking, the storm abated and the passengers staggered on deck for relief. Marta was uncertain what she faced when they landed and finally worked up the courage to question the captain.
Surprisingly, he was much more civil than when they had boarded. “I apologize for my temper when we met. I feared a storm was brewing and I was right. If we hadn’t sailed when we did, we might not have made it here. I have some time to talk now. To answer your questions, the town has grown over the past year like a weed. The foundry is working full blast and housing is tight. Do you have a trade that you can work at? Skilled workers are in demand.”
Marta blinked at the question. She’d been married to Lars for fifteen years and kept his house and raised a family. She’d never been apprenticed and the only work she could remember was on her father’s dairy farm. “I was a milk maid when I was a young girl. Since then, I’ve been a wife and mother.”
“Well, there is shortage of women. Maybe you’ll find something you can do.” He raised a knuckle to his cap and turned away, a smirk on his face. The meaning of his comment was unmistakable.
Fuming silently, Marta vowed she’d die before she turned to that trade. Spotting the boys skylarking on deck, fully recovered from their ordeal in the hold, gave her pause. It was fine to vow death before dishonor, but what about the children? Her dreams were troubled that night with thoughts of leering, drunken men.
The harbor was crowded with ships. Workmen could be seen setting stonework for the fortresses at the harbor entrance. As they approached the only open pier, Marta could see the smoke rising from the nearby steel furnaces. Along the harbor front colliers were unloading coal for the coking ovens. Streams of dust-covered laborers hauled coal sacks on their backs from smaller ships to waiting wagons, while larger loads were swung over to be emptied by cranes in large bins. Everywhere, there was a sense of prosperity. The ship glided up to the dock and lines were tossed to waiting dockworkers to hold the ship fast. Marta gathered the children and adjusted her pack. She wanted to be among the first off. If there was housing available, she wanted to beat her fellow passengers to it. As soon as the crew finished securing the boarding plank, she led the children off.
The storm had cleared the air and the sun shone warm through the crisp air. Marta walked down the street, studying the shops and houses as they went. Some of the taverns and eating houses looked promising for work, but housing was the first concern. The captain’s comment on tight quarters meant there might not be rooms available. As the family wor
ked its way out of the business area, rough-built houses started to appear. All looked to be inhabited and nowhere was there a sign saying rooms for rent. She stopped a number of passersby and inquired if they knew of any housing available. The answers were about evenly divided between rude comments and laughs. Two older women did say that they knew of nothing available. As they neared the edge of town, Marta was getting desperate. They had to have shelter! It was beginning to look as if they might have been better off staying at the cabin. At least there they would have had walls and a floor. Damn Lars for running out on life again and leaving her holding the bag! She’d always loved him, but it was starting to sink in that the life he provided for her and the children had left a lot to be desired.
As she looked up from her bitter ruminations, Marta realized she’d paused in front of a small church. In desperation she climbed the stairs and tried the door. It swung open, revealing a single, open room with rough benches. Near the front, a man dressed in a priest’s robe was tending the candles by the altar. Realizing it was a Catholic church; Marta turned to leave, but was stopped by a question from the priest.
“Do you need help, my child? You appear troubled.”
“I’m not Catholic, Father. We’ll just be on our way.”
“This is the Lord’s house, daughter. All who need help are welcome here. Tell me what’s troubling you.” The kindly look in his eyes gave Marta pause. She definitely needed help for her family. Making up her mind, she herded the children inside.
“We just returned from the north and need shelter. My husband was killed in an accident and we wouldn’t have survived the winter there. Do you know of any housing and jobs that I might find here in town?”
The priest frowned. “There are rooms available for single adults, but places large enough for four people…I don’t know of any. You will probably have to farm out the children to a number of families.” He paused. “Ah—wait. Speaking of farms, a thought comes to me. One of my parishioners has a new dairy farm a short way out of town. He recently lost his wife in childbirth and is trying to care for his new daughter and the farm. He has living quarters over the barn. It’s not fancy but it’s warm in winter. I’m sure he could find some space for you and your children, if you can do farm chores.”
Marta’s jaw dropped. “Father, I was raised on a dairy farm. I was milking cows when I was six years old. Of course I’m interested.” As soon as she agreed Marta realized that she hadn’t even thought about Lars before answering. Their dreams had always been his, maybe now she needed to work on some for herself.
“Come along then. We might as well make the introductions all at once.” The small procession trooped out of the church and started along the path leading to the nearby headland.
Thomasville, Newfoundland, May 1637
Marta stepped out of the butcher shop, the soup bones wrapped in paper and clutched tightly under her arm. Her gaze swept the hills that led down to the harbor. The warm, spring weather was bringing a carpet of flowers to the fields outside of Thomasville. It had also brought the coastal traders into port with the first wave of prospectors and trappers returning from successful winters up north. She spotted a small crowd around the Company’s assay office, gathered around a bearded prospector. She wandered over to find out what the commotion was about.
“Look here, friends! See what the fields up north are growing!” The prospector held up a huge gold nugget. “I found this just as the snows hit. I was caught by a storm while trying to bring in my last cache of supplies and had to seek shelter. I stumbled across an empty, half built cabin close to my claim and I waited the storm out there. By the second day, I had to go to the nearby stream for water. I found a tree toppled over, its roots exposed and rain washed by the weather. At first I thought I was dreaming, but there it was, just shining in the roots. I just had to reach over and pluck it out. The hardest part was waiting until the snows cleared so I could return.” He held onto the nugget firmly while he showed it off. Total strangers shoved through the crowd to catch a glimpse and pound him on the back in congratulations. The prospector finally had enough of the attention and called out, “I’ve been waiting for a drink all winter. Come on over to the tavern, the drinks are on me!” The crowd surged across the street and stacked up by the door.
Marta suddenly realized who the prospector was and where he had found the nugget. He was the young man who had helped her set up the tent at the trading post. The tree where he’d found the nugget must have been the tree next to where Lars had died. Lars had been right. He had been close to striking it rich. Her thoughts were interrupted as a tall, blond man tried to force his way upstream through the crowd heading for free drinks. She recognized the golden hair instantly. Her new husband must have finished up his negotiations with the Company’s meat buyer early and was coming to meet her for the rest of the buying trip in town. She may not have struck it rich in the gold fields, but she had found a golden treasure in town that was her dream.
Hide Trouble from Mine Eyes
David Carrico
Magdeburg
July 1635
Gotthilf Hoch, sergeant in the Magdeburg Polizei, jumped to one side as the patrolman he was standing beside turned and puked, splashing the contents of his stomach right where Gotthilf’s feet had been not a second before.
“Don’t get that on the corpse,” the newly appointed coroner, Dr. Paul Schlegel, growled from where he was crouched beside the victim.
The patrolman choked and hurriedly backed away to fall to his hands and knees and helplessly hurl another wave of vomit onto the ground. It sounded as if he was heaving up everything he’d eaten in the last two weeks.
It had been the doctor’s previous comments as he examined the body of the young woman that had occasioned the patrolman’s spasms. “Hmm,” he’d said matter-of-factly, “someone has cut both her trentonomous sicogliceneral from her head.”
“Her what?” Byron Chieske, up-timer lieutenant for the Magdeburg Polizei and Gotthilf’s partner on the detective squad, asked from where he stood on the other side of the victim.
“Her eyeballs,” Dr. Schlegel had responded, peeling back one of her eyelids and pointing his lantern’s light to reveal a congealing pool of blood in a raw red eye socket. That was when the patrolman who had discovered the body and had been hovering at Gotthilf’s elbow since the detective team had arrived lost it.
Gotthilf had seen a fair number of dead bodies during his days first on the city watch and later on the Magdeburg police force that Mayor Gericke had formed to provide up-time style policing in the capital city of the USE. Nonetheless, he felt his own stomach lurching in sympathy with the patrolman. For some reason, though, when he looked across at his partner and saw that Byron’s face was just as pale as the cold sweat on his forehead told him his was, that helped him settle down a bit.
“So, uh, how long has she been dead, Doc?” Byron asked after a big swallow.
The coroner placed one gloved hand on the victim’s head and attempted to move it. “Hmm. She’s well-progressed toward full rigor mortis. Given the temperature last night, that means she’s probably been dead for at least six hours, maybe longer. I’ll be able to get a better estimate after I get her back to the morgue and check my reference books. And I’ll confirm the cause of death as well, but from reading the studies that Dr. Nichols gave me when he heard I had become the coroner, I’ll hazard a guess at the moment that it was strangulation.” He reached down and pulled her collar aside. “These ligature marks are strong and deep.”
Dr. Schlegel stood. He was of middling height and build, with short hair, a close-trimmed beard, and sharp eyes that peered out from under bristly eyebrows. He walked over to talk to his attendants for a moment. Gotthilf and his partner both looked to the police photographer, who nodded back in confirmation that he had taken all the necessary photographs.
Gotthilf knelt where the coroner had been, joined a moment later by Byron. They took a good close look at the poor woman who had
died by violence during the night.
Wisps of light brown hair escaped from under her cap and floated in the breath of the early morning breeze. She lay seemingly calmly, body straight, hands crossed on her chest. Gotthilf looked down. Her clothing was straight and neatly arranged. He looked across at Byron, and when he caught his eye, pointed to her skirt. Byron nodded. He’d obviously had the same thought—at the moment, at least, this didn’t appear to be a sexual assault.
Gotthilf reached out his gloved hand and turned one of her hands, looking closely at the fingers. “Doesn’t look like she fought much. Her nails aren’t torn.”
“Yep,” Byron replied. “We’ll have to wait for the doc’s autopsy report to see if there’s anything under them, though.”
“Yah.”
Gotthilf laid the hand down, and reluctantly raised his eyes to her face. The sight of the concave eyelids sinking into the violated eye sockets caused his stomach to knot up again, but he forced himself to look beyond that. Not a girl; her skin had some pock marks and was somewhat blotchy and rough. Of course, some of the unevenness may have been due to the paleness of death. Her features were regular. There were the beginnings of lines at the outer corners of her eyes. So, early to mid-twenties, maybe. Not beautiful; not even pretty.
“What do you think?” Byron asked.
Gotthilf stood and looked up at his partner across the corpse. “A working woman,” he said. “Plain clothing, somewhat worn but still pretty neat, well mended in a couple of places. Sound shoes. No jewelry. Obvious callouses on her hands. Someone’s housekeeper or maid, maybe.”
