Grantville Gazette VI

by Eric Flint

  Bucky grinned. "The one that stays in my attic. At least I think he's in my attic. For all I know, he's in yours. These kids run in and out of our houses like they've lived here all their lives."

  "I like it." Jerry's face was sad. "It's like having the kids and grandkids back. Sort of."

  They grew quiet for a bit. Loss and grief was a familiar feeling to them all. "Anyway." Bucky shrugged off the mood, "Johan liked the music. Asked if we'd do it again. Reckon we could just sit around the yard and play for a while, since they like it."

  "Why not?" Henry stood up. "Beats cleaning the chicken house, don't it?"

  * * *

  It became something of a ritual over the rest of the summer. More of the young miners began showing up, invited by the boarders. They sang along, even. Started bringing girls with them. And refreshments, food. Picnicking under the trees.

  "How did we wind up with so many people here?" Nancy asked. "Never imagined anything like this."

  "There's about thirty extra," Mildred pointed out. "And they brought stuff. Loaves of bread, cheese. Like they're paying admission."

  Regina shook her head. "To hear us and the boys? Who'd have thunk it? We were just messing around, that's all. Never serious about it. Playing."

  "Well, they like it." Mildred smiled. "And they're learning the songs. Johan says it helps his English."

  "Which Johan?" The question came from three women.

  "All of them." Mildred laughed. "And that little weedy one is learning banjo from Bucky. Paying him for lessons by doing Bucky's chores, even."

  * * *

  "It's getting a little chilly for this." Jerry shivered to demonstrate. "Really chilly."

  The late October afternoon was pretty chilly. "We're probably going to have to give this up till spring," Huey said. "It's getting too cold. Hate to disappoint the kids, but we can't keep this up. I'm not good with cold."

  * * *

  "What?"

  "We want to offer you t' gig." The big Scot waved a hand. "Your boarders have told us about you. So we'll pay you to play at t' Gardens. Drinks and a meal. Pass the hat for tips."

  "Don't that beat all?" Bucky looked at his group of friends and grinned. "Don't that just beat all?"

  * * *

  Going "pro," as it were, meant they had to come up with some kind of program. Which caused a good bit of argument.

  Regina clattered around the kitchen, practically slamming the cabinet doors. "But I like it. And I don't see why playing it at the Gardens would be a bad thing."

  Gospel hadn't ever been Huey's favorite, so he'd suggested losing most of it and just going with the old bluegrass favorites.

  "It's still a bar." Huey took a sip of coffee. "I'm just sayin'—"

  Jerry put a stop to it, though. "We'll just do it like they used to do on the television shows. They all pretty much had a bit of gospel, near the end, usually."

  After that the program fell in line pretty well.

  * * *

  Mildred gulped when she saw the audience. "I'm all over nervous. All over."

  "Buck up there, hon." Bucky grinned at her. "You'll do just fine."

  It was an unusual night at the Gardens. Rather quiet, in fact. Right up until the audience started joining in, that is.

  Nancy started this one. She began the rhythmic clapping and sang the first line. The rest of the girls followed her. "Go to sleep little baby . . ."

  Bucky was up next. Just about brought the house down with his rendition of "Cold, Cold Heart." Of course, he followed up with "Your Cheatin' Heart," which had all the young ones chiming in.

  One set followed another. They'd agreed to do four. Regina had been looking forward to the last set all evening. She took a deep breath. "Oh, sisters, let's go down . . ."

  The girls did the sisters and mothers lines, while the boy's did brothers and fathers. The whole house was chiming in on the sinners part. Everyone had the melody down by this time.

  It worked much the same way for many other tunes. Of course, the miners helped that along a good bit. They'd memorized a lot of them by now.

  "Angel Band" was a big favorite. Everyone in the place joined in for "Bear me away on your snow white wings."

  "All right." Bucky looked out over the people in the audience. "One last one, folks. Then us and the girls are giving it up for the night. We've got a meal coming, you know." The audience laughed, those that understood it, anyway. "The Old Folks want you all to join in for this one."

  Bucky stood back and began the music. Nancy, Mildred, Regina and Ella Mae began. It was another favorite of the younger folks. They all joined in for the "Keep on the Sunnysides," in that one.

  * * *

  "Every couple of months," Huey agreed. "None of us are getting any younger and we're not up to a lot of this. Same deal, I suppose? Drinks, a meal and pass the hat?"

  "Agreed." The Scot extended his hand. "We'll be glad to have you back. Now, enjoy the meal, all of you." He motioned the waitress over to take their orders. "On the house," he told her.

  "This was fun." Nancy looked around the Gardens after they ordered. "Never dreamed it would be, but it was."

  "I've got so many people wanting lessons," Henry pointed out, "that I could quit the mine and just do that."

  "Me, too." Jerry grinned. Bucky nodded agreement. "Same here. And it's a lot more fun than the mine, that's for sure."

  "Something to think about," Huey agreed. "Not that I'm a player, but they like the singing, too. It'd keep us busy, right enough."

  Nancy, Ella Mae, Regina and Mildred shared a smile.

  Mightier than the Sword

  by Jay Robison

  Magdeburg, Early winter, 1634

  Frank Jackson looked out across Magdeburg from the window of his office. Under a blanket of snow, the capital of the months-old United States of Europe looked deceptively tranquil. Underneath the blanket, though, Frank knew there was a dynamic city, still growing, still filling out. A city that was ugly and industrial but beginning to get the sorts of cultural institutions that gave any city, in any time, an indefinable sense of "livability." Frank shook his head. Things like that were for Mary Simpson and her gaggle of grande dames to worry about. Frank focused back on matters military and the grinning face of his commanding officer. It was one of those rare moments when Lennart Torstensson looked as young as his years.

  Frank was sure the reason the Swedish general looked so young was because Torstensson had him right where he wanted him and knew it. Frank was still wondering how his simple idea had gotten so complicated. When he'd promised his head of training, Henderson Coonce, that he'd recruit a press officer, Frank never imagined his new superior would take such a shine to the notion. Frank had asked for an inch and been given a mile.

  "All I wanted was one press officer. Just to shut Henderson up. The last thing we need is more REMFs!"

  Torstensson smiled. Frank had come to truly admire the man. Frank had a head for tactics, but serving under the Swedish general was a revelation. Lennart Torstensson, Frank knew, was a military genius. And Frank was most assuredly not. Above all, Frank Jackson recognized his own limitations and wasn't afraid to say "I don't know" if he didn't know something. The former coal miner suspected that this quality alone made him stand out in comparison with most of the German commanders Torstensson had had the misfortune of working with. It contributed to the good relationship Frank enjoyed with the man.

  "Dammit, Lennart. An army of Joe Buckley's won't defeat our enemies. I can just see Richelieu wetting his robes at the idea! Besides, I'd've thought you'd hate the idea of a bunch of press flacks," Frank said.

  Torstensson laughed. "You up-timers have a habit of thinking that nothing from the world you knew exists in this time. Actually, His Majesty has been employing 'press flacks' for over four years now. I'm surprised you're so resistant to the idea after your experiences in combat and the divisions which arose in your society over that military adventure in Asia."

  "Since when have you bee
n studying about Vietnam?"

  "Admiral Simpson was kind enough to recommend some books, and I had editions printed up for myself and a team of translators. I think His Majesty, as well as Horn and Banér, will be interested in the history of that conflict. Especially since so many of you up-timers gained combat experience there."

  Frank grunted. "Well, if Gustavus had been running that show, it might have turned out differently."

  "Perhaps. In any event, I was struck by the comment of your head of state during that war, Lyndon Johnson. Remember what he said after the news presenter, Cronkite, came out publicly against this conflict?"

  "I remember," said Frank sourly. "He said, 'If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost America.'"

  "Just so. Without support from the people that matter, the best generals in the world will go down in defeat no matter how they fare in the field. It's a very old story," Torstensson said. "And in this brave, new world our emperor and his prime minister are making, the masses are people who matter. Should we not make ourselves look as good as possible to them? Make certain our side of the story is presented in these newspapers that seem to be sprouting like weeds?"

  "I still say it's a waste of personnel," Frank grumbled.

  Torstensson was ready for him. "I am confident we can find suitable people who wish to serve but are not fit for combat. You yourself have admitted that many of the soldiers in essential noncombat positions wouldn't have been considered physically fit to serve if they'd had to have an exam."

  Frank backed off. There was no way he was going to win this argument. His CO had obviously made up his mind. "So is this my headache now?" he asked.

  "Not entirely. I have in mind a candidate to command this mad enterprise. But we'll need a balance of personnel who are fluent in German, English and Swedish. I expect you to submit a list of candidates as soon as possible."

  Frank knew an order when he heard one. "Of course, sir. If you want this, that's good enough for me."

  "You've proven once again, General Jackson, just how much better you are than almost every German 'officer' I've come across. You will, no doubt, come up with some excellent candidates." Torstensson's eyes went to the oil painting hanging behind Frank's desk. Frank could tell what his superior was thinking: It showed surprisingly sophisticated taste for a man who, until relatively recently, had been a laborer. That boyish, mischievous smile returned to Torstensson's face.

  "I like that painting, Frank. I am surprised. I would have thought you'd have preferred a fanciful scene with animals. Perhaps animals playing cards."

  Frank eyed his CO beadily. "Permission to speak freely, General?"

  "Of course."

  "Shaddap. Sir." With a laugh, Torstensson left.

  Once alone, Frank started a list. Unfortunately, it was very short. Most of the people he could think of were needed in more essential posts, either civilian or military. Perhaps, Frank thought, it was time to grab a bite at the Freedom Arches.

  * * *

  When he put out the call for citizen-soldiers, Mike Stearns had expected the Committees of Correspondence to flood the new USE militaries' ranks with volunteers. He hadn't been disappointed. In fact, thought Joachim von Thierbach—not a little smugly—the CoC had exceeded even the prime minister's considerable expectations. Which made conversations like the one Joachim was having now all the more difficult.

  Kurt von Kessel was much like Joachim. He was the son of a minor Reichsritter from somewhere near Frankfurt am Main. And, like Joachim, Kurt had been a student at the University of Jena who had thrown himself into work with the Committees of Correspondence. Joachim knew for a fact that Kurt was a former client of Inga, a prostitute in Jena and cousin of Joachim's fiancée, Mathilde. Kurt had been encouraged by Inga to embrace the radical notions the Americans espoused.

  In the heady days after the Battle of Wismar, Kurt von Kessel, like so many others, volunteered himself to the service of his country. Unfortunately, he was thin, had a weak constitution and a hip that frequently became dislocated because of a childhood injury. The wonder was not that Kurt had flunked the army physical; the wonder was that he even thought he would pass it.

  "Four-F, whatever that means," Kurt said to Joachim, nearly in tears. "I can shoot a gun just fine. I don't see what physical fitness has to do with that!"

  "It has everything to do with it. On a long march or in a charge, especially. What if your hip dislocated at such a time? You would surely be killed, and you might also cause the death of soldiers trying to protect you. I'm sorry, Kurt, but this is a sound doctrine. You would be a liability."

  The look that Kurt gave Joachim was full of anger and bitterness. The man known as Spartacus sighed. As Joachim saw it, he was being cruel to be kind.

  And it wasn't as if Kurt couldn't be of service to the USE. It was true that, when writing under his preferred nom de plume of "Silence Dogood," Kurt couldn't match Joachim and some of the other CoC writers in passion. But Kurt had a gift for writing clear, concise, easily understandable prose that Joachim envied.

  It was then that Joachim von Thierbach realized he'd had what some of his up-time friends referred to as a "brain fart." There was a way for Kurt von Kessel to serve his country—in uniform.

  "What are you smiling about, Spartacus?" asked Kurt angrily. "This is hardly a laughing matter."

  "Kurt, my friend, I am smiling because I am a complete dummkopf." Joachim found a scrap of paper, pulled out his fountain pen and scribbled a note. He handed the note to Kurt. "Here. Give this to General Jackson or his adjutant. They won't be putting a gun in your hands, but you'll be in the army."

  Joachim barely had time to finish his sentence before his friend had snatched the note and made a beeline out the front door of the Freedom Arches. Kurt didn't seem to care so much that he wasn't going to be on the front lines. He was getting a chance to serve, and that was enough.

  * * *

  Frank's adjutant, John Sterling, stuck his head into Frank's office. "Private McDougal is here as you requested, sir."

  "Send him in, John."

  Private James Byron McDougal, better known to most as "Jabe," walked into the office. Frank looked at the young man. Physically, Jabe bore great resemblance to his father, Pete McDougal, a fellow UMWA man with whom Frank had been friends for years. But young McDougal had a serious, thoughtful manner that didn't come from Pete or, as far as Frank could tell, from Jabe's mother, Zula. Maybe Jabe got this from Zula's side of the family. She'd come from Pennsylvania, so Frank really didn't know her people.

  Jabe saw the painting hanging above General Jackson's desk and smiled. Frank noticed the look and looked at the painting again himself, nodding approvingly.

  "That young lady of yours can paint, Private, and that's a fact. It was bad enough that Mary Simpson was on my case about decorating the office, but she threatened to pick the paintings herself if I didn't do it. And Diane agreed with her!" Frank still couldn't believe this act of spousal treason. Though, in truth, he got along with Admiral Simpson and his wife reasonably well these days. Frank knew next to nothing about art. He'd been content to let Diane decorate their house with works from her native Vietnam, which he rather liked—even if he was loath to admit it. As he was fond of saying, he didn't know much about art, but he knew what he liked.

  And he'd liked Ripper's Repose when Diane and Mary had shown it to him. Taken from a scene of the movie Dr. Strangelove, the painting wasn't dogs playing poker, but it was art Frank could live with. It was a simple study of General Jack D. Ripper sitting at his desk, pensively studying his lit cigar. Prudentia Gentileschi, the painter of the piece, had infused General Ripper with a humanity that he lacked in the film. That Prudentia was the daughter of famed Artemisia Gentileschi—painter to royalty—and was becoming a renowned artist in her own right, bothered him not at all. Frank Jackson was not ashamed of being a hillbilly, and he liked confounding people's expectations. In this case, specifically, Lennart Torstensson's expectations. Plus, Mary Simpson said the work wa
s a fine example of "chiaroscuro," whatever the hell that was.

  "I don't know if she's 'my lady' or not, sir," said Jabe, coloring with embarrassment. "I guess we do spend a lot of time together."

  "So I hear," said Frank. "But I didn't ask you here to talk about your love life. I have a question to ask you, and for the moment I want you to forget I'm a general and you're a private. I want your honest answer. What do you think about being in the Signal Corps?"

  "It's okay, I guess," said Jabe. He shrugged a noncommittal shrug.

  Frank flipped through the pages in Jabe's service jacket. "You must not like it all that well, son. Your commanding officers like you, but they all say the same thing—you aren't performing to your potential."

  A mix of emotions showed on Jabe's face: guilt, shame and a little anger. "I'm sorry, sir. I do try. I'll try harder, I guess."