The Grantville Gazette Volumn VI

by Eric Flint

  It would be better, though, if she could hear from Jabe. He had gone to Magdeburg with tensions between the two of them still lingering. But unless Jabe was being posted away from Grantville for an extended period, he probably wouldn't write to her. She would just have to wait. With a sigh, Prudentia turned away from the half-finished modello she'd been staring at and opened her chemistry book.

  Magdeburg, Early winter, 1634

  Major Nils Bloss checked his new uniform one more time. The uniform, with the rank of major it denoted, was new. He'd received it only yesterday, along with his current assignment.

  Bloss paused before proceeding through the doors and into the Map Room. He looked around. The imperial palace of the United States of Europe didn't look quite as grand as he expected. Though he'd seen his share of provincial castles and manor homes as an officer in Gustavus Adolphus' army, he hadn't really seen any of Europe's great palaces, so he didn't have much of a basis of comparison. Still, for the palace that the emperor of the USE would have called home if he hadn't been in Luebeck, and where Princess Kristina Vasa currently lived, Bloss expected more. However, one thing Nils Bloss could not deny was that this palace pulsed with energy. It seemed to him like something great was always on the verge of happening here. What the imperial palace lacked in grandeur it more than made up for in sheer action.

  "Sir, would you like me to get the door for you?"

  Bloss snapped out of his reverie and saw a young sergeant standing at attention. The young man had addressed him in German that was quite good, his accent marking him as an American from the future, "up-time," as people said.

  Major Bloss became conscious of the cane that he needed to walk. The young sergeant was in dress uniform rather than work fatigues, so Bloss didn't know his name. He returned the salute and broke the ice.

  "That is most kind of you, Sergeant . . ." Bloss trailed off.

  "McDougal, sir. James Byron McDougal. If you hear people refer to 'Jabe,' that's me, sir."

  The major held out his hand, and the younger man shook it. "I am Capt—, er, Major Nils Bloss. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  The young sergeant opened the door for Bloss, smiling as he did so. "Newly promoted, sir? I know the feeling. And, uh, congratulations."

  Nils and Sergeant McDougal were the first ones there and so made themselves comfortable, telling each other about themselves. The young up-timer was quite shy at first but was soon put at ease. Nils Bloss was the sort of person who never met a stranger, and he'd never had much use for military punctilio. He was interested to hear that Sergeant McDougal had done the documentary that had aired in honor of Hans Richter, Larry Wild and Eddie Cantrell that he had seen while recovering from his injuries. It had been aired many times since its original screening a few days after the Battle of Wismar. News that Eddie was alive and in Danish custody had only added to its popularity.

  "An excellent piece of work, Sergeant McDougal. It is no wonder you are invited to take part in this 'press division.'" Major Bloss said the last two words in English.

  Feeling an affinity with him, Bloss then shared his story with the young man. Nils' father, Helmut Bloss, was a German driven out of Poland. He fled to Sweden where he pledged himself to Gustav II Adolph's predecessor, Johann III, becoming a Swedish Army quartermaster specializing in horseflesh. He found a Swedish bride, and Nils arrived soon thereafter.

  Nils was his father's pride and joy, showing an early talent for horsemanship and learning languages. Fluent in Swedish, German and Polish, Nils was accepted into service by King Gustav and rose to the rank of captain in a light cavalry regiment that also did scout duty. He had been an officer on the rise when he was wounded at the Battle of Breitenfeld in September, 1631. A musket ball in the side and a dead horse falling on top of him had left him near death. The regimental doctor had been quite good—he managed to keep wound fever at bay—but there wasn't much else to be done. Nils had been left in a small Thuringian village when the Swedish army marched to winter quarters. Local villagers took him to Grantville.

  In conversations Bloss had had with Dr. James Nichols during his recovery, he'd gathered that the black doctor—who was not, in fact, a Moor, though he looked very much like one—wished he could do more. With a little regret, Dr. Nichols had explained to Nils that he would never have full use of the injured leg, though he would be able to walk again eventually, with the aid of a cane.

  For his part, Nils was just grateful he didn't lose his leg and was ecstatic at the prospect of being able to walk again, even with a cane. Between the surgical repairs Dr. Nichols was able to make and the special exercises he had to do during his convalescence, he recovered more function in his injured leg than he'd dared hope. The Americans even had a wonderful medicine, "marijuana," to help manage the pain of recovery. He rather liked how he felt while taking it, though he was usually quite hungry afterwards.

  Nils looked up and saw that he and Sergeant McDougal had been joined by a young lieutenant—German, by his looks—and a young woman with the single stripe of a private first class on her sleeve. She looked like she could be Russian.

  "I managed to learn English fairly well during my recovery, even to read it and write it," said Major Bloss, winding up his life story. "I was always singled out for my scouting reports. I suppose that's why I was picked for this duty."

  "Don't you miss campaigning?" asked Kurt von Kessel, the lieutenant, after he'd introduced himself. "I'm happy to serve any way I can, of course, but I'd rather be on the line. In battle."

  Major Bloss smiled wryly. "A part of me misses campaigning, to be sure. Especially with His Majesty. But let me tell you, Lieutenant, battle loses its romance when you have a sore ass and people are shooting at you. Or when your dead horse lands on top of you."

  "If you ride well, I find it is much easier on your backside, sir," said the young woman. Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. Despite her Russian looks, she spoke German with a distinct Swedish accent.

  "True enough, Private . . ."

  "Anderovna, sir. Svetlana Anderovna."

  "True enough, Private Anderovna. Though I pride myself on having an excellent seat. It could be, however, that my bottom is bonier than most peoples'."

  Bloss's joke at his own expense brought general laughter. He scanned the room and did a quick head count. All the recruits were here; it was time to get down to business.

  * * *

  Private Svetlana Anderovna listened to Major Bloss with rapt attention. Most of the meeting was spent explaining the structure of the newly formed Joint Armed Services Press Division and what was to be expected of them. They were to draft press releases for area newspapers; they would provide positive and morale-boosting stories to make the military look good; they would answer questions from the press when needed; and finally, they would be the first line of defense for the inevitable scandals. Their other major duty would be to clear all requests for interviews with any uniformed personnel, regardless of rank.

  "From the rawest, newest conscript all the way up to General Torstensson, that's the rule," said Major Bloss. "For the most part the lieutenants or their adjutants in the local offices will have authority to approve or deny requests for personnel stationed in their area. Any interview or statement requests for the General Staff should be handled by myself and the press division staff here in Magdeburg."

  John Sterling, on loan from General Jackson to help with the meeting, handed out assignments. Magdeburg had the largest press office, with six assigned personnel, including the major. Grantville would have four people, with the others being scattered by twos and threes throughout the USE. Where possible, the press division offices would have personnel with fluency in German, English, and Swedish. Svetlana looked at her assignment. She was being posted to Grantville! She would be their resident Swedish speaker.

  She left the next day with Lieutenant von Kessel, Sergeant McDougal and a German private named Drucker. Svetlana Anderovna couldn't believe she would at last be coming to Grantv
ille. She had been dreaming about this place for a very long time, ever since rumors of its arrival and its role in King Gustavus' great victories had reached the Swedish farm where she'd grown up.

  Svetlana, Sveta as she was usually called, was the illegitimate daughter of a prosperous Swedish landowner. Her Russian mother had been hired by Anders Jensen to tutor his four sons; a casual dalliance between the two of them resulted in Svetlana's birth.

  Her mother died when she was five, but despite that Svetlana's childhood hadn't been terrible. Her relationship with Anders' wife wasn't warm, but the woman treated her well enough. It might have been different if she hadn't been a girl. Svetlana had long suspected that her father's wife tolerated her only because she posed no possible threat to the inheritance of her sons. But toleration didn't mean that Mrs. Jensen took special care with her upbringing and education, and Anders didn't care enough to go against his wife. There was no tutoring in the arts or other feminine pursuits for Svetlana Anderovna.

  She grew up straight, tall and not particularly ladylike, the only girl with four boys. Her half-brothers showed her how to ride horses and enjoy the outdoors; and if her father didn't care to provide for the learning and refinement that would have been expected of his legitimate daughter, Anders at least made sure Sveta was literate. By the time she was seventeen, she could read and write in her native Swedish and was proficient, if not fluent, in German.

  It was in her seventeenth year, 1632, that Sveta first heard of Grantville. What interested her most was the story of one of the Grantvillers in particular, a young woman about her own age. This woman—it was said—could strike people down from an unbelievable distance with her musket. She had, or so the story went, saved the life of King Gustav himself, and in gratitude the king made the girl a baroness.

  Sveta soon found out the stories of Julie Mackay, for that was the name of Sweden's newest noblewoman, were true. She decided that she would travel to Grantville and seek to enter Baroness Julie's service.

  It took her a while before she was able to convince her father to approve this plan, but he finally did. Anders made arrangements in the spring of 1633 for his daughter to travel to Germany with one of her half-brothers, who had decided to join the military. Sveta's journey went well, but by the time she reached Magdeburg in the late spring of 1633, she found out that Lady Mackay was gone. She had gone with her husband to Scotland to attend to some family matters.

  Sveta resolved to stick to her plan and searched for gainful employment in Magdeburg to sustain herself until Julie's return. She decided that if she couldn't work for Lady Mackay personally, she'd try to join the rifle company Julie had commanded. Sveta was allowed to enlist after passing rigorous physical tests and tried to secure a place in the Thuringian Rifles—even though she'd never so much as touched a firearm in her life. Sveta turned out not to be a terrible shot—she didn't have the bad habits experienced arqebusiers tended to pick up—but she wasn't good enough to qualify for the rifle company. She ended up being used in a number of noncombat roles before landing in the press division.

  After they arrived in Grantville, Sergeant McDougal gave her, Lieutenant von Kessel and Private Drucker a tour of this town of wonders. The lieutenant, Sveta learned, had been to Grantville briefly on a few occasions, but had never had the time for an in-depth exploration. Svetlana was starting to develop a liking for the shy sergeant, who turned out to be an excellent guide. Her only real regret was that a friend of Sergeant McDougal's—an Italian girl named Prudentia—who was apparently an artist of some kind joined the three of them. Sveta wondered what the tie between her and the sergeant was; they didn't seem to be betrothed. Perhaps she would ask when she knew Sergeant McDougal better.

  The tour took in Leahy Medical Center, the main police station, the army base and the rooms set aside for the press corps' office. More interesting to Svetlana were the centers of social life: the school, the libraries and the churches. They stopped for coffee and pastry at the Sternbock Coffee House, and the tour ended with dinner at the Thuringen Gardens.

  By way of thanks, Lieutenant von Kessel picked up the bill for dinner, after which Kurt excused himself for the evening. He'd taken what the up-timers called "bachelor officer quarters" until he could secure more agreeable lodgings for himself, and Sveta had been assigned space in the women's barracks. Private Drucker was leaving also. She was disappointed that Jabe was staying behind with Prudentia, but she couldn't graciously decline Lieutenant von Kessel's offer to walk her back to base.

  Grantville, Midwinter, 1634

  It was a pleasant night, pleasant at least for February in Thuringia. Jabe recalled that the winter of 1631-32 had been quite a shock to himself and his fellow up-timers. Not only were they considerably farther north than they had been when Grantville was in West Virginia, but they were smack in the middle of what up-time historians had called the "Little Ice Age," which had begun some two centuries prior and would continue for another century, give or take. After the high school had been saved from the Croat raiders, there had been a wave of interest in Swedish and Scandinavian history. Jabe had learned about the Little Ice Age and its presumed role in the death of the Viking colonies in Greenland.

  But he and Prudentia both felt warm enough as they walked hand in hand to the Nobili house.

  "I've been thinking, you know," said Prudentia.

  "About what?" asked Jabe.

  "About things between us. I hated that you had to go to Magdeburg after we fought."

  "That was a fight? I thought it was a difference of opinion."

  The look she gave Jabe was a mixture of affection and thoughtfulness. It was time, Jabe realized, for "the talk"; specifically the "where is this relationship going?" talk.

  And to his mild surprise, Jabe found he wasn't entirely dreading the prospect, in spite of their recent difficulties. That, in fact, he was even looking forward to it. They had been more than friends the last few months, a couple to be sure, but they had never talked about being exclusive—though Jabe had certainly never desired to date anyone else.

  "It's funny," Jabe said, "General Jackson said something about you being 'my lady' when I was in Magdeburg." Jabe had been thinking about these things even before Frank said this; he was simultaneously relieved and anxious to know that Prudentia had been having similar thoughts.

  "And how did that make you feel?"

  "Pleased, actually. I told him I didn't know if you were mine or not. But I don't think I was being completely honest."

  "I am relieved."

  "Relieved?" Jabe stopped and looked at Prudentia. "Pru, what do you mean? You're not afraid I don't have feelings for you, are you?"

  "I'm just afraid you don't think well of me. Your parents don't seem to." Jabe could see the tears threatening in her eyes.

  Jabe had to swallow hard before answering. "I know you didn't mean to hurt Dad's feelings. He'll come around."

  "It's hard for me, you know. I am trying to truly fit in, but it's very hard."

  Jabe took Prudentia in his arms. For several long moments she clung to him. It seemed like she was desperate, as if Prudentia were afraid she'd lose him.

  They resumed walking side by side, arms around each other's waists. Prudentia managed to melt into Jabe's side a little more.

  "The entire time you were gone, I just felt so tense. Like I was missing something. Missing being with you. Touching you. Kissing you."

  Taking the hint, Jabe obliged her with a lingering kiss. As they continued their walk, Jabe said, "I felt the same way. I was thinking that it was getting harder for me to imagine your not being a part of my life."

  Their steps brought them to the Nobilis' front porch. They went inside and, after polite hellos to Tino Nobili, continued to the spare room that served as Prudentia's studio.

  For a time all conversation ceased as they kissed—considerably less chastely than they had been accustomed to kissing up to this point. They broke off and for a few moments said nothing. Jabe was deep in thoug
ht.

  "You know," he said, breaking the silence, "the Germans think we up-timers are nuts to get married so young. They don't believe in marriage until the couple is financially sound. I'm beginning to think that's not such a bad way to do things."

  Prudentia laughed. "If I know you, James Byron McDougal, you will establish yourself younger than any German apprentice or tenant farmer. Besides, I'm not even through with school. And then there is my mother's approval."

  "Mother's? I thought I'd need to talk to your dad. Or at least write to him."

  Looking a little sad, Prudentia said, "Mother and Father went their separate ways years ago. I am hoping Mother will be able to make the trip from Naples soon."

  "I guess I'll have to get cracking on my book."

  Any anxiety Jabe might have had at the prospect of meeting Artemisia Gentileschi was driven out of his mind as Prudentia threw her arms around him and resumed kissing him. They obeyed their mutual rule of keeping their hands above their waists; even so, they were more adventurous this evening than they had ever been before. Prudentia, in particular, proved that she truly did have Roman hands.

  Grantville, Late winter, 1634

  Life settled down into a comfortable routine. Duty with the press corps suited Jabe far more than radio operator training did. His instructor had promised Jabe and his fellow Signal Corps trainees that they would dream in Morse code before long, but he never got the knack. He would have been, at best, a competent radio man.