Grantville Gazette Volume 27

by edited by Paula Goodlett

  "Rrmm. That's a new course. And here they come. They figure we've had time enough to turn in and go to sleep, here."

  "A simple enough plan. Another hour and they'll be landing. Well, we're as ready as we're going to be."

  Haro saw it too. He looked over their position again. They were behind one of the island's myriad stone walls, on a bluff at the top of South Harbor. They were between the only two reasonable landing beaches. The islanders with their muskets held the right end of the line, putting them closest to the longer beach. Blaser and his people held the left, with five rifles. It would have to do; the Irish expected Blaser to be here leading his men, and that meant his one remaining petty officer had to stay in charge of the schooner, along with the field medic.

  The far end of the right-hand beach was fairly distant for accurate rifle fire, even with the advantage of shooting from a firm rest. But to get from there to anything worth stealing, the pirates would have to cross the middle of the island. The defenders could easily occupy that narrow neck first, even running with their extra weapons. They'd rehearsed the move twice.

  Edelstein had gone a little higher up the slope and looked around. Now he came down to where Blaser sheltered in a corner of the walls. "Captain? Do you have a couple of minutes?"

  "Of course." Haro got up and followed him a hundred yards or so uphill.

  Without raising his arm to point, Edelstein looked to the southwest. "You see, sir?"

  Blaser did see. Spread out in front of them was the western third of the island. It was mostly gently rolling land, at least a square mile of it. On the left was a broad, low hill. Either place had room enough to hold the array of soaring steel towers and their radial ground wire system. From here, there would be straight salt-water ground wave paths to a huge swath of the Atlantic's far shores, and most of the way back home as well, with only a short land hop over southern England to weaken the signal. And according to what Dermot had said, the soil on that end of the island was so poor and thin, it was nearly useless even for grazing. Which meant they wouldn't inconvenience their prospective neighbors, besides being able to build on bedrock. Haro had already examined the five hundred foot hill behind them; anything the navy built here would have to be defended, and that's where the artillery would go. There was even room for an airstrip. Just like that, the core of the mission was accomplished. There was a lot of surveying and mapping yet to do, but they had their answer.

  "Yes. It's just too bad the harbors are so exposed."

  "North Harbor could work year-round, if we built a breakwater."

  "Expensive, but it would certainly make the islanders happy. They wouldn't have to leave for the winter any more. Well, we'll put it all in the report. Let's go back down and try to get a little rest before things start to happen."

  * * *

  Here they came. Two boats with muffled oars, the galley idling well out in the harbor. There was light enough through the thin clouds to tell where they were. Coming closer . . .

  The boats turned toward the western beach, about halfway along. All right, this was as close as they were going to get, with a clear shot. It had been agreed that the sergeant would give the signal to begin shooting, familiar as he was with the islanders' muskets as well as the rifles.

  "Take aim." There was a stirring all along the wall.

  "Light them up." Goosens raised the signal pistol and launched a blue parachute flare into the sky. Off the mouth of the Elbe, it would have summoned a pilot. Here . . .

  "Open fire."

  In the space of two seconds a couple of dozen muskets went off. It wasn't quite a military volley, but it was close enough. Out in the harbor a rower slumped over his oar. Then the rifles started hitting among the packed boat crews. Down on the water there was shouting, and a few return shots that came nowhere close. After half a minute or so, muskets started to fire again, and Cornelius shouted something. There was a pause, then he shouted again and twenty or so fired together.

  That was enough. Somebody down below roared out an order, and the survivors spun around and pulled for the galley, with a few long-range shots falling around them to hurry them on their way.

  "Well, that's what I like, Cornelius. An anticlimax."

  "And good riddance and bad luck to them all. I couldn't help noticing, though, it was those few little guns of yours that did most of the killing."

  "You and your kin want to buy some, you mean? That can be arranged. One more thing for us to talk about tomorrow. But we couldn't have driven off that many men by ourselves. It was your musket volleys that convinced them not to try closing with us.

  "And now I suggest we post our night watches and get some sleep. I want to start repairs as soon as my men are rested enough not to hurt themselves with their own tools."

  * * *

  The islanders watched while the galley cleared the harbor mouth and hoisted sail, meanwhile gathering up their gear. As they began to leave the bluff, Denis looked back over his shoulder and stopped. "Cornelius? Look at that! I think you're getting your wish."

  "How? Oh, indeed, I see. The way they're heading, sure, that's an unlucky course to steer. For them, anyway."

  "And what's such terrible bad luck about that?"

  "You're not from around here, Corporal. You can tell your captain the bad luck waiting the way they're headed is an English frigate, prowling out of Kinsale. At least, when they can lay hands on enough supplies to leave port. That English captain holds a burning grudge from four years ago; if he once sees them, he'll be sure to give them a letter of introduction to the Devil."

  "A letter . . . Oh, you mean one delivered out of a cannon? Sure, that's bad luck for that collection of heathen robbers."

  Denis shouldered his musket with a sardonic laugh. "More like, a couple of copies sent from every gun in his broadside, just to make sure it's delivered. For once in my life, I wish good luck to the English."

  * * *

  The Money Franchise

  Written by Kerryn Offord

  Klausdorf, Pomerania, February 1635

  Katharina Hagemeister stood at the edge of the open grave and stared down at the cheap coffin containing her mother. At last Mama had escaped her husband, Katharina's father. The pastor had called her death an accident, but Katharina knew better. Her father had destroyed Mama's will to live through years of abuse. She'd only hung on as long as she had to protect Katharina, but last week Father had pushed her too far. He'd made one demand too many, and Mama had walked out into the freezing night.

  Her father was talking to one of his friends. She caught the man glancing her way and dipped her head. It was being "loaned" to him for a night that had finally broken Mama. Katharina trailed her father and the rest of the mourners to the tavern where the wake was to be held. She hid in a corner while she watched her father drink until he was falling down drunk. Everyone seemed to think he was drinking to bury his loss, but Katharina knew better. He was drinking heavily because someone else was paying.

  Two villagers carried her father back to their home and laid him out on his unmade bed before leaving. Katharina looked down at his defenseless form. She knew her father. With Mama dead it wouldn't be long before he'd try to "loan" her out like he'd loaned Mama to his business contacts. It would be so easy to kill him while he slept. . . . But that would only put the law after her. It was best that she take what she could and ran away before he woke.

  * * *

  Katharina shivered as she watched the girls parade themselves for the men coming in from the docks. It wasn't just the cold that was making her shiver. No, she was shivering because she was scared. She'd hoped that she'd be able to find honest work in Stralsund, but there was too much competition for the few jobs a thirteen-year-old girl could do. In the week since she'd arrived in the city she'd sold nearly everything she had to buy food. Now she had only one thing left to sell . . . herself.

  She noticed one very jovial looking man walk along the quay studying the girls. A couple of them walked up to h
im, but he shook his head. They seemed to be talking and one of them pointed in Katharina's direction. The man passed her a coin and headed toward Katharina.

  He was a big man, and that scared Katharina. However, he seemed happy, and that could only be good. Surely a happy man wouldn't hurt her. The man was getting close. Katharina swallowed and stepped forward. She tried to appear confident, but she'd never tried to sell her body before.

  The man placed a hand lightly under Katharina's chin and lifted her head up until their eyes met. "Virgin?" the man asked. Katharina knew this was her last chance to back out. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and nodded.

  A warehouse, Stralsund, March 1635

  Johannes Hagemeister stared at the heavy purse sitting on the printer's table. He glanced from it to the three men seated opposite him before hesitantly reaching for it. Just as his fingers closed on it a strong ink-stained hand landed on his. He froze and met the eyes of the man whose hand held his.

  "You know what you and Hans are supposed to do?" Bartholomäus Scheele asked.

  "We go to Magdeburg and buy up as many of the new USE dollar bills as we can."

  "Good condition ones only," Bartholomäus said.

  Johannes understood what he was being asked to do. He might not understand why, but he was being well paid. He let his hand squeeze the purse. It felt full of coin. There had to be at least a hundred thaler in there. For a moment he let himself dream about what he could do with that money, but a glance at the silent Hans drew any thought along those lines to a screaming halt. The man was obviously to accompany him purely to discourage such thinking.

  "You have nobody who will miss you?" the third man asked.

  Johannes shook his head. His wife had died less than a month ago and his ungrateful daughter had abandoned him a week later.

  The Vulgar Unicorn, Stralsund, June 1635

  Katharina Hagemeister used her bread to mop up the last drops of the rich gravy that had been part of her meal and popped it into her mouth. While she chewed she studied the young woman across the table. Tat'yana was spreading butter—real butter, not dripping—on a thick slice of bread. And as if that wasn't enough, she then spread some jam on top.

  Katharina eyed the loaf of bread. She was still hungry. Not that she was being kept short of food, but it took more than a few weeks of eating regularly to make up for years of going hungry.

  "Would you like me to cut you a slice?"

  Tat'yana's quiet question caused Katharina to meet her eyes. They displayed a kind interest that even after nearly four months she still wasn't used to, not that a girl in her position could ever afford to get used to kindness. "Yes, please."

  She licked her lips in anticipation as she watched Tat'yana cut a thick slice of bread, and then proceed to not only spread a thick layer of butter over it, but also spread some of the jam. Katharina bit into the bread and let the tastes fill her senses. For now she was happy, and in her short life she'd already learned to grab any moment of happiness she could.

  With the bread safely in her grasp she felt safe enough to delay taking another bite to ask a very important question. "Why are you all so nice to me?"

  "Because you keep Viktor calm," Tat'yana told her.

  Katharina stared at Tat'yana. "But I'm just his whore. Anybody. . ."

  Tat'yana shook her head vigorously. "Don't call yourself a whore, Katharina. Viktor's had whores before, but he's never asked them to move in with him."

  "He says I bring him good luck," Katharina said. "But he's not having much luck finding a replacement for Grigori."

  "Maybe the right replacement just hasn't turned up yet. Don't let Grigori's replacement worry you." Tat'yana rose and picked up the day's newspaper from the table. "It's time for your reading lesson. Let's go sit in front of the fire."

  Katharina finished her piece of bread before she let Tat'yana drag her away from the table. Yes, she wanted to demonstrate how well she was reading these days but that was no reason to abandon good food.

  She was only part way through the first article when they were disturbed by one of the employees at the Vulgar Unicorn knocking on the door.

  "Come in," Tat'yana called.

  The door opened to reveal Anna, a chambermaid, and a scruffy boy with a limp letter in his hand. "Messenger for Herr Viktor," Anna said, pushing the child into the room.

  "Thank you, Anna." Tat'yana held out her hand out for the message. Taking it she spoke to Katharina. "Take him into the kitchen and feed him while I check if we need to send a reply."

  With a pointed jerk of her head, Katharina led the way to the kitchen. "Do you have a name?"

  "Michael."

  She noticed the way Michael was staring around the kitchen hopefully. She pointed to one side of the kitchen table and walked around it so she could keep an eye on him. She carefully cut a thick slice of bread, then smeared it with a good thick layer of butter, and covered that with jam before passing it over. "Don't scoff it down in one go. Take your time while I get you something to drink."

  Michael actually took a single bite and chewed on it while Katharina watched, but she didn't expect to see much left when she returned with a mug of small-beer. The beer was kept in the same cupboard as a basket of apples, so she picked out a couple of them to give to Michael.

  She'd just placed the beer and apples in front of him when Tat'yana came back. She smiled at the boy. "Is Katharina looking after you?"

  He nodded, gesturing to the remains of the bread in his hand and the beer and apples in front of him. "Good. Katharina, while this young man finishes eating I want you to go and get changed. We have to see Viktor at the warehouse and you might have to run messages."

  Katharina was out the door and heading for the room she shared with Viktor in a flash.

  * * *

  Viktor listened as Tat'yana read the message from a radio operator within the Swedish garrison. When she finished he considered his options. He liked them. It seemed there was going to be an uprising in Mecklenburg. Actually, it sounded as if there was going to be an uprising throughout the territories of the USE, but Viktor knew his territories, and although most of the USE wouldn't present much opportunity for profit, he could see plenty occurring in the potential conflict between the forces of the Committees of Correspondence and the noble houses of Mecklenburg. He should just have enough time to load a ship and hit the coast near Wismar before the Committee men got that far.

  His eyes fell on the young urchin who had accompanied Tat'yana and Katharina. "You, you know Fritz Felix?"

  "Master of the Parrot?" Michael asked.

  "Yes." Viktor opened his purse and counted out four Franconian Brass Brillos—the coin of choice for people who didn't like the new paper dollars—into Michael's hand. "Find him, tell him Viktor wants him to get the Parrot ready to sail and have him come here."

  Michael wrapped his fingers tightly around the coins, repeated Viktor's instructions, and ran off.

  Now Viktor turned to Katharina. He grabbed her around the waist, threw her up into the air and caught her. "Didn't I say you bring me luck? And now you bring me a civil war on my doorstep." He lowered Katharina to the ground and hugged her. "I want you to find Lasse and have him come here immediately."

  Katharina nodded and ran off, leaving Viktor with just his inner circle of Boris, his trusted partner of twelve years, and Tat'yana, their partner of six years.

  "You're planning on selling weapons to the nobles so they can defend themselves against the Committee of Correspondence men?" Tat'yana asked.

  "Such golden opportunities are few and far between, Tat'yana," Viktor said. "We'll start with Wismar and stay a little ahead of the Committee men as they advance. With the immediate threat of the Committee men advancing upon them the nobles will be willing to pay well to arm their retainers. Come, let us check the inventory and decide what to take with us."

  Two weeks later, Warnemünde, Mecklenburg

  Georg Heinrich Mevius was barely out of university and owed hi
s new and prestigious position to his uncle, Prof. Dr. Friedrich Mevius of the University of Greifswald, who, impressed with Georg's academic achievements, had recommended him for the position with the "noble and high" Klaus von Bülow of the Doberan branch of the mighty von Bülows. However, those academic achievements meant nothing right now as he tried to handle the musket with its socket bayonet as if he knew what he was doing. He sent the man beside him a silent appeal for help.

  Johannes Rutgers, a mercenary in Klaus von Bülow's employ, sighted along the rifled musket he was holding. "French muskets you say?"

  Viktor nodded. "Recovered from the battlefields of Ahrensbok and repaired by gunsmiths in Stralsund. They all have the new percussion cap lock, which is much more reliable than the flint lock action of the USE service rifle the Committee men currently causing so much trouble in Mecklenburg are using."

  "That means we must also purchase percussion caps," Johannes said. "I've heard that they aren't very reliable."

  "You are thinking of the inferior French pattern percussion caps. They don't use fulminate of mercury, which makes for a cheaper percussion cap, but one prone to hang-fires and misfires. I prefer to deal in the BuCS caps, which do use fulminate of mercury. They cost a little more, but what price does one put on reliability?"

  Georg saw the shared smile between the two men and wondered what he was missing. "Are you happy with the muskets, Herr Rutgers?"

  "Yes, but His Excellency was hopeful of obtaining some of the new cartridge weapons." He stared at Viktor. "Do you have any Cardinals?"

  Viktor nodded. "Not actual Cardinals, but Suhl produced weapons based on the same up-time design the French copied. Not that I have many, just a dozen."

  "We'll take all of them," Johannes announced.

  Georg was happy that Johannes had taken responsibility for the decision. That left him with the job of negotiating. "Johannes, bring up the money chest. Before we start negotiating a fair price, there is the small matter of the method of payment. My employer finds that he is in possession of a quantity of USE dollars. Will you accept them in payment?"