Grantville Gazette, Volume 69

by Bjorn Hasseler

  “I have an entire list of things to watch for in the coming months.” Kirsten looked down, her face softening.

  Hartmann motioned toward the tent. The girl had moved in with the Frenchmen, so she had not been around the last few weeks. “Is Monsieur de Gomberville in?”

  As he asked the little author stepped out. “Ah, have I not told you more than once to call me Marin, Sergeant?”

  “As many times as I have told you to call me Richard,” Hartmann chided.

  “And what may I do for you?”

  “It is what I may do for you. The general has decided that as someone merely witnessing the battle, you and your man are free to go.” Hartmann drew a folder from his tunic, holding it out. “This is your letter of safe passage throughout the USE.”

  “Formidable! And does this extend to that town Grantville? I have in my mind been writing Polyxandre yet again. Instead of nine centuries in the past, almost four hundred years into the future! And I have people from that time who can describe it to me!”

  “Anywhere you wish to go.” He paused, then drew out an envelope. “If you do go that way, could you deliver this to Frau Kaufmann of Zum Barmherzigen Samariter in Magdeburg? It is just asking where my wife has been buried so I may visit the grave.”

  “It shall be done!” Marin said. Then he took Hartmann's hand. “I will also send you a copy of my book when it is published. I have added a gentle yet ferocious man to it!”

  Hartmann smiled, a gentler smile than was his wont. “What you can do is see how far the railroad has gone. A machine that goes as fast as a horse and tows cars behind it. I know they had started to build it from both ends, so part of the way on either end might be in use.” He then drew out a small pouch. “Kirsten, this is what I was paid for two of my wheel-locks. For Marta.”

  “Richard, you did not have to do this!”

  “She will need money later in life. I would have done the same if my wife and child had lived.”

  ****

  Hartmann looked at the new regimental flag. In the upper left-hand corner was the same marking of Third Regiment merely done as if drawn in blood. But now it was covered by an embroidered picture.

  A wolverine, crouched, glaring outward. Beneath his bloody snarling mouth and paws was the foreleg of a bear almost twice his size that had been ripped off and below it a motto; Aequo pugna speciem mihi. He tried to work it mentally out. While he spoke enough Latin for Mass, he was unequal to the task. Down the first rank, Becker was giggling. "Becker!"

  “Sergeant?”

  "Obviously, you know what it says. Perhaps you can enlighten us?"

  "The motto is, 'It looks like a fair fight to me.'"

  “I see I am going to have to work on curbing your enthusiasm. Men, you know the drill. Except for Feldwebel Jäger, fall out and assume your posts.” As they ran off, he motioned to the young man. “You are taking Martin's place, Fritz. Now here begins your sergeant's education…”

  ****

  Nothing worries an officer or sergeant more than boredom among the troops. The French troops had little or nothing to do, and it led to fights or arguments just about every day., By the end of the first month, a couple of brawls had needed breaking up.

  Even the USE troops were beginning to feel it. But then their sergeants cleared a section of the line outside the POW camp and drew white lines in powdered chalk. Now two teams of a dozen men gathered, and someone was throwing a white ball toward a man with an odd glove. There was a cracking sound, and the prisoners looked toward it. "Pass auf!" A USE soldier was pointing up. “Der ball!'

  Phillipe Carron looked around, then followed the pointing finger. A round thing was coming toward him, and he stood stunned. Suddenly a hand came between him and the object, and he ducked as the hand swung through where his head had been.

  The man who caught it was cursing, throwing the ball into the air, and shaking his hand. Then there was a shout, and several of the men motioned to throw it back. With nothing better to do, several hundred prisoners gathered to watch.

  "It looks a bit like rounders," commented Evan Drake, one of the English mercenaries. He explained the game and the differences; the stakes (called the castles) used in the English game had been replaced with flat pads which one of the opposing teams guarded but were not allowed to impede the runners. The men running to the castles were allowed to return to the castle they had left, instead of being forced to run on, and the opposing team had to touch the man with the ball or pass it to the castle he was headed for instead of hitting him with it, which the man who had caught that one ball commented was a good thing. One of the USE troops who spoke English explained the differences as Drake translated, such as the men running the wrong way according to the Englishman.

  “So let me see if this is correct,” Drake said. “Instead of throwing so you can be sure of striking the ball, the thrower—”

  “Pitcher.”

  “—he is used to hold water or wine? All right, the pitcher throws, attempting to entice the striker—”

  “Batter.”

  “Now he is bread?” Drake shook his head. “The batter swings when he thinks he can strike the ball. But what is this 'strike, foul, and ball' that imbecile keeps shouting?”

  More explanations followed, along with comments about the man called the 'umpire,' not the imbecile, though the guard mentioned a lot of players or fans would disagree.

  “So they count any that are inside this so-called 'strike zone’ that he cannot hit and any swing that misses as a strike, yes? Any that fly outside the two lines,” he motioned toward the foul lines, “as foul, but only two fouls can count as strikes, yes?” The guard nodded. “So what is this 'ball' they keep shouting?”

  More explanations.

  “Ah, so if he gets three of these strikes, he is out, and if he gets four of these balls he gets to walk to the first…base, is it?” As he asked, the batter flinched as he was hit by the ball. He screamed furiously, charging onto the field, bat in hand. The pitcher waited only a second before running away. “Ah, and if the pitcher hits the batter, he is allowed to beat him with the bat?”

  Yet more explanations.

  “And all of you play this…baseball?”

  “Those who don't play soccer, yes.”

  “Soccer?”

  "What the up-timers sometimes call European football instead. Every battalion has at least one team. Sometimes they have both baseball and soccer teams."

  "European? Have they a different form in their time for the new world? Why do you not play it instead?"

  "You have never seen Tom Simpson." The guard raised his hand to show someone at least a head taller than himself, then spread his arms half again his own shoulder's width. "He is that big, so I am told, and in their time was not considered big enough to play professionally."

  Carron looked around. “So when can we play?”

  ****

  "Satan's fart!" Maggie looked up at the exclamation. Freda, her primary assistant, had just pried open a sealed cask of salt beef, suddenly backpedaled, then fell to her knees, vomiting. The senior camp follower of the Wolverine Regiment ran toward her, then skidded to a stop at the stench. "Claudette!" She shouted at the most recent addition, the other girl who had come with the French. "Get one of the sergeants!"

  ****

  Hartmann walked close enough to smell it. He'd put up with worse, but only on battlefields where they had too many dead to bury. He walked over to where the camp followers had gathered upwind. Maggie was as pale as milk, but she was also furious. “How can we feed ye with such filth?”

  "When did the barrel come in?" Maggie motioned toward Freda. She was just as pale; her face the color of curdled milk.

  “Last week.”

  “From where?” Hartmann asked. She waved to the road east.

  Their supplies came from three directions. A lot of it was carried by barges along the Elbe, by the Tacrail line from there to Segeberg, then by wagon to the encampment. There was a lot of sup
plies coming by wagon from the Stecknitz canal by barge from Lübeck, but the lion's share came directly from the port town by road. Hartmann nodded. "Check everything that has come in," he turned on his heel, "and find out who brought and sold it."

  ****

  Captain Volker looked up, his mood souring. Sergeant Hartmann was walking toward his tent. He caught up the papers in what the up-timers called an inbox. Maybe if he were busy. "If I might have a word, Sir?"

  Volker sighed. “What do you want, Sergeant?”

  Hartmann drew a list from his pocket. "We have fifteen tainted casks of supplies— primarily meat, though there are also four that were flour or sauerkraut in the Third Regiment alone. They were sent from Lübeck. We need to discover which suppliers sent them."

  “Ask the sutlers. I do not have time…” Volker's voice died at the look on Hartmann's face.

  "I came to you, Sir, because you are in charge of disbursing the supplies we are sent. This can be done one of two ways," Hartmann said in a conversational tone. "You can assist me in discovering who is trying to poison the men here. Or I can go to my colonel and report you are unwilling to assist me. In that case, the brigadier will be notified, and his men will have this discussion with you instead of keeping it unofficial.

  "Ours was not the only regiment receiving them, and other men like myself are speaking to their supply officers. I would suggest that to save your career, you should help me."

  ****

  Hartmann marched toward the tent of his regimental commander. Ludendorf looked up. "Ah, Sergeant. How did your investigation go?"

  "Seven sutlers delivered the tainted supplies. Three were still in the camp, and we have talked with them. Only one officer here had signed off on the required inspection, and the MP detachment has taken him into custody. A chandler in Lübeck supplied all of the barrels."

  Ludendorf nodded. “They will deal with him.”

  "His brother is one of the city councilors."

  Ludendorf shook his head. “Aren't they always?”

  “Sir, back when we were mercenaries, we would forage. We cannot do that now.”

  “I know it. The idea of 'Hearts and Minds' the up-timers brought with them has helped appease the local people. But if we are forced to forage to survive…”

  Both considered the option distastefully. It was the standard procedure of almost all of the armies, and only the fact that the USE and Swedes had not pillaged had convinced the villagers that these soldiers were different. The Emperor's army was being supplied through Kiel now, so they were unaffected. But almost thirty thousand men are trapped here with tainted food.

  “There is no help for it.”

  "Sir, we have some villagers shipping their surplus food here rather than to market already. Over half of the horse meat we gave to them has come back smoked and at more than reasonable prices," Hartmann shrugged, "I for one would rather we did not ruin that feeling of camaraderie."

  Ludendorf gave him a small smile. "You have a suggestion?" Then he waved his hands. "I do not want to know, Sergeant. If I did, I would probably have to report it—meaning, even more paperwork."

  Hartmann saluted. “I knew you would understand, Sir.”

  ****

  The people of Lübeck had gotten used to having the sutlers assigned to the USE divisions come in to buy goods for the troops and prisoners thirteen miles away.

  Oddly enough, there had been no carts or wagons for the last two days, so no one was surprised when they came in a caravan but the company of soldiers escorting them was unusual. The men marched in two lines on either side of the wagons and carts, all of which appeared to be full of barrels. They stopped briefly. The leader went into the rathaus, only to come right back out. A few of the people noticed that almost half of the soldiers appeared to have sergeants’ stripes and none of them were officers. The caravan stopped outside one of the chandlers on the waterfront at the sign KOSTER UND KOSTER.

  The man who had marched at the fore of the right-hand column walked around the front of the wagons, looking at the new extension of the building going up to one side. "Sergeant Logan, you know what to do!"

  A sergeant stepped out of the middle of the left column, “Right, you know what to do, men!” He and two dozen men broke into squads and went down the alleys on either side of the building.

  The leader took out a pocket watch and waited a full minute before putting it away, then marched up and pounded on the office door. A slim, well-dressed man peeked out. "I want to see Herman Koster this very minute, please."

  “I am sorry, Sergeant, Herr Koster went to see his brother, about something.” His tone became smarmy. “You know, the city council member?”

  "I had heard," Hartmann replied. A shout came from behind the building, then the sounds of a scuffle and a scream. Three of the men sent to watch the back came from the rear of the building, dragging a man in rich clothing. "Oh, there he is," Hartmann commented brightly. Then he gave the man a smile. "Oh, and we know how many bullies he has to 'discourage' complaints. I give a fair warning. If one of them so much as steps out of this building, we will kill him. You come with me, now."

  Hartmann walked over to the man who was screaming for the city guard. In fact, two dozen of them had arrived to face leveled rifles with bayonets.

  "You filth! I will have your stripes for this!" He looked at the men closer to the center of town. "Guardsmen! Send someone for my brother!"

  “Oh be quiet.” The man's jaw snapped shut. While the words were polite, the look on Hartmann's face was anything but. “I am going to have my men unload these transports one by one, and your man—” He motioned to the clerk. “—will record what is in it, and he will direct your warehousemen to move them aside. Then he will have barrels fresh from your warehouse brought out to replace them.”

  “Where is Colonel Krämer? If he wants to buy new supplies, he should be here!”

  “Colonel Krämer has been arrested for sabotaging the war effort and peculation. That means simply that he was taking bribes to accept rotten food from you. If he is very, very lucky, they will only hang him. But if he is unlucky, the officers will turn him over to the men for however long he lives, after they make him eat every ounce from one of these tainted barrels. As for the supplies, did I say we were going to buy these replacements?” Hartmann shook his head. “You, out of the goodness of your heart, are going to accept these tainted barrels and replace them free of charge.”

  Koster stiffened, trying to stand alone. “I will do nothing of the sort! The supplies are better than you deserve!”

  Hartmann crooked his finger, and one of the barrels on the first wagon was manhandled down, then rolled over in front of the supplier. On the headers and several times along the sides, the barrel was branded CONDEMNED.

  "Ah, beef, just what a soldier needs to keep himself healthy."

  Hartmann motioned, and the header was removed. Since they had known what was going to happen, all of the soldiers had taken a deep breath, so the ungodly stench did not affect them. But the wind was fresh from the sea, and a lot of people who had come to watch were driven back.

  Koster had caught the full smell and began to vomit involuntarily. Hartmann stepped around, catching the sagging man, clapping his hand over his mouth. The brine that filled the barrel was white with decomposition and the meat above the liquid was host to not some, but a veritable swarm of maggots. Hartmann bent him over the barrel, his eyes an inch from it. "Then perhaps it is good enough for you as well?"

  Hartmann removed his hand and shoved the man down face first into the filth. He held the flailing man down for less than a minute, then pulled him up. Koster fell to his knees, vomiting until nothing but bile came up.

  "Sergeant?"

  Hartmann looked up. Koster's brother Friedrich had come and brought the city council with him. Every one of them had handkerchiefs against their mouths.

  “Bring them all, Sergeant Schindler.” He waved upwind. “But place them there if you please.” He
motioned to the barrel. “Seal that up.”

  The Council came down the dock, passed the barrel, and stopped, gasping for breath.

  "What are you doing, Sergeant?" Freiderich Koster demanded.

  “It is what is called an object lesson, Herr Koster. Your brother has seen fit to try to poison the army that is fighting to defend you, and we wished him to understand that we are not pleased with it.”

  “Then your officers should have come to complain!”

  “This way there will be no misunderstanding.” He waved at the cold-faced soldiers now testing the air before breathing. ”This way the ones most affected by such actions will have their say. I have already informed the Swedes.”

  Hartmann turned to the man soaked in rancid brine. “Now, Herr Koster, you will accept this filth back and replace every barrel with the proper contents. As those barrels are brought out, one of my men will personally inspect it, opening the barrel and tasting the contents at need. If your man tries to hand us one more tainted barrel, I will seal you in it. If there are any more complaints, the men who do so will join you.” He turned back to the city council. “Are we all quite clear on this?”

  “What is your name?” Councilman Koster demanded. “I want all of their names!”

  Hartmann advanced on the councilman, stopping before him. "My name is Sergeant Richard Hartmann of the Wolverine Regiment. These men," he waved at those behind him, "were not all of us upset with this man's actions. These merely volunteered to come and witness this 'discussion.' If I had brought everyone, counting prisoners who have been affected by this, we would have ten regiments standing here.

  " ‘An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please.’ " Hartmann leaned close enough for the politician to smell his breath, the last line clear enough for the councilors to hear, " ’An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees!" He turned. "Schindler! Begin the exchange!"

  ****

  Ahrensbök

  Hartmann snapped to attention before the colonel's desk. “You sent for me, Sir?”

  Ludendorf walked around the desk. “The city council of Lübeck has filed a very angry complaint against you with General Torstensson.”