Grantville Gazette, Volume 69

by Bjorn Hasseler

  “I understand, Sir.”

  "I have been ordered to punish you as he directs." Hartmann merely stood, still at attention. "Put out your right hand, Sergeant." Hartmann looked at him curiously, then extended the hand.

  Ludendorf slapped it sharply. "Do not do that again. Dismissed."

  Hartmann turned about-face.

  "Oh, and Hartmann," The sergeant stopped. "he added, 'unless necessary.' Dismissed."

  ****

  As the June heat hit, several factors arrived. They came from the USE itself, Sweden, and allies of the emperor like Essen and Bohemia. Others came from individual USE provinces; Hesse-Kassel premier among them, and they all came for the same reason.

  The prisoners were informed that these factors were hiring to fill out their regiments, and any who wished could apply. By month's end, the men being guarded dropped to only about nine thousand. Over five thousand of whom belonged to regiments raised by surviving French officers.

  There was still no word about ransoms to be paid for the officers.

  It was rumored that some of the USE regiments would be sent south to the Bavarian border, but there was no definitive word yet.

  ****

  “Colonel, thank you for joining me.” Colonel Ludendorf said, shaking hands with Colonel Georges Duvalier of the French artillery. They had served together briefly about five years earlier, and since they knew each other, both had been assigned the duty of prisoner relations. Ludendorf's aide poured the wine, left the bottle on the desk, and withdrew. “We have been having problems with the ransoms to be paid.”

  “My family has not the money, as you know.”

  "Yes. Every officer and a number of the cavalry who do have a family with money has sent their personal requests home as well. However, as I have said, there have been problems."

  Duvalier sipped his wine. “Enumerate them if you please.”

  "All of our generals on the southern borders have had lists sent to them of officers held by us. They have been instructed to notify us when possible if and when a ransom will be paid. However, some of the higher ranking officer's families have been visited by messengers from either Cardinal Richelieu or Monsieur Gaston. Sometimes by messengers from both. Your government is split on what should be done."

  Duvalier snorted. “Let me guess; Richelieu is willing to allow his favorites to be ransomed, but not those he disfavors. And as for Gaston, he is telling them his agents will allow only those he favors, am I correct?”

  “If only it were that simple.” Ludendorf rolled the cup in his hands. “Some of them have been instructed to ransom the officers, but not the men of their regiments.”

  Duvalier stared at him in amazement. “Those regiments would be the ones raised by the nobles in question, yes?” He named a couple of names. Ludendorf nodded. “I fought with such a regiment in the Mantuan War. The men who were captured by the Spanish were ransomed by the commander himself!”

  "Our command has thought of a reason. Perhaps you might be able to say whether it makes any sense to you. They believe it is to strain the infrastructure of this region by forcing them to feed over nine thousand useless mouths."

  “What of the ones who are not French?”

  "With them, we have an option. We cannot merely have them go wherever they wish. They would be unarmed, and obviously enemy troops so that the villagers would deal with them." Both understood what that meant; an unarmed soldier with little or no money would end up dead. If they were lucky, without being tortured.

  "Tell me, Marcus."

  "With about half of the prisoners now gone, we can have the others begin on repairing and upgrading the roads. Here." Ludendorf stood up, walked to a cabinet, and pulled out a map. He unrolled it, setting a dagger on one corner, his goblet on another. Duvalier did the same with his belt knife and the inkwell. Ludendorf touched the map, pointing out the locations, "Ahrensbök to Lübeck, Ahrensbök to what is now called Narnia, Segeberg, and finally to Hamburg. By improving these roads up to what the up-timers would call partially improved, transport of food can be sped up.”

  “That would take a year or more. And what about the villages and towns? I am sure this region has the merchants and the people pay for such work.”

  “It will not take that long, in truth. The up-timers have introduced what are called Fresno Scrapers along with specialized equipment such as rollers to tamp and camber the road surfaces, and they assign three hundred men to each of what they call road crews. A well-trained crew can complete a mile a month. If we assign six hundred men to each mile, we believe they can do each mile in less than three weeks. The men will still be guarded of course, but there is something good out of this for them.

  “First, any who are willing to work will be paid the wages those villagers would have gotten. They can either save this up, or spend it on other things we have not been able to supply to the enlisted men—wine, stronger alcohol, or tobacco.” Ludendorf's finger bounced along the lines between the locations mentioned. “As each mile is completed, the crews will be leap-frogged to the next section that has not yet been improved. So six crews between here and Lübeck should be done with that road before the first of September.

  “The longest section is here, between Segeberg and Hamburg. Forty miles. Crews that complete the shorter legs will be sent south to that road. Over a third of the men will be assigned to the road to Hamburg, the rest divided between the shorter segments.

  "As each road is completed, the crews on it will be given a choice. They can take their pay and return home, or stay and finish the roads that need to be completed. But once they have finished, either way, they are free men with coin in their purse to buy passage home."

  Ludendorf picked up his goblet. “We have already notified the remaining mercenaries of our decision. However, I cannot use that method with your fellow Frenchmen without the approval of your officers.”

  “So you wish me to put this to the general. What if they refuse?”

  "Any or all of your men may refuse. However, remember all they might wish to buy that we will not supply. Your officers can buy their tobacco and liquor. Some of your sergeants can. But can the lowest pikeman afford it? Plus by being closer to where the food is coming in, their supplies will be dropped off sooner, meaning they will be getting food that is fresher.

  “And as you well know, as long as they can not fight, soldiers get bored. This will make sure the devil has as few idle hands as possible.” Ludendorf refilled both goblets. “Just speak with him, Georges. It is all I would ask.”

  ****

  Ten miles south of Segeberg

  July

  Hartmann deployed his men on guard, saluted the officer in charge of the relieved unit, and turned to watch. The biggest problem with building the roads had been the required materials; the entire region between Ahrensbök and the sea had almost no rock at all. Tons of gravel, sand, and rock had to be shipped in, and the only advantage for this section of road had been the TacRail line that had not yet been removed.

  The French under Colonel Duvalier worked like demons! They had been completing a mile of road every seventeen days, and as he watched, the trailing crew marched through, bringing their equipment along in the middle of the formation.

  He paced along, watching the men working. He saw one face he had not anticipated. “Luftmann, get that man for me.”

  The soldier went down to a man using a prybar to jam a boulder into an opening. The man nodded, waved to Hartmann, then as soon as the stone was in the proper position, handed the bar to another to climb up to stand with the sergeant.

  "Why, Francesco, I thought noblemen did no work, only languidly waved their hands and said, 'do it' to the peasants."

  “I have watched Colonel Duvalier get down into the roadbed often enough, Richard. Can I say I am better because of my birth? And I have seen you do the same often enough.”

  "Men follow leaders because they respect them." Hartmann took out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the Italian, w
ho filled his pipe.

  “As I have learned, Richard.” Francesco looked at the package. “Balkan tobacco? A tobacco named as what a sergeant likes best?”

  For a long moment, Hartmann merely puffed. "It is a company my late wife started. Since a lot of men in Grantville and the SoTF know me at least by rumor, she felt it would sell well."

  “And has it?”

  “I only read the reports they send me every month. Something like ten thousand ounces have been sold, so I am told. And five varieties now, from Macedonian to Virginian.” Hartmann blew a smoke ring.

  "Here now, ye will not be lollygagging when there's work to be done!" They turned to look at Bridget, who had a ladle in one hand and a half empty bucket in the other. "If I see you standing abo' like a laird again, Franz, I'll feed you wash water and rags for dinner!"

  "Behave woman! I was asked by your sergeant to come up here, and he is the one who let me fill my pipe."

  "None of your sass, youngster!" Maggie came up with her daughter, trading the partial bucket for a full one, "and remember, daughter; ye canna complain of others not working when you waste time flapping your gums at them!"

  “Yes, mother.” Bridget gave the two men a woebegone expression before trudging on.

  “A hard taskmistress. And I didn't even get any water!” A moment later the partial bucket of water struck Francesco from behind. He glared at the cackling woman as she walked back to the approaching water bowser.

  “One thing, Franz?”

  “Oh, I have put in for a commission with the USE. Franz Broglie von Revello-Turin.” He looked each way. “And if I am unlucky enough, that harridan will be my mother-in-law.”

  “As if I'd have ye, ye blatherskite!” Bridget shouted.

  “Be silent, woman!” Franz shouted back. “I had best get back to work, or I will never hear the end of it.”

  ****

  Five miles from Hamburg

  Early September, 1634

  With every other road completed, it had come down to this last stretch. To the sides of the road, men marched toward Hamburg and the ships home. It had become a race, the six hundred men on each crew swollen to over a thousand each. Hartmann watched as the roller moved over the road again. As soon as it was done, it would move to the next section. He heard a horseman coming up and saluted Ludendorf.

  Colonel Duvalier rode up on a horse from the direction of Hamburg. He looked upon the road and the crew watching the roller. “We have reached the gate, Marcus. Once this section is done, we can go home.”

  “You could have gone weeks ago, Georges.”

  Duvalier shook his head. “These are all Frenchmen. My men in everything but name. We promised you good work, and I promised them I would not go home until we were done.”

  A horn sounded, then another. The men paused, then began to cheer. It was done. “You are a man of your word, Georges.” Ludendorf moved closer, and the two men clasped hands. “May we never face each other in battle again, my friend.”

  “Au revoir, Marcus. Bonne chance.”

  “Hartmann.”

  “Sir?”

  “March your men back to camp and tell the battalion officers to meet at my tent. We are going home.”

  ****

  Magdeburg

  15 September 1634

  The Wolverine Regiment, the last of the First Division to return home from Ahrensbök, marched into camp at dusk. Hartmann dismissed his men, then walked into the growing city. Frau Kaufmann looked up from the soldiers she was serving, signaled her daughter to take over, and walked over to hug him. “Richard, I am so sorry.”

  “It was God's will, Margareta.” His voice was soft, and she looked up. Never had she seen someone so disconsolate. “Where is she buried?”

  “Since she was your wife, they allowed her to be buried in the cemetery at the base.”

  “The baby?”

  "In the same grave so that they would go to God together." Her words meant as comfort caused him to flinch.

  “Thank you for all you did for her.” He turned and walked out.

  ****

  The grave had a simple stone slab with Marta's name on it, birth and death marked below it with BELOVED WIFE AND SON OF SERGEANT RICHARD HARTMANN. He walked up, touching the stone gently, then knelt beside it to lay his hands on the cold ground. Then began to pray for his honored dead for the first time in years.

  ****

  About the Faces on the Cutting Room Floor, Number Seven: The Exception That Makes the Rule: Cutting a Chase Scene by Charles E. Gannon

  Ironically, the last great chase of 1635: The Papal Stakes was cut from the novel. Reason: it simply was not essential to the plotline that we see the failed Spanish attempt to intercept the rescue forces that extracted Frank and Giovanna Stone from their prison in the high reaches of the Castell de Bellver’s lazarette. It was only necessary that the reader know the general parameters of the escape plan and that it had obviously succeeded.

  However, in this restored scene, readers get a chance to see how Estuban Miro’s canny plans ensured that the group would wholly elude Spanish pursuers, starting from the very moment they cast off from the dock in Palma de Mallorca…

  With the sun coming up any minute, Captain Bernardo Villarda y Ruiz, master of the Petrel, gave orders to cast off the moment his executive officer, Alfonso Ricardo Torres y Pizarro—yes, a relative of that Pizarro—clambered somewhat awkwardly onto the deck. “Nice of you to join us, Don Alfonso,” he commented drily.

  “I am lucky to be here at all, Captain,” the much younger man and pampered scion replied with a measure of heat. “With all the confusion surrounding what happened last night—“

  “That does not concern us. Our task is to pick up the trail of these saboteurs and assassins and stay on them. The rest will come out and follow our lead; we are the first hound in the chase.”

  From the spot on the wharf in Porto Pi, furthest south of the moorings in Palma Bay, Torres y Pizarro looked back toward city’s main docks. “I do not recall seeing any major warships there, to bring down the prey.”

  “No galleons, if that is what you mean, but there are two frigatas and a brig, if they are even needed: the attackers might have come in smaller ships. But right now, that is not our concern. Hoy, mate, cast off. Raise the yards.”

  The Petrel got under way just as the first hint of false dawn was limning the east: she was a barca longa with clean lines and known for speed. But that reputation was not going to help her contend with the forces of nature that pushed against her now.

  Don Alfonso, newly arrived in the Balearics (and none too happy with what he considered—rightly—a backwater assignment) noticed the slowness of their start. “What is our problem?”

  You are our biggest problem, not having an ounce of maritime experience to go along with the many pounds of silver whereby your family purchased your commission. But instead, the captain—mindful of how frequently this impertinent man-boy’s lips came close to influential ears—chose to educate instead of castigate him: “Our problems are two-fold: the currents and the wind. Whoever planned this treacherous attack was not an idiot; he knew the seas in these parts quite well. The current that runs into the bay is peaking now, and the Llebeig, the wind out of the desert to the southwest, is rising early. The clouds that covered the approach of this, this—balloon—they used, was also the harbinger of stronger weather from Algeria—of winds against which we will be sailing directly.”

  Don Alfonso looked outraged, almost personally insulted. “So we are pinned here, unable to pursue?”

  Villarda y Ruiz managed not to sigh or close his eyes on exasperation. “No; you are once again thinking of square-rigged vessels. They are helpless—or nearly so—in a headwind. We can make progress, but slowly, and only by tacking back and forth across the wind, and in this case, the current as well.”

  “So we progress in a zig-zag pattern, not a straight line.”

  Miracle of miracles: the man-boy actually did have a brain
! “Exactly. But all this puts us even further behind an adversary who already has a long head start. He will be at least ten miles ahead of us by the time we are a mile out from the bay, I fear. Possibly much more.”

  * * *

  The captain of the Bitch stood alongside Thomas North as one of his men lit the small oil burner close to the base of the rather immense Kongming—or ‘flying’—lantern and tested the thin, silken string to which it was affixed. As they watched, it began to rise slowly into the air from the stern of the ship.

  “How high will you run it?” asked North.

  “Don Miro said fifty feet should be more than sufficient. It’s small but those Spanish dogs”—he jerked his head at the distant speck of dim sail far behind them—“will see it clearly enough as we let them get a bit closer. The sky is still dark enough that they’ll see the light. Which, if they got any decription of the dirigible, will look like the burner to them.”

  North squinted at the bright white, lacquered “shade” of the lantern. “And Miro believes a seaman will mistake that for our airship?”

  “Hell,” admitted the captain, “it fooled me the one time we tested it. If you’re not familiar with an airship already—and I wasn’t—it’s hard to know exactly what you’re seeing when you’re too far away to make out a silhouette. All you know is that something is hovering in the sky near a ship, and is bright. At that range, your sense of relative scale—how big the thing in the sky is in comparison to the little dark dot under it—is pretty unreliable. And if they don’t know about these,”—he gestured to the Kongming lamp—“what would you think a distant, hovering light in the sky was?”

  North smiled. “Good point. But once the sun comes up, the light won’t show up as well against the sky.”

  “No,” allowed the captain, “but then the white silk and shiny lacquer on the shade will start reflecting, along with those big paint chips Miro brought from Grantville. He called it ‘crown’—?”