Grantville Gazette-Volume XIV
Page 6
* * *
Jenny heard the screaming from down the street, and tried to see from the window what was happening. Outlaws usually don't go into homes like that one with the screaming children, and seldom in the daylight. Nothing there to steal. They must be searching, she thought, searching for me. She saw a couple of children run away in panic from the house, then turn with their hands on their head and start sobbing, walk a couple of paces back to the house, and run away again. Helpless in their agony and fear. Jenny bit her lip.
"Elspeth, Dolina. We are going to run out the back and through the alley. Can you find the Mackay house if we get separated?"
"Aye, Mum," replied Elspeth.
Dolina began to sniffle. "I'm scared, Mum."
"Don't be scared. Your big sister will take care of you. Listen and obey her. But you must run like the wind, my little lassies, like the wind. I need to get something from upstairs. I will be right back." As she turned and sprinted up the stairs, the first thuds of men trying to batter the door could be heard. The girls screamed.
"Run now!"
Jenny darted out of the bedroom with the revolver. Her hands were shaking, and she felt naked with this little weapon. The door exploded inward, and the men stormed into the room downstairs.
Jenny drew back into the bedroom as quietly as possible, looking at the small weapon in her hands. She stepped up onto a stool, looked out the tiny window, and watched the girls running, hand in hand, as fast as they could go.
* * *
Hignall entered the room and stood still, listening. He saw an open door at the back of the house, and sprinted to look through the door.
"This place has a back door. These places never have goddamn back doors. Smith. Get after them kids."
"Aye sir, what about the mother?"
"Never mind her. She's still here."
"How do you know that, sir?" one of the men asked.
"Because no mother would run in front of her children. They are always behind. She's still here." Hignall looked around the two rooms that made up the first floor. He could see no cellar, only a staircase going up. He smiled, and nodded to his remaining men. "Follow me, men."
"Aye, sir."
* * *
Otto Artman was bleeding from his calf as he limped at a furious pace toward the safe house. He had avoided a group of soldiers once, and he was worried. As he rounded the corner, he realized he needed to be worried. He had seriously misjudged the amount of effort Lauder was putting into finding Jenny. The first house he came to was in chaos. No time for that. He continued down the street, now leaving frequent drops of his own blood as he walked. When he saw the door to the safe house off of its hinges his heart went dark. Knowing what might be happening beyond the open doorway made him angry at a primal level. He drew his sword and dagger and charged through the open door .
He came face to face with three soldiers, one of them an officer. English regulars. The king's men. His face drew back into a snarl, and he attacked. Otto went low, hoping to score a quick hit on the officer, but the man was already poised for combat before Otto came through the doorway and easily parried Otto's thrusting sword.
"Shoot this son of a bitch." The officer called as he stepped out of the line of fire.
Wheel lock pistols came out of the belts. Otto dove blindly to the side, landing on the bottom of the stairway as one of the guns discharged. The noise was deafening, and the smoke that formed was thick and acrid.
The soldier who had fired dropped his pistol drew his sword, and charged Otto.
In Otto's mind the man was dead already. He easily parried the soldier's thrusting sword before closing to thrust his dagger into the man's belly.
The soldier dropped his sword, both hands felt for the wound in his belly. "You've killed me, you bastard!" he hissed, falling and rolling into the path of the other two men.
Otto's eyes turned to the second wheel lock. He backed up the stairs as the officer came after him. The soldier with the wheel lock followed, trying to get a clear shot from his position behind the officer on the narrow stairway. Smoke filled the air and rose up the stairway, stinging everybody's eyes.
* * *
Sergeant Robert Smith felt a little foolish chasing a couple of kids with a drawn sword. They had ducked down a gangway between two buildings, and ran into an opening beyond. As he was about to round the corner, a dusty arm the size of a tree branch suddenly extended across his path. He could feel his head stay stationary, and the rest of his body move forward. He had a curious sensation in his neck. His feet swung out and he fell onto his back, breathless. As he was lying on the ground, looking up at the sky, two giants appeared. Their rock-hard hands picked him up as if he was a rag doll.
"Da," one of them said. "Don't kill him in front of the children."
Robert wanted to agree, but he found he could not speak. As a matter of fact, he noticed he was very short of breath. His limbs dangled at his side, and he couldn't move. As the giants carried him away, he heard another popping noise come from his neck, and then there was merciful blackness.
* * *
Otto continued to back up the stairs, thrusting at the officer, attempting to keep the officer between him and the remaining wheel lock while also preventing the officer drawing his own pistol. They moved from side to side, always moving, going up the stairs one at a time. Otto felt the stumble stair, and stepped up. He planned his attack.
But the officer was good. He had seen the adjustment that Otto made for the stairs, despite the smoke, and cleared the step easily. He easily parried Otto's attack, and drove him back another step. Otto lost his balance, and had to hop up another stair to keep upright. Finally a safe distance from Otto's deadly sword the officer dropped out of the line of fire. "Shoot, goddammit, shoot!"
Otto found himself staring down the length of the stairway into the barrel of a wheel lock pistol. Time seemed to slow down. Otto watched the soldier jerk the trigger. He saw the wheel rotate at the side of the weapon, creating a shower of sparks. As he tried to dive of the way he saw the flash of the pan igniting.
Otto felt pressure in his head, and his vision went black. He was angry at his failure.
* * *
Hignall's ears were ringing; the German—Hignall assumed he was the German—was sprawled across the stairway. Hignall rose to his knees and looked up the stairs. There was a woman standing at the top. He smiled through the smoke. "Hello, Jenny Geddes."
The voice that came back to him was hard as steel on a midwinter's night. "You have the advantage, sir. I don't believe we have met."
"Lieutenant William Hignall, the King's Men."
"Aren't you supposed to say, 'at your service,' or something like that?"
"Normally I would, but in this circumstance—Well, I'm sure you understand." He smiled, and started to stand.
A heavy footstool raced toward his head. He dropped to the stairs again, and the soldier behind him caught the stool hard in the face. He saw the man stumble and fall. Hignall pursed his lips as he saw the angle of the man's neck. Broken.
He got up again and looked to the top of the stairs. "You bitch. I've had enough out of you." Sword in hand he kicked the sprawled body of Otto to check for signs of life before continuing up the stairs.
The woman was waiting at the top. She had her arms extended, and in her hands was what had to be a pocket pistol of some kind. Arrogantly he reached out with the blade to slap it out of her hand, but it fired. Something tore along his cheek. He felt the wound with his left hand. Something had gouged a gully through the flesh of his cheek and torn up his ear. He tried to curse her, but it hurt. He shook his head to clear the fog and the pain. He went for her again, a lunge with the blade. The gun popped again and the side of his neck stung. His hand went to it. What the hell is happening?
He took another step up the stairs. She backed up. He thrust at her with his sword.
The gun popped a third time and his shoulder exploded with pain. He dropped his sword.
She came closer. He could see it clearly now. It was like no gun he'd ever seen before. Something buzzed by his ear, like an angry insect. He could not believe what was happening to him. It wasn't supposed to be like this, not in some run down building by some bitch of a wo—
He never finished the thought. A bullet went into his right eye and tore through his brain.
* * *
Jenny sat in the library at the MacKay house, with her daughters. They huddled together on a sofa, but Elspeth and Dolina were both asleep. Julie entered the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She sat across from them, and looked at the girls.
"You have a nice family, Jenny."
Jenny had a far off look in her eyes. She shook her head slightly.
"What is it, Jenny?"
Jenny glanced down at the girls, then back up at Julie. "You didn't tell me what it would do to him. I kept going until it was empty. At his face."
"Jenny. I know it is hard to kill someone. But if they are going to hurt you, or someone you love, you need to—"
"No, lass. You don't understand. His face, that man's face. I want to remember it for a long time. That wee gun of yours made it look like a slab of meat with holes in it."
Julie's eyebrow arched in surprise. "What?"
Jenny smiled. "That man and his men were bastards. Deserved what they got. I know that, and God knows that too. That don't bother me none at all. That is simply doing the right thing. I want to remember that face, because of what it means to me. Bloody tyranny, that is what it represents. Just bloody tyranny. That is gonna be a face I remember for a long time."
"You're sounding like a Committee of Correspondence recruiter."
"Aye, and maybe that is what I should be a doing with my time, instead of greengrocer. Something better for my kids, better world."
"You are not sounding like a stubborn and hard-headed Scotswoman, Jenny," Julie said.
"Aye, that's true. But that don't mean I can't go doing that in a hardheaded and stubborn way." She giggled quietly. "And I throw a mean stool."
"Did you really get one of those guys with a stool?"
"I certainly did. The one that shot Otto. The bastard."
The door opened and Alex stuck his head in. "He's awake."
Jenny got up as quickly as she could, extracting herself from her sleeping daughters, and dashed over to Alex. "Can I see him?"
Julie came up behind her. "He has a nasty concussion. The bullet grazed his skull. So be very quiet, he is still a little out of it." They went down the hall, past Robert MacKay's room, and into another room on the first floor. The curtains were drawn, keeping the light to a minimum, and in the bed was Otto, his eyes open. Somewhat glazed, to be sure, but still open.
When Jenny walked into the room, he smiled. "I am glad to find you alive, Jenny Geddes."
She walked quickly to his bedside, smiling back at him. "I'm glad to find you alive too, Otto. How are ye feeling?"
"Not too bad, considering the circumstances. So, I guess we won then?"
"Aye, we did at that. We have taken the liberty of using your newly arrived printing press to put up posters, explaining who was behind the attempt to capture me. The king's men have been asked to leave Edinburgh by the privy council, and our Mr. Lauder is not likely to be a lord of anything. He lost a few friends on the council, but nobody is willing to come out and say he was behind it. And the mood of the city is—interesting." She moved closer to Otto, and now held his hand. "Ain't that something?"
Otto smiled that curious smile, and squeezed her hand.
Jenny froze. She looked at her hand. She looked at Julie, who was smiling at her with an overtone of smugness. She looked at Alex, who was pretending not to see anything except the ceiling. Jenny snapped her hand back and glared at Julie and Alex. "Just because I held his hand, don't mean a thing. Don't you go supposing what I be thinking. We've got a world to change. No time for nonsense. There be a whole world of no-good lords and ladies that will need a stool thrown at them now and again. That's what I'm gonna do."
She dug her pipe from her pocket, popped it in her mouth and folded her arms in front of her. "Men can just be a pain in the arse."
* * *
Mrs. Schumacher
Written by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett
"Lena! Lena! It's here!"
Helena looked up from the pot she was stirring to see her cousin Dorothea Kellerin pushing open the door. The girl was barely able to hold on to the basket of food she'd bought at the market, considering the thick book she was waving. "What's here? And be careful with that. You'll bruise the apples if you drop them."
Dorothea pretty much ignored the admonition, which was fairly standard for her, especially when she was excited about something. Worried for the apples, which wouldn't store well if bruised, Helena said, "Come, Dara. At least put the basket down first."
Dara managed, finally, to get the basket down without mishap, but it was a near thing. "Come look at this, Lena."
"Again I ask, what is it?"
"The new Wish Book." Dara was practically bouncing with excitement. "Remember? We got the first one, the little one. But with all the fuss this past summer, we never got another. Until today."
Trust Dara to call it a fuss, Lena thought. A rebellion, one that had caused quite a number of deaths, not to mention the uproar here in Bamberg. Why, you still saw mounted men wearing Ram armbands on the street. Of course, they were actually a part of the State of Thuringia-Franconia Mounted Constabulary. The second company had decided to keep the ram as their symbol. She leaned over the book to see what Dara was pointing at.
"I want those." Dara pointed at the divided skirts that had become so common. "And they're cheap. Probably cheaper than you can make them, even."
Lena looked closer. It was getting to be time to buy Dara one of the suits of clothing that she got each year. Room, board and clothing, along with a small amount of wages was how she paid her cousin for her help. It was the common arrangement. Dara made pin money by doing chores or errands for others in her spare time, but her primary job was to help Lena and her husband Peter with the housework and work in the shoe shop. Her wages wouldn't be due until Dara left them to marry, as was usual. The young—and Dara was only twenty-two—didn't usually marry until they'd saved enough to start their own households. "That does seem to be a good price, Dara. But how do you know they would fit?"
"They have a sizing chart, they call it."
"Very well. I'll look at it after supper. For right now, though, we'd best get busy."
* * *
Lena looked over the section of shoes with increasing concern. The shoes were much like her husband made. At least some were. Some were better. Not fancier, but better designed. There were pictures that showed the structure of the shoes: lining, padding, support for the arches. Dead cheap, too. She began to worry, then, as she turned the page, she got very worried. Boots, this time And, not just the fashionable boots, either. Work boots, like any man would wear. And again, dead cheap.
How was Peter going to compete with these prices? They even, she wasn't too surprised to find, had a shoe sizing chart on the pages. Three, in fact. Men's, women's and children's. All sorts.
This was bad news.
* * *
Peter Schuhmacher looked up as Lena came in to the shop area of their home. "What's wrong, dear?" he asked as soon as he saw her face. They were a good match. She took care of the books and he made the shoes with the help of a single journeyman and two apprentices.
"This!" She showed him the book.
He looked at them and immediately realized the quality of the shoes. Still, the structure of these shoes and boots would require a whole lot of extra sewing and some really good glues. So he wasn't really worried. He
did look at the prices, but the truth was that he still wasn't all that comfortable with the new money that the up-timers had introduced. Yes, thirty dollars for a pair of boots seemed a little low, but maybe not. Peter wasn't all that sure what thirty dollars was worth.
Lena was quick to inform him that thirty dollars was less than half of what he would charge for a pair of boots.
"They can't do it. There's no way that they can make these boots for that little. Especially these boots. Look here." He pointed at the picture showing the various layers of the boot sole. "It's not so much the materials; it's the time it would take."
* * *
Peter spent a long time explaining to Lena why the shoes in the catalog could not possibly be made or sold for the price listed. By the time he was through, Lena was about ready to pound on him with the boot heel. At the same time, she knew he was right. She knew enough about the business, about how long it took him to do the cutting, the sewing, and the nailing necessary to make a pair of boots.