Grantville Gazette, Volume 66

by Bjorn Hasseler

He stood up on tiptoe, settling the last head into place. Maybe if they were busy being friends with John it would give him a chance to show them he wasn't just big and awkward.

  ****

  Ray stepped back to examine their work. The scarecrows loomed in two rows, their limbs dangling and faces snarling, or scowling, like real monsters. He smiled, feeling a flush of pride.

  Scully and Red tromped over to stand beside him, still giggling and out of breath.

  "They look good," Scully said. "But maybe next time we do pygmies instead."

  "Pygmies?" Ray looked at her puzzledly.

  "Short people from Africa. That way we don't have so much trouble getting them up on the poles and everything," Scully grinned at Ray.

  He rubbed his chin. "Maybe next time we could assemble them on the poles before we stand them up."

  They blinked at him, then Scully started to giggle. "Oh, gee." She slapped him on the shoulder. "You should have told us that before you took that nap, Ray." But she smiled at him.

  He smiled back shyly. "I thought maybe you had a reason for doing it this way."

  "Not a good one." She laughed again, and even Red smiled.

  "Hullo!" They all turned as John swung over the wall at the edge of the field and strode toward them, coat flapping dramatically. He shoved one hand in his pocket and plucked his wooden cigarette from the corner of his mouth with the other. "What's so funny, love?"

  Scully shook her head. "Ray's just living up to his namesake. Showing off the brains under that goofball exterior."

  "Oh." John looked past them to the rows of scarecrows. "Oh, that looks good." He clapped Ray on the shoulder. "Brilliant, love."

  "Is everything okay with that man from the church?" Red asked.

  John flashed a smile at her. "Let's not worry about that this evening, love. We've got an army of scarecrows to stop."

  "Amen to that." Ray laughed. He straightened his utility belt. "If everyone is ready, we'll start over there, and I'll get us started." He led the way across the field toward the road.

  The sun was down, the sky turning from purple to sheer black as the moon crept slowly above the bare branches of the woods at the end of the field. A cold breeze swirled around the four of them, fluttering the edge of John's coat and Red's cloak.

  Ray cleared his throat. "We've been hearing stories of something coming out of the field to haunt the road. The local farmers are terrified and won't travel this stretch of road past sundown. One man said he saw something walking, but it made no sound and left no footprints."

  "Like a ghost?" Scully plants her hands on her hips. "You know these so-called phenomena are usually the result of an overactive imagination."

  John dragged his fingers through his hair with a grin. "You still think everything has a logical explanation, love?" He rolled the wooden cigarette to the other corner of his mouth and looked around at the three of them solemnly. "We've all seen things we couldn't explain."

  Scully shrugged. "Maybe because we didn't have all the facts, John."

  Red hefted her crossbow impatiently. "Are we going to talk about it all night or go find this monster and kick it in its illogical teeth?"

  Ray nodded. "The first thing to do is check out the place where the sightings have taken place." He pointed down the road. "That way."

  "Come on, then." Red started down the road, John and Ray behind her.

  Scully followed more slowly. "If this turns out to be swamp gas or squirrels… I could be home eating dinner, not stomping around this godforsaken road."

  Red paused, staring out across the field. "What are those?"

  "Scarecrows." John leaned on the top of the wall.

  Ray clutched at his wand. "Pretty creepy for scaring birds."

  They were silent for a moment, watching the rows of snarling, straw-filled scarecrows. The moon threw their shadows out across the lumpy ground like long fingers that stretched almost to the road where the Monster Society stood. A few of them stirred, long legs flapping.

  "There are a lot of them." Red shifted her grip on her crossbow.

  John grinned. "Not scared of a bunch of straw men, are you, Red?"

  "No. I mean, there's a lot of them to just be for scaring birds."

  Ray nodded. "And the field's empty too." He glanced back over his shoulder. "That one too."

  A couple of scarecrows on the end of the row shuddered, arms and legs twitching back and forth like a puppet on a string.

  Scully pulled her up-time gun out. "Do any of you feel a breeze?"

  Ray shook his head. "Are you cold?"

  "Yes. But more importantly—if there's no wind, why are they moving?"

  Red sucked in a breath. "It's an army."

  "We have to protect the town," Ray said firmly.

  John rolled his sleeves up. "Well, then. Shall we go stop them, love?"

  For a moment they all grinned at each other, then fell back into their characters.

  "I'll go left," Ray said. "John, you go right and the girls can go up the middle."

  They nodded.

  "Ready?" John said. "On three."

  Red and Scully stepped closer to the wall, weapons at the ready.

  "One. Two. Three." John swung over the wall, the others right behind as the Monster Society settled in for a long night of defending Grantville from supernatural evil as only they could.

  When the battle was done and Grantville was safe once more, John collapsed, exhausted, onto the grass of the field. Scully sat down beside him.

  "That was some battle," she commented.

  John nodded, "Tell me about it. We need to let Ray come up with our adventures more often."

  John shifted nervously where he sat as Scully scooted closer to him.

  "John," she said quietly, "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

  John met her eyes, staring into them. "Yeah, uh, me, too, actually."

  "Would you, maybe, like to do something sometime that wasn't part of the Society? You know—something for maybe just the two of us?"

  "Yes, love, I would. Very much so." He smiled and started to lean towards her.

  Fox came wandering up and nudged himself between them.

  They both laughed.

  John lifted his arm, placing it around Scully's shoulders with Fox pressed between them.

  "Soon then?" he asked.

  Scully nodded, shooting him a grin. "Soon. Just promise me it won't involve monsters."

  "We'll see, love," John smiled. "We'll see."

  Transplanted Seed by Nick Lorance

  November 8, 1620

  Bohemia

  Richard ran back toward the line of tents, holding in his arms a precious treasure—two lengths of sausage and a whole cabbage. It had been hard in the last week; ripped from their home by the advancing army of Count Tilly, mother dying within a day, Hans who had been sick joining her within just two days. Now all Richard had left in the world was Anna.

  The only chance of survival for his sister lay in two equally horrid choices for him. Run away or join the soldiers. This in the midst of a desolate swath sometimes tens of miles across where the army had gathered anything edible like human locusts. With mother dead and Hans already sick, Richard had considered the options. It would have taken at least a day to walk to either side of that stripped land, while hoping that none of the units in the screen saw them. And with Hans already sick, it would have taken two.

  The thought that he could have survived alone never came into his mind. He had to take his siblings to safety for life to have any meaning. It was his defiant stand between them and the soldiers that had already murdered his older brother and his father, his vain attempt to keep them away from his mother that had kept them alive up to this point. While he had been beaten into unconsciousness, they had brought him along. They admired the brave, even if foolish. After all, how often did a fourteen-year-old boy armed with only a kitchen knife try to fight seven grown men?

  Seeing his brother die and s
ister waste away had been the reason he had asked the second file lead of the pike regiment if he could become a soldier. Big for his age, healthy from years of farm work, he had been given his chance. Drilling at night with a pike, carrying his sister by day after Hans died and she fell ill, they had merely smiled and shook their heads. But training meant he ate better, and Anna did as well.

  Now the battle was over. How he had even survived was a mystery to him. Anna had been so pale this morning when she sent him off, giving the little hand motion he remembered so well from mother. During the sack of the enemy train, he had not been grabbing wine or beer, women or goods, he had instead grabbed food.

  Now he could see her. She was leaned back against a tree as he had left her, and he dropped the food in front of her. "Anna, come, eat." She merely sat quietly, head forward, asleep. "Anna." he chided. "We have food for days, but you must eat." Still she slept. He reached out, and when he touched her face he knew.

  While he had been in battle, risking his life for her, God had stolen the last link to the peaceful world he had lived in.

  Hartmann dreamed yet again as the boy he had once been consigned his sister to the grave, taking his own rosary to put in her hands. He would never have faith in God again.

  June 30, 1631

  Near Badenburg, Thuringia

  As was habit after so many years, Hartmann came awake before the dawn lit the sky. He was buried in what only could be called a puppy pile of sleeping bodies. Six children, five boys and a single girl, were huddled around him under his blanket. It wasn't the cold, it was the fact that of all the men in this mercenary column, he was the one who took the young under his wing to protect until one of the camp followers took over. Gently he moved until they were rearranged in a pile without him. After all, just because he got up this early didn't mean they couldn't sleep a little longer.

  He walked over to the fire where one of the men sat sipping his morning broth. He only nodded, picking an empty pot which he filled with water, and set it to heat. Once heated, he moved aside, stripped off his shirt, and began washing himself.

  He threw the water out, and put his shirt back on as the morning drum rolled.

  Camp followers and soldiers alike called him Lehrer Hartmann, Teacher Hartmann. Since his first battle, he had always been the most patient with the new men. Within a month of becoming a pikeman, you could see him patiently explaining how wood would crown, that by turning the heavy pole until it did, the shaft would run straight, making it stronger and less ready to break. Within three years, he was a file lead, steadying the men of his rank as they marched at the half step into the fray, calming those around him with his shouted instructions.

  Then he had picked up a gun from a corpse in his fifth year as a soldier. It had been both a great boon, and the one thing that had almost killed him because of the haphazard training. While all you needed was courage to stand in the pikes, you also needed patience and a steady hand to be a good arquebusier. Again his native skills came into play. He began teaching all he learned to the new men. For the last four years, he had been sergeant of arquebusiers.

  As the drums rolled again he opened his pack. He walked back to the children, nudging them awake with his boot. He passed most of the food he had out to his boys and sent them to help around camp. Lisle, the one girl, waved to him, running with his pack to the wagons as he walked over to the assembly area.

  Now back to the fire. He poured a mug of broth, wishing it were cider. The farmers had moved their cider into Badenburg rather than let the army seize it. For a moment he considered walking over to the wall alone, buying a jug to drink later. He had done it before.

  But no. The army was roused. They would have to demand tribute instead. He had a slice of cheese, a four-inch piece of sausage, and bread as he waited for the men to assemble.

  He patiently filled his bandolier of powder chargers; the “twelve apostles” of a soldier's creed for his caliver. Some of the other arquebusiers trudged over as he finished. He looked at the shamefaced men. "You spent it gambling instead of on powder again? And no doubt they plied you with wine or beer." At their nods, he took out a small folded paper, looking at each name. "Only a fool drinks when he is at dice. Look, if powder were free, it would make sense. There is nothing more foolish than going into battle without being able to fight. Especially with that arschloch of a priest. He might think you cowards." Hartmann always spent his coin on powder, ingots of lead, slow match, and wads. When these idiots didn't have the money, he would supply them what he could, charging the cost of two measures of powder for one, two ounces of lead for one, an inch and a half of match for one, and merely gave them the wadding.

  He was out of powder at the end. After the battle he would speak to the quartermaster. Hopefully they would loot enough powder for the next battle and the next after it.

  "Right. Pack your bags in the wagons and assemble here."

  Conrad was giving his instructions, and Richard listened with half an ear. "Usual drill, lads. When we get close enough, the captain will send a parley forward to demand the town's surrender. Just watch for other gunners or cavalry as always. Hartmann?"

  "Ja?"

  "The lieutenant will be on your side of the formation today." His tone was apologetic.

  "Yes, Conrad." Hartmann put on his helmet. The strap was broken, so he left it unhooked.

  The men split into their flanking columns, and moved to protect the tercio when the battle began. Hartmann took his position to the far left of the gunmen. From here, the church steeple could be seen, and not much else. On the right there was a road, and he looked at the enemy forming their own line coolly. Idiots.

  "That fool Hoffman is going to stand in the open!" He looked back as the lieutenant came around the arquebusiers. The man looked every inch a warrior. Pity he couldn't pour water out of his own boots without a servant to do it for him. "Just some skirmishers in the brush below the hill on his flank and some ragtag cavalry on each end. I think it will be an easy day, lads." His opinion of the mercenary leader facing them didn't impress Hartmann.

  Hartmann wasn't the only one who thought him stupid. Calling a group of men, all of whom were older than you, 'lad'? Skirmishers meant some rifles, though he could fire two shots in the time it took a rifleman to load even one, so that didn't worry him.

  "This time, you will follow orders, Sergeant."

  "Ja, Mein Herr."

  The boy flushed. "I mean it! If I give an order and you do not instantly obey, I'll have you flogged until I see the color of your spine!"

  In the months since the boy had joined the column he had proven pretty much incapable of command, unless screaming incoherently qualified. He became even more furious when Hartmann expanded on his usually confused orders. Especially when a more senior officer would come by and praise the lieutenant for his foresight. A pity he wasn't improving with time.

  "Damn you, Hartmann, I expect a reply!"

  For just a moment, Hartmann thought to reply by “accidentally” shooting the man. It wouldn't be the first time after all. "You are in command, lieutenant. Do I have permission to load?"

  "What?"

  "If we do not load now, we will have to stop in the middle of the fight to load when the enemy skirmishers fire." Hartmann explained patiently yet again.

  "Oh, yes. See to it!"

  "Load your muskets!" He shouted. "Fill the pan, close the pan, pour the rest down the barrel, put in the wad, put in the ball, ram it home, muskets at the ready! Müller! Light the matches!" The men went through the drill he had pounded into their heads, sometimes literally. But there were some who needed the step by step instructions still. When the last of the men were ready, he glanced at the lieutenant. "Ready to fire on command."

  The boy huffed, then looked ahead. Hartmann merely stood, waiting. The drums rolled, and Hartmann shouted, "Forward!" To the right the tercio began its slow measured pace. In a looser formation, the arquebusiers moved more sedately. The tercio was angled to come betwee
n the hill and Hoffman's pike formation. The brush at the bottom of the hill was about three hundred yards away.

  It was slow going. Pikes did not move rapidly even on a route march. On an advance to battle they were a tortoise barely able to turn. The arquebusiers, who carried less weight, could outdistance them easily, so Hartmann was constantly making sure the men dressed their ranks and didn't get ahead of the pikes.

  At about one hundred yards, the world changed for Hartmann. He heard a shout, then a sound he had never heard before, like hammers beating on a baulk of wood very fast as if it were a drum. Hartmann heard cries from the tercio. Men were going down as if shot, but all he saw was a small amount of smoke coming from the edge of that brush ahead of them. Now there was more, scattered through the brush, but still far less than any group of riflemen would make.

  "Fire, Hartmann!"

  Hartmann looked at the lieutenant. "We are out of range."

  The boy drew his wheel-lock, setting the hammer and pointing it at Hartmann's face. "Fire, damn you!"

  Hartmann shouted. "Halt! Make ready!" The men stopped, pointing their weapons at the still-distant brush. "First rank, present!"

  "Sergeant, we will hit nothing!" One of the men shouted.

  "Take. Your. Aim!" There was silence from his men. "Give fire!" There was a roar, and billows of smoke shot toward their tormentors. "First rank, fall to the rear and reload! Second rank step forward! Front rank, fire!" Hartmann was already reloading, and except for the few dull wits who needed the help of one of their fellows, all of his men were obeying. As each rank fired, they took a step to the right, moved to the rear, and the next rank stepped forward to fire in turn. In less than a minute 200 balls were hurled at the enemy.

  "How many did we get?" The lieutenant shouted, trying to see through the cloud of smoke.

  "At this range, likely nothing" Hartmann told him.

  "Nothing?"

  "I did say we were out of range, Mein Herr."

  "Then fire again!"

  Hartmann merely looked at him. "Again? From here?" His tone was acid.

  The boy screamed, and the pistol he still brandished came down. Hartmann merely stood there. He had always faced his enemy with a cold glint in his eyes, a determination that they might kill him, but nothing would break him. It was no different now.