Grantville Gazette, Volume 68

by Bjorn Hasseler

  It had been difficult figuring it out without an expert's opinion, so the midwife of the regiment, Frau Stein had been called in. The first Kirsten had known of her pregnancy was when her belly had started to swell which, the midwife explained, usually happens in the third or fourth month, and after patient questioning had estimated the time and did the examination, the medic merely making the notes.

  "Seven—almost eight months, Sergeant," the medic told him as Kirsten adjusted her clothing after the examination. "And as a first-time mother, there may be complications."

  “I know that,” Hartmann replied.

  “If she stays here, it could be a problem. If the baby comes early, it might not survive. It would be better to send her to Magdeburg or Grantville.”

  “I know that as well.”

  "And she is very young; this could be—" He stopped talking when Hartmann grabbed his chin and turned his face up to look at him.

  “My wife died in childbed less than a week ago. Stop telling me what I already know.” Then he released the man's face.

  The medic shook his head, rubbing his jaw. "There is the possibility of pox, but there are no obvious signs of it, so far. The tests will take some time, so don't…" the admonition died at the look of Hartmann's face. "She is healthy except for being malnourished, so make sure she eats and rests when necessary. She can help some with the laundry, cleaning, and cooking, but nothing more strenuous than that."

  "Thank you." He motioned, and Kirsten followed him. "You know Maggie and Freida, correct?" He looked at her, and she was nodding. "Tell them what the medic said and help out. But if you get tired, rest or hungry, eat." She nodded again. He sighed, stopping. "Girl…Kirsten." She looked up. "I will not hit you or use you as others have for any reason. So just do what needs to be done and speak if you feel the need." She nodded again. Just wonderful.

  He led her to the other camp followers, made sure she had a bowl of porridge and some bread, and then set out for the assembly area. He wanted to ask God what else could go wrong with his life, but he didn't want to give Him any ideas. The company was already in formation, and he sighed inwardly at the grins far too many had. “There is a woman in my tent for the foreseeable future. If I hear any talk about it, I will find who has spread it, and they will not enjoy the conversation I will have with them.

  "Now, the battalion is going to split the companies into four watches of four hours each, so the evenings are going to rotate in sequence. During the day you will keep a close guard and while speaking to the prisoners is usually prohibited, getting you lot to shut up would be something I would have to ask God to deal with." There was laughter from the lines. "So you may spread the CoC's gospel to whom you will.

  "But do not start gesturing like actors, sit down, or stop paying attention even for a moment. Remember that these are soldiers who will wish to escape. If anyone tries, or tries to take your rifle, kill them. One shout to halt; since there are two of you at each post, a single warning shot if necessary, no more. The feldwebel will walk the line to make sure, and if they see you doing something foolish, they have the authority to punish you as necessary. Prepare for inspection!"

  He trooped the line. Everyone was turned out neatly. Well, almost everyone. Frakes looked like he hadn't slept the night before, his usually cheerful face set in a grimace, and when Hartmann looked into his face, the eyes shifted away. But he didn't comment. He marched them to their section of the cordon and had the feldwebel arrange them.

  Across the camp, a number of units were preparing to move out. Except for about five hundred, the cavalry was getting ready, and only the indigenous artillery of the regiments remaining to guard the French. The only five pike regiments of the USE would be following in a few hours to join the Emperor's army, about a quarter of the USE army all told.

  The prisoners had been put to work burying the bodies of the fallen; others were forming wooden crosses as markers. The butchers, with no distinction between USE or French, were still at work on the horses, and barrels of brine had been brought from Lübeck to convert the dead animals to rations. More had been sent from Hamburg up the Stecknitz canal then down the Trave to the small village of Nutschel where a lot more horses had been slain. Almost two thousand had died or been put down after the battle.

  Not that it mattered to those remaining. They merely had to stand guard and wait for the prisoners to be repatriated.

  ****

  Simon Roquelaure was not at all happy. Oh, he still had a job, just for the USE instead of the L'armée française de la ligue combinée d'Ostende, or Les forces navales de la Mer Baltique, the French army assigned to the League of Ostend and the navy respectively. But he had noted most of the women who had remained with this army were there willingly, rather than being forced. He had a skill of sorts, something he enjoyed, convincing camp followers to obey, and a thriving business with it among the French, who had merely taken any woman they fancied on this campaign rather than ship them from home. After all the government wasn't going to pay for that, true?

  For those who resisted in word or deed, they had Roquelaure. While the word 'sadist' would not be coined until the nineteenth century in the up-timers’ world, anyone in the French army would have pointed at Simon Roquelaure once it was defined. Their experience had taught that men of that kind were always there; especially among soldiers. If you were at their mercy, you learned the phrase sans pitié et sans retenue, without pity or restraint.

  Then the verdamme Swedes had broken the blockade and defeated the army! The orders given by the USE had been that all women forced to serve them would be allowed to return home! So his skills would go unused. A dangerous thing, since when he had no such outlet, he had been forced to flee so many towns and cities when the beast within him rose, usually right ahead of the local gendarmerie. Before the battle, he had buried his treasure box. If they had found that…

  He climbed to the seat of his wagon. Thanks to the damn Swedes he would have to travel further now, not just to the shore, but from Ahrensbök to Lübeck, which would cost him more, as the port was also being used by Gustav's army. That would drive prices up, and there would be no chance to indulge himself as he had during the siege.

  He looked toward the camp followers busy making breakfast for their men. Burgundy clothing; almost like their own uniforms, though the women who worked for other units had their own colors. The girl who was washing dishes turned, and he reined in. She set the bowls she had just washed and dried to one side, then turned to gather more.

  “Le cochon crisser,” he whispered to himself. The squealing piglet. The one Rolf had taken in the first weeks after they had landed. She had resisted, fought back, but Rolf didn't want to harm her looks, so he had turned to Simon. She was exquisite, so sensitive to pain, but always trying to defy him even in her agony. She had been at Simon's mercy several times those first months, right up until the breaking of the siege, unlike the others who had broken so readily.

  He slapped the reins, setting the horses back in motion. If she was dressed as a camp follower, then she was with that unit. He could find out who she was with now. Then?

  Then he would indulge himself; and this time, with no restraint.

  ****

  When the men came off guard duty, Hartmann had them help load the barrels of freshly packed meat on the wagons to follow the army marching north. A lot of it was staying. After all, with the horses slaughtered on both battle sites, there was almost eight hundred tons of it.

  Hartmann watched, putting his shoulder in to help when needed. He paused, wiping his brow, then turned as someone coughed politely behind him. It was the Frenchman he had met the previous day, beside a more robust man in very good clothes. The one he knew spoke rapidly, gesturing toward Hartmann, and the other stepped forward. "You are Sergeant Hartmann, I believe?" Hartmann nodded, and the man grinned. "So you are the one! The sergent féroce who broke Le Tercio Cœur Féroce de Gascon! I think the idea that one man would charge ahead making his men run to
keep up broke their spirit!" He stuck out his hand, and after a moment, Hartmann took it.

  "You have me at a disadvantage, mein Herr."

  “Oh, I am sorry, Sergeant. I am Marin Le Roy de Gomberville, an author from France. I was standing with the general watching!” He motioned toward the small ridge where the French command had been the day before.

  Hartmann was relieved that the man could speak without exclaiming. “How did you find me? And why?”

  “I asked the officers of your army until I found which unit held that portion of the line, then asked the officers of your First Division until one mentioned your name. I have never seen a battle before, and your heroic charge inspired me!”

  Hartmann shook his head. “It was not heroism, Herr de Gomberville—”

  "Please, Sergeant, my friends call me Marin, and I hope you shall be my friend. But was not what you did heroic?"

  "In some eyes, perhaps. But it was my way of releasing my pain and sorrow, hoping I would die." At the confused look, he went on, "My wife died mere days before the battle. I had heard the evening before we broke camp to march here, and in my pain, I charged when ordered, and my actions caused my men to follow. But that stupidity cost the lives of some of my men, and the injury of others that could have been avoided." He looked to see if the writer understood.

  “But you survived!”

  “Many of my men did not, Herr Marin. Far too many. All because I was not thinking. As for surviving, I remember the title of a poem the up-timers brought back, 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'. A man named Dylan Thomas wrote it in their past just before his father died, and my late wife, who adored his work, read it to me the night before we left Magdeburg. The poem rages against death. Like the poem, I would have been willing to die. But I was not going without a fight.”

  Marin looked at him silently for a moment. “Then after the battle, you killed a man for something he did at Magdeburg. Raping a child?”

  “Yes.” Hartmann's eyes were bleak. “If I had not been injured at what the up-timers called the Battle of the Crapper, he would not have been alive to brutalize yet another girl.” He sighed again. “Please, mein Herr, I have work to do. Perhaps we can speak when I am not so busy?”

  “Of course. And I am sorry to hear about your loss. Perhaps later this evening? Henri is an outstanding cook, and I would love to hear your side of the battle.”

  “Of course. Though I will not drink much, my men have the late evening watch tonight.”

  "Excellent!" Marin turned and spoke rapidly to Henri, who replied, but spoke for longer than just yea or nay. "Henri asks that you bring the young woman you rescued yesterday? If you can find her."

  Hartmann snorted. “Find her. Try getting rid of her.” He turned and walked away.

  Marin watched him walk back to the wagon. "Such a sad man, Henri." He looked aside at the servant. "And why were you so interested in the girl?" Henri blushed but didn't meet his master's glance. Marin chuckled. "Ah, young love."

  ****

  Once the men were relieved from moving the barrels, Hartmann had them working on their gear. He knew keeping them busy would stop them from getting into trouble—

  "You idiot!" He turned. Frakes was standing over one of his men, holding his rifle. "You call this barrel clean, Kraus? Would you think so when the bullet jams?" He flung it back at the man. He pointed at the firkin-sized barrel of what the up-timers called Windex. "Windex! A barrel brush applied with a will! Make sure the brush and cleaning patches comes out clean before you oil it! When I come back, it will be clean, or I will find you something any fool can do!"

  “Yes, Wachtmeister!”

  Hartmann walked over as Frakes stormed away. “Martin?”

  “What—” Frakes visibly took control of his anger. “I am sorry, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

  “Walk with me.” Hartmann looked. A few dozen yards away was a small area of quiet. He paced toward it, Frakes following. Once there, Hartmann took off his cap, wiping his forehead as he spoke softly. “You are having problems sleeping. You are short-tempered and have problems focusing on what needs to be done.”

  “What have they told you, Sergeant?” Frakes demanded.

  “No one needed to tell me anything.” Hartmann replied. “I have been fighting in battles since you were learning your letters for the first time. While you were studying in Latin school, I was fighting. I have seen it before. Having seen it for the first time, you are terrified of battle.”

  Frakes looked away. “Maybe I am just a coward.”

  “Some of those you would think the bravest men fall apart after they have seen battle for real that first time. High-born, low-born, even men who have done it for years will break, so that is not true. If you were a coward, Martin, you would have run before the battle began. You see, the up-timers have a saying about even this; to stand and possibly die is insane. Yet we do it anyway. You just found you fear death, and forcing yourself to keep trying could be insane.”

  “But you are so brave! How could I stand there shivering at the thought of battle with you calmly sharpening your sword ready for it!” He gestured, “And to stand when everyone else charged after you?”

  Hartman chuckled sadly. "Do you know what the definition of a hero is? I know what we might say, but the up-timers say it is a man trying to stay alive when things go wrong. Do you honestly think I was not afraid yesterday? I have been afraid on every battlefield. I have pissed myself waiting for a battle to start, shat myself during, and vomited in relief afterward on more battlefields that you can name. I have grown used to it, but part of me is always relieved when it is over, and dreads it happening again.

  "But to do it for years as I have, you have to become used to it. And one thing I can say is not every man can do that." He waited until the younger man looked at him. "A true coward would have run, or when he finds it is too shameful to obey his instincts, try to keep going."

  He waited until Frakes nodded reluctantly. “There are places in the army where you do not face that every day, Martin. I can talk with the colonel, get you reassigned.” He gave a small grin, “it is either that or get you drunk enough to throw up tonight and every night after every battle we see. Your choice.”

  Martin chuckled. “Let me see. Spend my pay on enough beer or whiskey to face it again, or get reassigned to hump barrels or inventory them—where I have to worry about paper cuts, savage rebukes for my spelling, drinking heavily in fear of an inspector general or having to tell another soldier he cannot have what he wants from supply. Decisions, decisions.”

  Hartmann laughed with him. “Let me know what you decide. But know you do have a choice. Now back to work.”

  ****

  Hartmann walked toward the French officer's compound alongside Kirsten, who was staring at the ground. “Kirsten, you do not have to do this.” He looked at her. “Say something, Kirsten.” When she was still silent, he stopped. The girl continued on a couple of more steps, then stopped, looking back. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing, Sergeant,” she whispered.

  He sighed. “You have not said a word since I told you that this Frenchman wanted to meet you as well. So we are not going another step until you explain why this is upsetting you.”

  “It is Poirot.”

  “He upsets you? Then it is settled—I will go and tell them you will not attend.”

  “No, it is not that.” She looked down. “When I with Rolf, Poirot was the only bright thing in my life. Sometimes he would hire me to help when he needed assistance, and a lot of times, I think it was because he felt sorry for me. I feel embarrassed that all I did after Rolf died was attach myself to yet another soldier. You are a good man, a kind man, Sergeant—”

  “Yet you distance yourself with your words. I have a name, Kirsten.”

  She sighed. "But you do not want me as a woman, Ser— Richard. You spoke of a wife who died just a week or so ago when we were at the hospital, and I seem to be a chore you have assigned your
self." Her look was bleak.

  Hartmann looked at her for a long moment. "I admit you are a bit of a chore, Kirsten. But you misunderstand my motives. My loss is too soon and too deep for me to want to leap into yet another wife." He looked at the sky, the stars twinkling. "We met after what they called the Battle of the Crapper. I was being released from the hospital when she arrived after weeks of looking for somewhere safe. She was such a small delicate woman, and at that moment, she looked like a kitten huddling in a place out of the rain. But she had a strong will, and she was still defying the world. I grew to know her, and when I returned from the Battle of Jena, she was there to greet me, because she had focused on the one thing she felt was solid in her world, as you have.

  “So in a way she was a chore for me at first. But it does not mean I did not have feelings for her—or for you. But you are still too young. You should not have to be bearing a child at your age. So I am doing what your father should have. I am supplying the support you need until you are well enough in spirit to go on.” He smiled. “Even if I am just something comfortable to sleep against.”

  ****

  Days passed. Those enemy soldiers who had been badly wounded enough to be defined as invalid would be sent home once they were well with no ransom. The severely wounded had been sent to Lübeck if they were not expected to recover quickly. The rest had been sent to Magdeburg. The last of the fresh food was gone, and the armies had to go back to their hard rations. Oh, some fresh food was still coming in, but not enough for just under thirty thousand men who had nothing to do.

  Over sixteen thousand of the men were the prisoners, and they chafed under their restriction. The officers would eventually be paroled, along with most of the cavalrymen, since they usually had enough money to pay for their ransoms. Arrangements were being made to send them home as soon as the money was delivered. That still would leave about fourteen thousand.

  "You look tired, little one," Maggie commented.

  Kirsten looked up from where she was kneading the dough for the bread. “I am fine, Maggie.”