1634: The Ram Rebellion (assiti shards) Read online

  “I live here, damn you. These people are my neighbors.”

  They were standing inside Pat’s shop. Pat used the rifle in his hands to point to the western wall. “Just three shops down, there’s a mother and her daughter who were gang-raped by mercenaries in Gustavus Adolphus’s army. The girl was only fourteen. When the mother tried to protest that they were Lutherans, too, the stinking bastards just laughed at her. Two of them were members-still are, goddamit-of the Swedish garrison here. When she tried to register a complaint with the garrison commander afterward-yeah, the same Bruno Felder asshole who’s still in command-he laughed at her, too.”

  Anse set his jaws. “I’m not arguing about that, Pat. I don’t like mercenary soldiers any more than you do. It still doesn’t change the fact that, within a year, we’ll most likely have fought a war-and some of our soldiers will have gotten killed with guns from here. And they’re going to be pissed as all hell, especially if they find out the gun trade with our enemies is still going on. You know that as well as I do.”

  Pat looked away again. “Yeah. Well. Look, I didn’t know what to do. But I did report the problem to Grantville, at least.”

  Anse took a deep breath, and let it out. There was no point in staying angry with Pat. If he’d been in the same circumstances, Anse wasn’t sure what he’d have done, either. Pat was a civilian. No fig leaf. No backup. Should he somehow have gone for the kind of private justice-vigilante justice-Anse was denying to both Blumroder and the CoC. Somewhere, in his own mind, was there still a sneaking feeling that it would be all right for an American to handle things that way, just because he was an American, but not for Germans who were NUS citizens to do the same?

  “All right, forget it. Water under the bridge, and all that. But for the moment, you’re a member of my posse also. Got any problems with that?”

  Finally, Pat smiled. “Not any, Anse. Not any at all.”

  “Good. In that case-don’t get squirrelly on me, Pat-I want every up-time weapon you’ve got in the hands of the Jaeger. They’re probably better shots than you are.”

  “Not mine,” said Gaylynn Reardon sharply. “Not Gary’s, neither.” Her husband, standing next to her, looked just as stubborn as she did.

  Anse shook his head. “Fine, fine. In the interest of maintaining American pride and morale-not to mention keeping peace in the family-you and Gary and Pat can each keep a modern rifle. But I want the rest in the hands of those who can do the most with them.”

  “I can shoot as well any damn Jaeger,” she insisted. “Got nothing to with pride.”

  “Who cares how well you shoot, Mrs. Reardon?” he demanded harshly. “How well can you kill? Not dark outlines against the snow or distant figures on a roof that you’d have had in your scope if we’d run into trouble on the trip down here. Men standing right in front of you?”

  She didn’t look away. But she did swallow.

  “Yeah. What I thought. We’re not deer-hunting, here. I want those guns in the hands of the Jaeger. If there are any left over, let Blumroder decide who gets them. Understood?”

  After a moment, they all nodded.

  “Do you really think it’ll come to that, Anse?” asked Pat.

  “Hell, who knows. But . . . yeah, it probably will.” He glanced at the shuttered windows. “Felder’s thugs aren’t just rapists. They’re also killers-and they’ve been the top dogs here, so far. I don’t think they’re just going to roll over and wave their paws in the air.”

  Noelle Murphy cleared her throat. “Still . . . Mr. Hatfield, you can’t simply wait until there’s an armed confrontation in the street. You have to send word to Captain Felder-to von Dantz and Horton, too-that you’re now in charge.”

  Anse made a face. “Ms. Murphy, meaning no disrespect, but it’s just a cold fact of life that if I march over to the garrison and start throwing orders around, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get shot. For sure, I’ll get arrested. And then where are we?”

  He took off the cap, laid it on a table, and scratched his head. “Look, face it. This so-called ‘posse’ of ours is shaky enough as it is. Take me out of the picture . . .”

  Noelle shook her head. “Yes, I understand. But I wasn’t suggesting that you do it, personally. Simply that you needed to send word.”

  “And who . . . ?”

  Her face was pale but composed. “I think it’s quite obvious. Since I have the documents from President Stearns, I will do it. After I give copies to the city’s authorities.”

  That odd, lightning-quick little smile came and went. “I’m really not what anyone in their right mind would call a ‘soldier,’ Mr. Hatfield. The only reason I carry that little pistol is because my boss insisted. I’m not sure I could hit anything with it, beyond a few yards.”

  Abruptly, she rose to her feet. “I’m just a fig leaf here, really- and, once the job is done, a fig leaf is disposable.”

  Pat looked alarmed. “Hey, wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? Felder’s guys-probably Felder himself-are a bunch of rapists. You go over there . . . I mean, you’re young, you’re pretty . . .”

  She issued that same insta-smile. “I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Johnson. But the same would be true for almost any woman you sent over there. And Mr. Hatfield is right. Any man would probably just get shot.”

  “But-“

  “I am officially in charge, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Hatfield. So there won’t be any further discussion of the matter.”

  And, with that, she marched to the door. At her imperious nod, one of Pat’s apprentices opened it for her. A moment later, she was gone.

  “Oh, hell’s bells,” said Pat.

  * * *

  Jochen Rau walked up to Anse. "Wili and Hennel are on their way to Grantville. We couldn’t get a truck. Horton has one, but he’s got it in the garrison compound. That’s where the radio is, too.”

  “Damn.” Anse shook his head.

  “So Wili and Hennel they took the best horses we had.” Rau grinned. “One of them was von Dantz’s.”

  Anse chuckled. “So we’re adding horse theft to the bargain, huh? Well, why not?”

  He sent Jochen over to the tavern where he’d found Lt. Ivarsson. “See what he’s up to-and, if you can, try to get him to come here.”

  * * *

  Rau returned less than half an hour later. “Ivarsson’s gone,” he said. “Nobody seems to know where he went.”

  Anse muttered a curse under his breath. “What the hell is he playing at?”

  Rau just shrugged.

  * * *

  An hour later, it started snowing. By nightfall, three inches of fresh snow had covered the town.

  January 22, 1633

  The business started not long after daybreak. The sky had cleared and the air was very crisp. The snow covering the streets muffled the sounds of moving men, but mercenary soldiers-this garrison, for sure-were usually not given to maintaining silence. So Anse could hear them coming a good two minutes before the first ranks came around the corner and started down the street.

  By then, Anse had shifted his headquarters from Pat’s factory to Blumroder’s shop. He’d done that, partly, because Blumroder would be the immediate target; partly, because Blumroder’s Jaeger were the men he relied on the most, outside of himself and Rau. But, mostly, simply to keep driving home the basic political point he was making.

  Blumroder might be a conniving double-dealer-depending on how you looked at it-but he still had rights, until and unless they were removed from him legally. So, Anse would make his defense of those rights as visible and obvious as possible.

  Von Dantz, surprisingly, was in the lead. Anse had expected to see Bruno Felder, since almost all of the soldiers following von Dantz were part of the Suhl garrison.

  “You think von Dantz carried out a little mutiny of his own?” Anse wondered.

  Standing next to him, looking through the same slit in the shutters, Blumroder shook his head. “I doubt it. Felder controls the paychest, and I don�
�t think von Dantz is rich enough to buy a garrison.”

  Rau was at the next window. “Even if he is, he didn’t bring enough money with him,” he pointed out.

  Anse decided they were right. Which meant . . .

  His headshake was simply one of disgust. “Felder must have decided to straddle the fence. He let von Dantz-Oh, that son-of-a-bitch.”

  Anse had just spotted Johnny Horton, following von Dantz. “He let von Dantz and Horton call the shots. Let ‘em have his garrison, but didn’t come out himself. Stinking bastard.”

  Blumroder shrugged. As well he might. “Mercenary captain” and “man of principle” were not terms that were too often associated with each other, in the here and now. Often enough, mercenary captains were really more in the way of what could be called military contractors rather than what Anse thought of as “soldiers.” Petty politics came naturally to them.

  On the street outside, von Dantz halted his men when they were still forty yards from Pat Johnson’s factory-more than fifty yards from Blumroder’s shop next door. Apparently, he’d finally noticed that the shops on the street were shuttered and that the residents in the gunmakers’ quarter looked to be willing to fight it out.

  Von Dantz was close enough that Anse could see his face. For once, the arrogant captain’s expression had some hesitation and uncertainty in it. Anse wondered what combination of emotions had led him to follow this course of action. By now, even a man as obtuse as von Dantz should have figured out that he was treading on very thin ice, politically speaking.

  Ambition, of course. If he could demonstrate to his superiors that he had a flair for decisive action, he might get promoted. Anse had the feeling that General Kagg was far too intelligent a commander to be much impressed by simple “decisiveness.” But Kagg had only recently come into command here, and von Dantz had no experience serving under him. If Anse remembered correctly, von Dantz had done most of his service under the Swedish general Baner-who had a reputation for being mule-headed and was not much given to subtlety.

  Still, there had to be more to it than that. Anse couldn’t really know, of course, but he suspected that a lot of what was involved was simply festering resentment, finally boiling to the surface.

  The up-timers grated on von Dantz, pure and simple. And if, here in Suhl, there was an up-timer even more hot-headed than he was, von Dantz would use him as a cover to vent his built-up frustration.

  John Horton. Anse despised Johnny Horton. But why hadn’t the army just detailed him off to go back to teaching math at the high school? Now-nearly a sure thing by the time this day was over-they’d be permanently down one more teacher that Grantville couldn’t really afford to lose.

  But his personal attitude toward Horton was neither here nor there. What really mattered, under the circumstances, Anse thought-was pretty critical, in fact-was that whatever happened there could be no accusation made afterward of favoritism based on origin.

  He crooked a finger, summoning the Jaeger he’d already guessed was the best shot among them. If nothing else, from the easy way he held the rifle Pat had leant him, the hunter was apparently familiar with up-time weapons.

  When the man came to the window and stooped to look through the slit, Anse pointed at the distant figure of Horton.

  “You see him? The one in the camouflage outfit standing maybe five feet to von Dantz’s left?”

  The Jaeger nodded.

  “If any shooting starts,” Anse said harshly, “I want him dead.”

  The Jaeger studied him, for a moment. Then, smiled thinly, and nodded again.

  Von Dantz’s men were now starting to push forward around him, losing any semblance of a disciplined formation. There were perhaps three dozen of them, Anse estimated, which would be most of the entire garrison.

  He took a slow, deep breath.

  “Okay. I guess I oughta give them a formal warning.”

  “Why?” asked Rau, smiling even more thinly than the Jaeger had. “Just shoot them.”

  Anse didn’t bother arguing the point. It’d be useless anyway, given Jochen’s attitudes. The man was in the NUS army-in fact, most of the time he was a very good soldier-but he did not and never had looked at the world from what Anse would consider a “proper military viewpoint.”

  There was no point delaying the matter, much as Anse was tempted to. He went to the front door of Blumroder’s shop. After he passed through-making sure to leave it open behind him-he stepped forward three paces.

  “Captain von Dantz!” he shouted. “Lt. Horton! I am now in command here in Suhl, and I order you-”

  “Get fucked, Hatfield!” John Horton hollered back. His beefy face was almost bright red, either from anger or the cold, or both. “You’re nothing but a warrant officer! As the ranking American here-”

  “There’s no such thing as a ‘ranking American,’ Horton,” Anse snarled. Under the circumstances, he saw no point in maintaining military protocol. “All there is, is legal authority under the laws of the New United States. Which I have, and you don’t. Ms. Murphy would have showed you the documents.”

  “Fuck her, too!” came the answering shout. “Some bullshit papers, supposedly from Stearns. For all I know, you forged them. Means nothing!”

  Horton stepped forward, pushing past von Dantz. He had his rifle in his left hand, and was pointing his finger angrily at Anse.

  “I’m warning you, Hatfield! We’re here to arrest a traitor. Dead or alive, it don’t matter to me at all. You’ve got ten seconds to get out of the way or-”

  A shot was fired, by one of the garrison mercenaries. Anse never saw where it went. He didn’t think it was even aimed at anything. Just someone too nervous, in a situation that was too tense.

  Immediately, a fusillade of shots rang out from the shuttered gun-maker shops. Four of the garrison soldiers fell, and several others were sent reeling.

  Horton started to bring his rifle up to his shoulder. A bullet caught him in the ribs. He half-spun, dropping the rifle. His face turned toward Anse.

  “Hey, what-” he started to say. Another bullet struck him in the jaw. There wasn’t much left of his face, by the time it fell into a snowdrift.

  But Anse wasn’t paying attention to Horton, any longer. Von Dantz raised his pistol and fired at him. Astonishingly, the down-time weapon was accurate enough for the bullet to knock Anse’s cap right off his head. Anse was sure he’d-literally-felt the bullet parting his hair.

  That was frightening. Anse sprawled into the snow, hurriedly bringing up his rifle for a prone shot. Once he got von Dantz in the sights, he saw that the German captain had drawn out another pistol.

  Von Dantz fired again. The bullet grazed the back of Anse’s boot, and tore off the heel.

  Jesus! Given the kind of guns he was using, von Dantz was turning out to be a goddam John Wesley Harding.

  Then again, Harding got killed. With a modern rifle, at a range of less than fifty yards, Anse couldn’t possibly miss.

  He fired.

  He missed.

  A garrison soldier standing just behind von Dantz stumbled backward, flinging aside his musket. He’d been struck in the shoulder by Anse’s shot.

  Von Dantz was pulling out another pistol. If he’d been using a revolver instead of wheel-locks, Anse would have been dead already.

  Settle down, you idiot!

  He jacked another round into the chamber, and forced himself to draw a real bead instead of just jerking the trigger.

  Von Dantz was bringing up the pistol. Anse fired.

  This time, the bullet hit von Dantz squarely, right in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  By now, the gunfire in the street was almost deafening. The garrison soldiers were grouped in the center, shooting back at the shops from whose windows they were being fired upon.

  Anse glanced back at the still-open door to Blumroder’s shop. He decided he’d be safer lying prone in several inches of snow than trying to crawl back into the shop. The mercenaries were p
aying no attention to him, since he wasn’t moving and they were taking a murderous fire from the shops.

  As inconspicuously as he could, he jacked another round into the chamber.

  There was no lack of targets for him, of course. On the other hand . . .

  Right now, the enemy was ignoring him. Most of them probably thought he was dead. If he fired, on the other hand, they would notice him-and lying in the open, right out on the street, he was a sitting duck. More precisely, a prone duck.

  He didn’t think they were going to last much longer, anyway. Somewhere around a dozen of them had already been killed or wounded. Von Dantz and Horton had been idiots, leading their men straight into the street the way they had. The gunmakers and their apprentices and Jaeger were shooting from behind shelter-good shelter, too; the thick, sturdy walls of seventeenth-century German manufacturing shops-and they had an open field of fire. As battles went, it was completely one-sided.

  So . . .

  True, it was inglorious. Even ignominious. On the other hand, youth and its excess of testosterone were several decades behind him.

  Anse laid his head down, and played dead. The situation wasn’t critical and he wasn’t Alvin York, anyway-as he’d just proved, by missing his first shot at von Dantz at point blank range.

  Besides, he consoled himself, he’d read once that after the battle of New Orleans was over, several hundred “dead” British soldiers had risen from Chalmette Field. Most of them completely uninjured. Veteran soldiers all-elite soldiers, even-they’d quickly realized that their commanders had led them into a bloodbath that they didn’t have a chance of winning.

  He was pretty sure the same thing had happened on just about every battlefield in history, at least since the invention of gunpowder.

  Tradition, as it were. Inglorious as it might be.

  He still felt like a damned fool.

  * * *

  Fortunately, it was all over within thirty seconds. The garrison soldiers broke, and began running away. Not slowing down any, either, as they neared the safety of the next street over. The gunmakers of Suhl were in a fine fury, and kept firing on them the whole way.