1636: The Ottoman Onslaught Read online

  (Well, on the heavy side, anyway. Bonnie didn’t think she was as good-looking as Ursula, but she didn’t care much because one Johann Heinrich Böcler didn’t seem to.)

  “How about you?” she asked. “You could be a bombardier, if you wanted to.”

  For a moment, Ursula got a look on her face that was almost longing. For whatever reason—perhaps because she’d been rescued by an airship—Ursula adored flying. She went up in one of the airships any chance she got and whenever an airplane passed overhead she wouldn’t stop looking at it until it was out of sight.

  She shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t be right. If I were up in the air all the time I couldn’t conduct my missionary work properly.”

  Bonnie tightened her lips in order to keep herself from saying something impolitic. Like, oh… Who the hell ever heard of an Episcopalian missionary?

  But, sure enough, Ursula Gerisch was one—and surprisingly effective at it. In the short time since she’d returned from Grantville she’d already made seven or eight converts.

  What was it about down-time Germans that made them so receptive to new up-time creeds? Bonnie had heard that the Mormons were growing by leaps and bounds over in Franconia, especially in and around Bamberg. Apparently, up-time Episcopalians were different enough from down-time Anglicans that nobody—at least, no Germans—thought of them as an English church.

  Bonnie herself was a Baptist, formally speaking. But although she considered herself a Christian she was not deeply committed to any particular denomination or creed. If things continued to unfold well between her and Johann—familiarly known as “Heinz”—she’d probably eventually become a Lutheran. Just to keep peace in the family, so to speak. His father was a Lutheran pastor, and while Heinz himself shared Bonnie’s indifference to theology, he had a strong attachment to respectability. Bonnie sometimes found that trait annoying, but most of the time she didn’t. There had been aspects of West Virginia hillbilly culture that she’d never cared for at all, starting with the carousing and not-infrequent brawls at the bar located on US Route 250, not all that far from the house where she’d grown up.

  She giggled, for a moment.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Ursula.

  “Oh… I just had a flash image of Heinz in the middle of a tavern brawl.”

  Ursula’s laugh was an outright caw. “Not likely!” Smiling, she shook her head. “He is a nice man, Heinz is. Even if he won’t listen to me about the true church.”

  * * *

  At that very moment, elsewhere in Regensburg, the nice man in question was feeling quite exasperated—and several times over.

  First, he was exasperated because the wainwright he was negotiating with to supply the Third Division with wagons was being pointlessly stubborn. Böcler was operating within the tight budget constraints given to him by the Third Division’s quartermaster, Major David Bartley. The offer he was making to Herr Fuhrmann was a take-it-or-leave-it proposition and the man knew it perfectly well.

  Second, he was exasperated because once again he’d had to fend off Ursula Gerisch’s continuing effort to convert him to her newly-adopted Episcopal church. There was no chance at all that Heinz would abandon the Lutheran faith he’d been brought up in. Not because he was so devoted to that creed as a matter of theological conviction, but simply because it would cause undue and unneeded stress upon his relations with his family.

  Which—point of exasperation Number Three—were already under some stress because somehow his father had discovered that he had formed an attachment of sorts with Bonnie Weaver and said father, being a conscientious pastor, was making a blasted nuisance of himself by peppering his son with letters inquiring as to the young woman’s character, faith, demeanor, parentage, education, financial prospects—you name the issue and Pastor Böcler was sure to include it in his queries.

  As if he wasn’t busy enough already!

  Which—fourth—brought him to the major, never-ending and ongoing source of his exasperation, which was the simplest of them all.

  He didn’t make enough money. Not to support a wife and family, at any rate. He knew from various remarks she’d made that Bonnie herself wasn’t particularly concerned about the matter. She had the common—quite startling—American attitude on the issue, which Heinz thought was a perfect illustration of Aesop’s fable about the ant and the grasshopper.

  The up-timers didn’t even have the excuse of not being familiar with the fable. They knew Aesop’s fables quite well, as a matter of fact. Yet they would approvingly refer to the fable in one breath and in the very next make it clear that they considered the grasshopper to be the model for their own conduct.

  The one time he’d tried to address the issue directly with Bonnie, her insouciant answer had been “the Lord will provide.”

  Baptists, they called themselves. Amazingly, it was quite a prominent creed among the Americans.

  How had they managed to survive?

  “Never mind,” he finally told Herr Fuhrmann, having come to the end of his patience. “The wheelwright, Herr Becker, is willing to accept the terms I offered. I’m sure he won’t object to the extra business of having to do a lot of wagon repair because you won’t provide me with sufficient new ones.”

  And off he went, ignoring the protests coming from behind him.

  * * *

  Watching the scene through the window in a tavern across the street, David Bartley came to his decision. He’d been pondering it for days, much longer than he would have weighed a decision involving the stock market.

  In the end, that disparity was the decisive factor for him. David simply couldn’t transfer the dispassionate, even cold-blooded way he worked the stock market over to his commercial dealings with people in the flesh. He didn’t think Johann Heinrich Böcler was particularly cold-blooded either, but what the young man exemplified was the best sort of German junior official. He was hard-working and conscientious almost to a fault. Best of all—David had never had any use for so-called “hard sell” artists—while Böcler would take “no” for an answer he’d keep looking until he found someone who’d say “yes.” People didn’t discourage him the way they could so often discourage Bartley himself.

  In short, the perfect right-hand man for him. David could hire Heinz as his own employee and call him a sub-contractor for the army. No one would squawk since his salary wasn’t coming out of the military’s budget but David’s own pocket.

  Which was now deep, deep, deep. David took a great deal of pride in the uniform he wore and the contribution he was making to the war effort. The actual salary he got as a major he contributed to the soldiers’ widows and orphans fund, since he hardly needed it himself. He’d already made a fortune in the stock market and expected to continue doing so indefinitely.

  And after the war… If Heinz worked out as his quartermaster’s assistant, he’d surely have a place for him in one or another of his civilian enterprises.

  David finished his beer, paid for it, and left the tavern. By the time he got out on the street, Böcler was no longer in sight, but David wasn’t concerned. He started walking in the direction Böcler had been going when last he saw him, listening for the sound of an earnest voice engaged in bargaining.

  He’d find him soon enough. If Johann Heinrich’s parents had been Puritans instead of Lutherans, they have named him something like Reliable in the Eyes of the Lord Böcler. Or Prudence or Patience, if he’d been a girl.

  * * *

  Late that day, Bonnie Weaver dropped by Rita and Tom’s apartment.

  “Have you seen Heinz?” she asked. “I’ve been looking for him all afternoon.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, she pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. There was just enough room for her because Tom had left a couple of hours ago to deal with an issue involving the artillery train. He and his men would be marching out of Regensburg themselves the next day to join the campaign against the Bavarians.

  Rita occupied her usu
al seat by the window—the very tiny window with a very distorted glass pane, which didn’t do much except let in some sunlight and not much of that—and Julie was sitting across from her trying to keep Alexi from fidgeting, as thankless a task as it ever was with energetic three-year-olds.

  Bonnie immediately relieved her of that burden. “Here, let her play with this,” she said. She dug into her purse and came out with a top in her hand. The toy was made of wood and was larger than most up-time versions would have been. But the biggest difference was the carving—it almost looked like a work of art.

  Alexi’s attention was immediately riveted and her hands stretched out as if driven by instinct. She already knew how to use a top so no instruction was necessary. Five seconds later she was happily contemplating the joys and delights of the laws of motion.

  “Bless you, Bonnie,” said Julie. “I was at the point where I was either going to have to take her home or—or—”

  “Don’t say it! Strangulation is really not an option, as tempting as it might sometimes be.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” Rita asked. “I can make some.”

  Bonnie gave her a look full of doubt and suspicion. “Are we talking actual coffee?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Didn’t think so. No, thanks.” She turned toward Julie. “I’m curious, though—you’ve been living in Grantville ever since you got back from Scotland, Julie. What’s the coffee situation back home, these days?”

  “Sucky. You can get it, usually, but it’s always expensive as hell and the quality’s pretty unpredictable.”

  “Where’s it coming from? Turkey?”

  “Most of it’s brought in by Italian merchants. I think they buy it from somewhere in the Ottoman Empire, but someone told me most of the coffee is actually grown further south. Yemen and I think Ethiopia, too.” Julie’s expression darkened. “God knows what it gets cut with along the way, though. I’ve had some so-called ‘coffee’ that I don’t want to think where it actually came from or what was really in it.”

  “How long are you planning to stay here in Regensburg?”

  Julie shrugged. “As long as Alex is campaigning in Bavaria, I figure. He’ll be close enough I might get to see him from time to time. When he was off in Poland it was hopeless so I just stayed home. In Grantville, I’ve got ready-made babysitters of the best persuasion.”

  Rita and Bonnie both grinned. “Grandparents,” said Rita. “And—lucky you—one of them’s a dentist so you don’t have to worry about that either.”

  “The best medical care’s still in Grantville, too,” Julie said. “Even with Dr. Nichols living up in Magdeburg now. For a woman with a child in the Year 1636 in our plague-and-typhoid-fever-not-to-mention-diphtheria-infested brave new world, that’s a load off.”

  “Regensburg’s not too bad that way,” Bonnie said, a bit defensively.

  Rita nodded. “It’s pretty good, actually. The sanitation practices are up to Magdeburg standards, anyway. A lot of that’s the army’s influence.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s part of the reason I decided to move down here.”

  Bonnie cocked her head slightly. “Did you bring your rifle?”

  “Yeah, sure. I don’t go much of anywhere without it. But I doubt very much if it’ll ever come out of the case unless I go hunting.”

  The sounds of someone entering the apartment filtered into the kitchen.

  “We’re back here!” Rita half-shouted.

  Böcler came into the room.

  “There you are!” said Bonnie. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Heinz had a peculiar expression on his face. “I was meeting with David Bartley. For a while. Then I decided it would be most appropriate to do this the up-time way—I asked David how it was done—and I’ve spent the past two hours negotiating with Herr Sommer.”

  “The jeweler?” asked Bonnie, frowning. “Why does the army need a jeweler?”

  Heinz shook his head. “Not the army. Me.” He took a slow, deep breath. “I have a new employer. Herr Bartley. The offer came with a large—very large—increase in remuneration. So…”

  He looked around, leaned over, and gently nudged Alexi to the side. The girl was so intent on her spinning top that she didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Herr Bartley tells me one knee is correct. If he is not right, blame him, not me—but not to his face. I do not want to lose the job.”

  He got down on one knee, reached into a pocket of his coat, and drew out an ornate little wooden box. Then, got a look of consternation on his face.

  “I forgot to ask. I am not certain which one of us is supposed to open it.”

  He offered the box to Bonnie.

  She stared at it. “Holy shit.” Then, smiled very widely. “If that’s what I think it is, Heinz, the answer’s yes.”

  “And boy are you in a world of hurt, if it’s not,” said Rita, smiling widely herself.

  When Bonnie opened the box, her smile widened still further. It threatened to split her face, in fact.

  “I recommend leaving the ‘holy shit’ part out of your report to your dad, though,” cautioned Rita. “I don’t think that’s technically blasphemy, but still…”

  Chapter 5

  Dresden, capital of Saxony

  The look that Gretchen Richter was giving Eddie Junker fell short of friendly. Way short.

  “The first and only time I flew in an airplane, you crashed the plane. I barely got out alive.”

  In point of fact, she’d been completely unharmed. The plane had landed on soil that was too wet and soft, causing it to upend. But there had been no great speed involved and when things settled down Gretchen and Eddie had simply found themselves suspended upside down in their safety harnesses.

  Still, it had been… startling, to say the least.

  Eddie scowled. “That wasn’t my fault.” Since his girlfriend wasn’t there to take umbrage, he added: “Denise told me the airfield was suitable. Ha! If you have a quarrel, take it up with her. Besides, it’s irrelevant.”

  He rose, went over to the open window and pointed to the southwest. “The new airfield is farther from the river and elevated a bit. Much better constructed, too, even if it hasn’t been macadamized yet.”

  Gretchen didn’t bother to get up and look herself. She knew there’d be nothing to see even if she did. The large chamber in the Residenzschloss—also called Dresden Castle—that she’d established as her headquarters had a nice view of the city and the countryside. But the castle was close to the Elbe, not to the city’s walls. From that distance, the most she’d see on a very clear day was the elevated hut that passed for a “control tower”—which controlled nothing; ridiculous name—and possibly the outlines of the landing strip. But if the sky was overcast, as it was today, the airstrip would be indistinguishable from the surrounding farmlands.

  “There won’t be any problem taking off, unless it rained very recently. And there will be no problem at all landing at Magdeburg because that field is in excellent condition. A macadamized airstrip—and radio capability, so they can warn us ahead of time if there is any problem with the weather.”

  “And if there is?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Then we fly back here. Or land somewhere the weather is clear. For Pete’s sake, Gretchen, Magdeburg is only one hundred and twenty miles from here as the crow flies—and we fly the way crows do. In a straight line. We can be there in an hour. No weather patterns change that quickly.”

  Gretchen was distracted for a moment by Eddie’s use of the expression “for Pete’s sake.” The American euphemism had become widely adopted because it allowed the speaker to skirt blasphemy.

  But only skirt it. A number of theologians claimed that the expression was still inappropriate since the “Pete” in question was clearly a reference to St. Peter. Whether taking the name of a saint in vain qualified as “blasphemy” could be disputed, of course, and there were other theologians who dismissed the argument on the groun
ds that “Pete’s sake” was clearly a reference to “pity’s sake” and therefore…

  The distraction lightened her mood. She even smiled, being reminded of her husband. Jeff was known, when a theologian or cleric annoyed him, to refer to the present time as the miserable seventeenth be-damned century and if the preachers don’t like it they can kiss my rosy up-time ass.

  Despite being what people called a lapsed Catholic, Gretchen had quite a bit more in the way of religious faith than her husband did. But she didn’t disagree with him very often on the subject of priests and parsons and their defects.

  There was no point in her pining for her husband, however. He was off in Bavaria, leading one of the regiments in the Third Division. She had no idea when she’d see him again—leaving aside the possibility that it might be never, since he could get killed in the fighting. So, she forced her mind back to the issue at hand.

  And then… forced herself to agree. She had a real dread of flying again, but the issue at stake was too important for her to be guided by fear.

  Besides, it was the first time in her life that Gretchen had ever been summoned to an audience with an emperor. Somewhere underneath the hard revolutionary shell she’d constructed around her soul there was still a provincial printer’s daughter. She could remember the excitement in her town in the Oberpfalz—she’d been nine years old at the time—when Archduchess Maria Christina passed through once.

  Despite herself, she felt traces of that same excitement now—and cursed herself for it, of course.

  But all that was irrelevant. For her to refuse to answer Gustav Adolf’s summons—especially since it had been worded quite politely—would be a serious political mistake. And it would be almost as bad a mistake to delay her response by refusing to accept Francisco Nasi’s offer to provide her with his private airplane to make the trip. If she insisted on traveling overland the journey would take days—maybe even a week or more, depending on the state of the roads.