Grantville Gazette, Volume VIII Read online

  "Oh, Momma, Daddy . . ." She sniffled, kissing both of her parents. "It's beautiful."

  Hugo took the locket and fastened it around her neck. He kissed her lightly on the nape and whispered into her ear. "I have a surprise for you, as well."

  He picked up a small decorative bag, the kind used before the Ring of Fire for last minute gifts. This one was well used and worn. "Happy birthday, my love."

  She dug into the tissue paper and produced a silken scarf in emerald green. "It's lovely," she said taking it by the ends to tie it around her neck. Hugo took it from her instead and tied it over her eyes.

  "There is more, mein Engel," he said when he was done blindfolding her. "This way."

  * * *

  Allie strained her ears in a vain attempt to tell what Hugo was up to. He had something planned—something big. It was about ten o'clock at night and the rest of the family followed closely, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. When Hugo stopped her in the middle of the yard, her parents cooed in delight over some unseen wonder.

  When he removed the blindfold, she saw the wonder itself. He had made a telescope.

  "Surprise, sweetie," her father sang out. "We've been working on it for months. Hugo wanted to keep it a secret, for your birthday."

  She circled the instrument, regarding it with unbridled curiosity. It sat on a three-legged mount about three feet high. The body was a large octagonal wooden box about five feet long and was attached near the middle by a t-shaped pivot on top of the stand. One side of the "t" held the instrument; the other held a counterweight. At the top end, there was an eyepiece and another little tiny telescope that looked like a rifle scope. It was a striking medley of future and contemporary technology. She thought it was quite beautiful.

  "Here, let me show you." Hugo gestured to the scope. "It is a fifteen-inch spherical reflector. The focal length is two-hundred inches, but I've put an aperture stop at fifty inches to reduce the spherical aberration."

  Allie had no idea what all that meant but she smiled and nodded.

  He continued, "I meant to regrind the mirror to a parabola, but I didn't have time. I wanted to show it to you on your birthday. When I get time, I will finish it."

  He stepped up to the telescope and peered through the spotter scope. He made a few adjustments and peered into the eyepiece of the main scope briefly before stepping aside for Allie. "That's Jupiter. See, those three dots are Europa, Ganymede and Io."

  It was chilly outside, even in the spring. Allie shivered and Hugo threw his cloak over her and snuggled her close. They took turns peering into the eyepiece, Hugo explaining the significance of thing they looked at. He told her stories of the stars and named them in Arabic. They stayed until the wee hours, long after her parents retreated to the house, and made love for the first time under a sky full of blazing stars.

  It didn't occur to her to feel guilty. She didn't feel she'd done anything wrong. She felt God would understand that two lonely desperate souls needed each other.

  * * *

  Hugo collapsed suddenly five days later, while walking home after having morning shot. He passed into a coma on May 27, 1634, Gregorian and died seven days later, on a Saturday. He had been taking Duncan Cunningham's insulin preparation for nine months. The intensive therapy, which had originally been so successful in his case, failed and his condition suddenly worsened for no reason Doctor Adams could figure out. But regardless of the cause, the smell of ketones on his breath told Jeff that he was losing his battle for life.

  Doctor Adams could do nothing and felt the helplessness that haunted the families of his patients when all had gone wrong. The autopsy proved nothing conclusively but he was pretty sure that the cause of death was ketoacidosis. Why Hugo quit responding to the insulin, he would never know.

  There was a small funeral service, attended only by the Haggertys and Doctor Adam's medical staff. They respected Allie's wishes. Hugo was buried next to her ancestors in the Haggerty family plot. His headstone was granite, simple, bearing only his name, the dates, and a simple epitaph—Too Late for Sunday—in German and English.

  July, 1635

  Allie walked briskly along the sidewalk, passing storefront after storefront, ignoring them all until she reached the clinic. She stopped and checked her scrubs, patting down her seams and flicking away a piece of unwanted gray lint. She liked the pink and white candy stripers that were the virtual livery, to choose a down-time word, of nurse interns.

  She was already half way through nursing school. She had sent a letter to Mrs. Cunningham of Three M Labs explaining that she wanted to carry on Duncan's work. And she'd gotten a reply. They'd offered her a job, contingent on her finishing school—something she had every intention of doing.

  She sighed deeply and looked up at the facade of the Ancel van Trumpe Diabetes Clinic, then entered the foyer and passed the row of memorial plaques to the patients who had died. The first was of Hugo. It was a good likeness of him, smiling as always. She stroked the locket with his portrait. She still wore it and had promised herself she always would. A tear rolled down her cheek as she reached the plaque dedicated to Doctor van Trumpe's son, who'd died of diabetes also. It was an excerpt from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Ulysses, Allie's favorite book. It had become the de facto motto of the clinic:

  Come, my friends,

  'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

  Push off, and sitting well in order smite

  The sounding furrows;

  For my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

  Of the all the western stars, until I die.

  Allie swallowed the tears and squared her shoulders. Then she stepped into the noisy room full of patients and crossed over the threshold of adulthood, into a newer world.

  Dark as a Dungeon

  Written by John Zeek

  Henry Johnson was happy to see the three horses the family owned in the field. That meant that Anse and Hagen were back from the medical center. Maybe, just maybe the waiting was over. Henry pointed the horses out to Wendel Schultz and Suse Eckhard who were seated across the tram's aisle. "When we get to the house, I want some time to talk with your Uncle Anse and Hagen before you start asking for stories about the war. If you'll leave us alone for a bit, I promise not to interrupt when Hagen gets to the good parts. Deal?"

  Suse looked a little hurt, Henry knew she had a bit of a crush on Hagen, and she tried to monopolize his time.

  "No more than an hour, Suse. You and the boys will have Hagen all evening. Wendel grab your brother." His brother, Gerd, as usual, was seated directly behind the tram driver.

  Henry was glad to see Hagen sitting alone on the porch steps when he walked up the driveway. Better to find out what had happened before he had to face Anse.

  "Hi, Hagen." Henry sat on the steps beside Hagen. "How was the trip to the medical center?"

  Hagen smiled. "I passed. My leg is completely healed. When my leave is over in two weeks, I can return to the TacRail Battalion . . . no, I mean the TacRail Regiment. The word came in the mail this morning. We're a regiment now. "

  "And Anse? What did the doctor have to say about him?"

  Hagen's smile disappeared. "Not so good, Herr Johnson. The doctors will not clear him to return to service. In fact, they were talking about a medical discharge."

  "Damn," Henry muttered under his breath. "Was it the eye chart again?" Anse was blind in his left eye from splinters.

  "No. The chief has a waiver for the eye chart. It was the bucket of sand." Seeing Henry's questioning look, Hagen continued. "You have to be able to pick up a fifty pound bucket of sand. You have to do it twice, once with each hand. Herr Hatfield can't do it. The wound in his arm tore out too much muscle. His hand won't close completely, either."

  Henry knew Anse was going to have problems with a nasty wound in his bicep and most of three fingers gone from his left hand. But this was worse than he had expected. "How's he taking it?"

  "Not good Herr Johnson.
Not good at all. The worst part was the ride home. The chief was not able to hold the reins in his left hand, and I had to drive the wagon."

  Yes, Henry thought, that had to be bad. Anse never likes anyone to do things for him. "Where is he? I need to talk with him."

  "He is in the living room. He just sits and looks at the television. It is not on; there is no program. He just sits and stares at the blank screen. I am worried about him. I have never seen the chief like this."

  "I'm worried too, Hagen. But it is up to us, his friends, to pull him through this. He is a strong man inside; it'll work out." Henry stood and started toward the front door. "Hagen, I want a bit of uninterrupted time with Anse. Why don't you entertain Suse and the boys? Keep them outside for a while."

  * * *

  Henry wondered why he was thinking of gladiators and lions. As Hagen had said, Anse was sprawled on the sofa looking at nothing. He looked terrible. He was wearing his oldest coveralls; almost worn out at the knees. There was even a small rip in the leg. It was very obvious that he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. He had wrapped a bandana around his head to hide his ruined eye. It looked more like he was pretending to be a hip hop gangster than anything else. Henry walked over and sat in the easy chair. There was a long enough period of silence for him to start to fidget.

  "Hello, Anse," Henry said.

  Silence.

  "I said 'hello, Anse.' The normal response is 'Hi, Henry. How was your day'?"

  Anse looked around. "Sorry, Hank. I didn't hear you come in. How was your day?"

  Anse sounded like a puppet just going through the motions. "My day was fine. How was yours?"

  Silence was his answer. "Come on, Anse. Talk to me. I know you went to the medical center. I talked to Hagen so I even know what they told you. So talk to me."

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "I wouldn't understand?" Henry banged his cane on the floor. "I've walked with this stick since 1968, and I wouldn't understand. Wake up, Anse. This is me you're talking to."

  Anse looked up. "Sorry, Hank. I guess you would understand part of it. But you always worked with your head, being a school teacher and all. I've always worked with my hands." He held out his ruined left hand. "Now look at me. What good am I now?"

  "So are you going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself or are you going to do something about it? Hagen told me about the bucket of sand. Do you want to get out that old set of weights in the basement and start some physical therapy? Give it a couple of months and we can build up the strength in your arm." Henry could see Anse was struggling not to lose his temper. Good. Maybe a good mad is what he needs.

  "I don't have time to do any physical therapy. They're throwing me out of the Army."

  "I doubt that. Maybe you won't be a field man any more, but surely Colonel Beth will need you to train engine drivers. You're a good trainer. You trained all the drivers in TacRail, and you helped train all the brakemen. Shoot, you even trained the loaders and loadmasters. That new transportation school in Magdeburg sounds like the perfect slot for you."

  "I don't want to be a trainer any more, Hank. I trained Hagen and the three other boys from TacRail who were wounded at Ahrensbök. But I was there with them. I don't want to send boys that I trained out to get killed or wounded when I can't go myself.. It would tear me up if they got hurt."

  Henry understood. He had sent men into combat, those many years ago. He tried reason. "Anse, you're fifty-four years old. You had to expect this was coming. You can't go running around playing Alvin York forever."

  "Charlie Swartz is still in TacRail and he's almost seventy. I was hoping to last a few more years."

  "Charlie Swartz works behind a desk. Do you want a desk job?"

  "No desk job."

  Henry was getting angry with Anse's stubbornness. "Okay. What if you are forced out of the Army? It's not like you're going to starve. You'll always have a roof and a plate here, and how many companies have you invested in besides Pat's gun factory . . . six or seven? You'll have a good income to retire on."

  Anse gave Henry a pitiful look. "That money is for my old age. And I want to leave something to Wili's kids and Suse."

  "So you want to keep working. I can understand that. All right, let's look at the possibilities. With all the new industry starting up there are a score of places for a man like you. You have proved you can supervise and lead men."

  "It's not the same and you know it. I don't want some charity job. And that's what they'd be. 'Oh, look at the poor wounded soldier.' Bah. I might as well get a lawn mower and go back into the lawn care business. That, at least, is honest work."

  Henry tried a joke. "I don't think that would work, Anse. Most people have goats or sheep to do their lawn mowing."

  Anse gave him a look that would freeze water. "You're not helping, Hank. Besides, that was just an example. I want real honest work."

  "Okay. You want real work; you could always go to Suhl. Ruben Blumroder offered you a job running his gun shop. Since he was elected to the state legislature he needs someone full time. Or, Pat needs an assistant in his factory. It would be a bit like your old job as a foreman for Ford. Shoot, Gary Reardon offered you the same job in his bolt factory. There are three jobs in Suhl alone, and they aren't charity jobs. You know, I think the change of scenery might do you good."

  Anse slouched lower on the sofa. "I'll think about it."

  Henry had to work to keep his temper under control. "Anse, at least clean yourself up. You can't mope around the house all day every day. You are starting to worry me and I know you're worrying Dora. Besides, it sets a bad example for the kids. You know how Gerd worships the ground you walk on."

  Anse was still staring off into space. "There's another thing. When Wili joined TacRail, I promised Dora I'd take care of him; now look at me. If anything were to happen to him . . ."

  "Dora would understand. She knows you and Wili are closer than brothers. Shoot, Anse, she treats you like the brother she never had. So how about cleaning up a little for her? You've even got Hagen worrying. We're all family here, including Hagen, so for your family pull yourself together."

  "Hank, I know you're trying to help, but leave me alone. I have to work this out for myself." Anse got up and walked into his room.

  * * *

  Dora Schultz looked up when the door slammed open and Henry stormed into the kitchen. She had never seen him this angry with anyone, much less Anse.

  "I'm getting tried of this shit," Henry muttered. "He can't spend the rest of his life just loafing around feeling sorry for himself." Then he looked around and saw Dora. "Sorry, Dora. But Anse got to me."

  "Ja, Henry. He is getting to me too. He insists on wearing that ugly bandana and refuses to wear the eye patch I made for him. He wears the same two sets of coveralls; they are the oldest he has. I must have washed them twenty times since he came home. He has stopped shaving. And worst of all, he doesn't do anything. Before he was always busy. What are we going to do? This is not good for him."

  "I'm calling out the big gun." Henry waved away any question Dora might have asked and went to the telephone.

  Dora had no idea who he was calling, and the one-sided conversation she heard gave her no clue. Henry described Anse's condition and actions. Then he finished with, "Yes, he's here now. He is just staring at the wall in his room. Would you? Thank you, I'm sure it will help."

  When Henry hung up the phone, Dora started to ask but he held up his hand. "Don't ask. If this goes wrong Anse can only blame me; you had nothing to do with it." With that cryptic comment Henry walked off, heading for his shop in the basement. Dora's questions were answered forty-five minutes later when the door bell rang.

  * * *

  Dora had never had any dealings with Captain Leonore von Wilke, but knew who she was. The captain commanded the communications people in the TacRail Regiment. She had also been the main subject in many of the gossip sessions at the Twirl and Curl Beauty Salon. The Twirl and Curl was like the villag
e well in her Dora's old home. It was better than Cora's Café for gossip.

  Leonore was, if the stories were true, a nobleman's daughter, a former camp follower, a thief and looter, a former madam in a bawdy house and finally a CoC organizer before joining TacRail. Dora wasn't sure if she quite approved of Leonore, and had worried when Anse had acted as her escort to a number of dances in town.

  To add to her disapproval, Leonore was not dressed properly for visiting. Dora could have understood if the captain were wearing a uniform; pants were part of the female TacRail uniform after all. But Leonore was wearing what looked like a locally-made copy of an up-time pants suit. A copy made from what looked like green velvet. Her trousers were tucked into high black leather boots. The handle of what had to be a dagger protruded from the right boot. She was also wearing a rather large revolver. Dora had definite ideas about women carrying a pistol; it should be hidden. She always carried her own revolver in her pocket. But she would be polite. "'Allo, Captain von Wilke. May I help you?"

  "Good afternoon, Frau Schultz. I am here to see Herr Hatfield. Is he in?"

  Dora nodded. "In his room. I will get him."

  "Don't trouble yourself. If you will just point the way, I want to surprise him."

  Dora pointed across the living room to the door of the home office Anse had converted into a bedroom. "He is in there."

  "Danke, Frau Schultz."

  Leonore walked to the door, twisted the doorknob and kicked it open. "Andersen Hatfield, your manners are terrible. You're supposed to stand when a lady walks into the room. And you're supposed to call your friends when you get into town."

  Then she slammed the door.

  For the next twenty minutes Dora could hear Leonore telling Anse his bad points. She started with his uniform and worked her way from there. She included his manners and his attitude. Then she started on the way he was dealing with his wounds. She never descended into profanity and never repeated herself. Her voice never became shrill but was loud enough that the whole house heard.