“Some girls staring into the waves have fallen in.” The deep voice tore her out of her musings. She turned to see the Augsburg merchant Oswald Hainmiller, who was gnawing on a goose wing and offered her a second piece. Fat dripped from his lips, soiling his trimmed Vandyke beard and white pleated collar. The fat merchant was going on forty and wore a silver buckle and a wide belt that strained against his paunch. The red rooster feather on his hat fluttered in the breeze. Magdalena thought it over for a moment, then reached for the goose wing and took a healthy bite. Except for a few spoonfuls of oatmeal, she hadn’t eaten anything all morning.
“Thanks very much!” she said with a full mouth before directing her gaze back to the turns in the river ahead.
Hainmiller grinned. “How long are you staying in our beautiful city?” he asked, wiping grease from his cheek with his lace-trimmed sleeves. “Will you have to go right back to your shabby little town?”
Hainmiller spoke in the broad Augsburg dialect that Schongauers hated so much because it reminded them of the free imperial city’s snobbishness. Magdalena had booked passage that morning from the merchant. Oswald Hainmiller was bringing wine, oil, tin, spices, and a large cargo of lime with him, and Magdalena’s presence was a welcome opportunity for him to while away the time and to boast a bit until they arrived in Augsburg that evening.
Magdalena sighed. The fat merchant had been trying to strike up a conversation with her ever since they left Schongau. It didn’t look as if he would ever give up. Even when Magdalena told him she was the daughter of the Schongau hangman, he kept hitting on her. In fact, that seemed to excite him only more. Magdalena resigned herself to her fate and smiled back.
“I’ll be able to stay only a day,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll be heading back.”
“One day!” the merchant cried, gesturing heavenward as a sign of despair. “How will you be able to appreciate the beauty of this city in just one day? The new town hall, the bishop’s palace, all the fountains! I have heard about Schongauers who were so overwhelmed when they first arrived they had to sit down—the sight was just too much for them.”
The sight of you is too much for me, Magdalena thought, trying to concentrate on the whitecaps in front of her. This fat braggart was already spoiling her visit to Augsburg with all this talk. She was truly looking forward to seeing the city, which had been one of the greatest and most beautiful in Germany before the war.
“Do you know yet where you are going to sleep?” The merchant’s face took on a ferret-like appearance.
“I…My father gave me the name of a good inn by the river,” she said, and could feel her blood beginning to boil. “Food and lodging for only four kreuzers per night.”
“But in return, you’ll have to share your bed with a whole army of fleas and bedbugs.” Oswald Hainmiller stepped very close to her now and was petting her skirt. She could see goose fat forming droplets in his beard. “At my house there is a four-poster with white linen, and you’d have to share that only with me. Perhaps I’d even pay you four kreuzers for the night,” he whispered in her ear, moving so close now that she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Cut it out!” Magdalena snapped, pushing him away. “I may be just the hangman’s daughter, but I’m not available.”
The merchant didn’t back off. “I know you girls,” he slobbered. “First you resist, but then you’re all the more willing.”
The wine, combined with the sight of Magdalena, had clearly made Hainmiller more and more lecherous during the last hours of the trip. “Don’t make such a fuss,” he said, grabbing her bodice.
Magdalena pushed his hand away, disgusted. “Wash your mouth out before you say another word,” she replied. “You stink like a dead rat.”
She struggled to free herself from his grip and ran to the middle of the raft, where two Schongau raftsmen were guiding the vessel with long poles. She knew them by sight from Semer’s tavern. They looked over at her hesitantly but didn’t intervene. Magdalena cursed. She was probably nothing more in these men’s eyes than the hangman’s tramp getting her just deserts.
For Oswald Hainmiller, the whole thing became more and more of a game. He ran after her, grinning, while she fled past the raftsmen toward the back of the raft. She clambered over crates and packages, past millstones and sacks of marble and salt. Finally, she reached the back of the raft, but the merchant was still close behind her.
“Very good,” Hainmiller purred, tugging at her bodice. “Here, at least we won’t be disturbed.”
Magdalena looked around. To her left, she spotted a large wooden cart full of quicklime, shrouded with a makeshift linen cover. Thinking quickly, she removed the waxed tarp, hoisted herself up, and skipped along the edge of the cart, smiling and swaying her hips suggestively.
“Come on!” she called to the merchant, who by now was out of breath. “If you want me, you’ve got to come up here and get me.”
Oswald Hainmiller hesitated a moment, then pulled his fat body up onto the side of the cart and edged his way toward her. “In just a second…just a second…I’ll have you,” he groaned.
When he’d gotten just an arm’s length away, Magdalena suddenly gave him a shove, and he waved his hands wildly in the air trying to catch his balance.
“You damn slut!” he roared before falling headfirst into the cart.
A cloud of white dust covered him, and before long, he started to scream. The quicklime was in his eyes, in his mouth, and in every little open cut. Writhing, he coughed and finally pulled himself out of the cart. His coat and the jacket underneath were covered with white spots that started eating away at the cloth wherever there was any moisture. Magdalena jumped down from the cart and grinned. At the very least, Oswald Hainmiller would need a new wardrobe before his next tryst. And perhaps a new face.
After hesitating briefly, she took two handfuls of the white powder and carefully filled the side pockets of her overcoat, being careful that the strong, caustic powder didn’t get wet and eat through her clothing, too. Who knows, maybe she could use it again.
“I’ll…I’ll make you pay for this, you hangman’s wench!” Hainmiller, panting and half blind, leaned over the back of the raft to wash his burning eyes in the water. Seconds later, he was squirming and screaming on the floor of the raft as the powder, hissing and smoking, reacted with the water. “You damned slut!” he howled, crawling across the logs in search of a clean rag to wipe his face. “You won’t enjoy anything in beautiful Augsburg, that I promise you!”
“From now on, leave me alone,” she shouted, moving to the front again, where the Schongau raftsmen stared at her curiously. “You, too,” she shouted, “you lecherous, cloven-hoofed scum! You’re all trouble!”
Sitting down on a crate in the bow, she wrapped her arms around her knees and stared straight ahead. Her mother always warned her that most men were either horny fools or unfeeling blocks of ice. It was best to have nothing to do with them. Magdalena started to cry, but not wanting any of the nosy people standing around to see how sad she was, she brushed away her tears.
At this moment, like a little child, she wished her father were there.
Jakob Kuisl slid down the bank until his feet came into contact with the first rung. An iron railing ran along the rock face before disappearing into a fissure after about fifty feet. For a moment, the hangman considered lighting the torches he’d brought along, but he decided against this, lest he warn the bandits. Inside the fissure, everything was black, but soon his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Above him, daylight was cut off briefly as each of the men squeezed his way through the crevice. There were only five of them, but Kuisl knew he could count on each, particularly Andre Wiedemann, who had fought with him near Augsburg in the battle against the Swedish invaders. But the blacksmith and the two other men looked like seasoned veterans, too.
After another fifty feet, the railing ended at the foot of the rock chimney. In one corner, Kuisl could make out a narrow passageway and hear the s
ound of muffled voices and laughter inside. The men slipped to the ground carefully on both sides of the passageway, and the hangman ventured a quick glance.
Behind the knee-high entrance, a short tunnel opened onto a large cave a few feet away. Over a crackling fire, a few rabbits sizzled on a spit. Now and then a ragged figure walked past the fire. Jakob Kuisl could see more men sitting on the other side of the flames, huddled in fur and rags against the cold. Someone belched loudly, others laughed, and two others still were quarreling loudly. Jakob could also hear the whine of a small child and smell sweat, gunpowder, and burning meat in the air.
Smoke stung Kuisl’s eyes; he blinked. He had been right. They had found the winter quarters of the Scheller gang, and it looked now as if most of them had returned in the evening from their daily forays. The hangman smiled grimly. There could hardly be a better moment to put a stop to their game. From the voices, Kuisl could only guess how many there were—perhaps around thirty, among them many women and children.
He nodded to Wiedemann, Kronauer, and the others; then he cut off six of the twelve wooden powder flasks from the chain around his shoulder. In each, there was enough powder for one charge. With a leather cord, he tied six of them together so tightly they could all fit in one hand.
He squinted, estimating how far away the thieves were, and raised his arm. With one smooth gesture, he tossed the self-made bomb through the tunnel and directly into the fire.
The explosion was so strong it threw Kuisl back a full yard into the tunnel. The blast reverberated from the rocky walls of the caverns and corridors, a thundering echo so loud it seemed the mountain might collapse. Jakob Kuisl felt a faint tingling in his ears, and it was a while before he could hear the screams, coughing, and cursing coming from the robbers’ den. He gave a sign to the four other men, and they crawled through the low tunnel, entering the inferno with their sabers drawn.
The explosion had blown embers and burning logs throughout the cave and caused rocks and boulders to fall from the ceiling. Ragged men and women crawled around, trying to get their bearings despite the heavy smoke. A few lifeless figures surrounded what was left of the fireplace, and agonized screams and the cries of children resounded through the smoke-blackened cave.
The hangman hesitated. Deciding against an attack, he shouted in a loud, deep voice that could be heard everywhere in the cave. “It’s over, you dirty thieves. Now put down your weapons and leave, nice and easy, with your hands up. There’s a small army of well-armed citizens waiting for you outside, and if you behave and surrender, then—”
A dark shadow flew at him. At the last moment, he ducked and the blade only brushed his cheek. The man in front of him was at least a large as he was, and though his face, framed by a shaggy beard, was blackened with soot, his eyes flashed like glowing embers.
Kuisl’s voice sounded deep and threatening. “Put down your weapons and go outside. You’ll only make this worse.”
“Go to hell, you bastard,” the man snarled, and raised his saber again. This time the hangman was ready. He jumped back, pulling out a loaded pistol and pressing the trigger in one motion.
The bullet hit the robber in the shoulder and threw him back against the wall. As he stared in disbelief at the bloody mass where his right arm had once been, the hangman took out his larch-wood cudgel and struck the giant so hard that he tumbled to the floor against the rock wall.
“I warned you,” Kuisl grumbled, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek.
Out of the corner of his eye, the hangman could see Wiedemann fighting one of the robbers, too. The other three men had run outside behind the fleeing highwaymen.
Wiedemann’s back was to the wall, and despite the cold, pearls of sweat formed on his brow. The man in front of him swung at him with a jagged saber as if he were splitting wood. The veteran was struggling to fend off his opponent, and it looked as though he was about to collapse under a hail of blows.
Outside, shots could be heard. Jakob Kuisl hesitated. What was going on out there? Hadn’t the scoundrels surrendered?
“Surrender!” the hangman shouted at the robber fighting with Wiedemann. “You’re the last one!”
But the man didn’t even seem to hear him. He kept slashing away at Andre Wiedemann with a look in his eyes that reminded the hangman of a wild beast, a mixture of hunger, desire, and naked fear. The boy was probably not even twenty years old.
Jakob Kuisl kicked the boy in the side with his right boot. When he fell to the ground, panting, Kuisl pointed his second loaded pistol at him.
“Now get out, and be quick about it! Then nothing will happen to you.”
The young robber seemed to be thinking it over. He looked the hangman up and down, then threw the saber away and ran toward the exit with his hands in the air.
“I’m leaving,” he shouted. “Don’t hurt me, I’m—”
As he crossed the cave entrance, a shot rang out.
The boy’s body was thrown back inside, and he landed on the ground, quivering. Once more, he raised his head and looked at the hangman in disbelief, then collapsed.
“Damn! What’s going on out there?” Kuisl shouted. “The man surrendered!”
He hurried to the exit, which was framed on both sides by icicles so big they looked like columns. When he looked outside, he saw the flash from a gun to his right. He ducked behind one of the icicles and, at the same moment, felt a dull pain in his left upper arm.
“You damn fools!” he cried out. “It’s me, the hangman! Stop at once!”
He leaned against the rock face, looking for cover. When he heard no further shots, he poked his head out carefully and saw a gruesome scene outside the cave.
A wave of anger came over him.
The Schongau men formed a half circle around a pile of dead bodies—young, old, men, women, and children. Blood flowed in streams over the white snow.
Several muskets were still directed at the entrance, and only gradually did the citizens lower their weapons. Hans Berchtholdt’s musket was still smoking. With a mixture of confusion and bloodlust, he stared at the hangman, who emerged from the cave now looking like the devil incarnate.
“I…I…” Berchtholdt stuttered.
“You dirty bastard, you almost killed me!” shouted Jakob Kuisl. Then he ran to the baker’s son and grabbed the barrel of the musket with his right hand. With a loud curse, he rammed the butt of the gun into Berchtholdt’s stomach so hard he sank to the ground, gasping.
“And what is this?” the hangman roared, pointing to the pile of corpses. “You were supposed to disarm and arrest them, not slaughter them!” For a moment, he was tempted to hit Berchtholdt over the head with his own musket, but Kuisl broke it over his knee instead and threw it as far as he could.
“They…they just started shooting.” Jakob Schreevogl stepped forward now. His face white, he was trembling and looking down sheepishly. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“How many?” Kuisl whispered.
Schreevogl just nodded. “We were able to capture a dozen, and the rest are dead, shot down like dogs.”
Berchtholdt stood up and spoke again, groaning. “You ought to be glad—that saves you work; you won’t have to string up so many.”
“It…was very simple,” Sebastian Semer added, a kind of fire burning in his eyes that the hangman knew all too well. “Just like hunting.”
Behind them, other voices joined in: “Why wait? Let’s string the rest of them up on the beech tree over there!”
Jakob Kuisl closed his eyes. His wounded left arm ached. Bloody scenes passed before his eyes, memories of days long gone.
Silence, only the cawing of the ravens strutting around on the bloody uniforms and pecking at the eyes of the dead women…a knotty tree full of twitching bodies that hang like plump apples on a tree…the men—my own men—looking at me, eyes wide with fear. I grab the next one, toss the noose around his neck, one after the other. One after the other…
The baker’s son seemed to notice
Kuisl’s distress. “Since when has the hangman been afraid of death, huh?” he jeered, tottering about unsteadily. “All we did was make less work for you.”
Kuisl ignored him. “You’re just animals,” he whispered softly to himself. “Every one of you is worse than the hangman.”
He pushed the crowd aside and walked over to the trembling prisoners who were tied up, awaiting their fate. There were around a dozen of them, including four women. One of the women carried a screaming infant in a sling on her back. Two emaciated boys, around six and ten years of age, clung to their mother. Most of the men had fresh wounds, had been struck by a sword or grazed by a bullet, and many of the haggard faces were beaten black and blue.
One member of the anxious group stood out. He was almost as large as the hangman and wore a full beard, torn breeches, and a filthy leather cape collar. Blood seeped from a wound on his forehead, but despite his impoverished appearance, there was an aura of strength and pride about him. He looked at the hangman with an alert, steady gaze.
“You must be Hans Scheller,” Kuisl said.
The gang leader nodded. “And you’re nothing more than a filthy, murdering band of thugs,” he said.
Cries and angry shouts came from behind the hangman.
“Watch what you say, Scheller!” one of the workers shouted back. “Or we’ll rip your belly open right now and hang your guts up in the branches!”
“Nobody’s going to rip anyone’s belly out,” Kuisl said. His voice was calm, but there was something in it that caused the others to fall silent.
“We’ll take the marauders along with us back to Schongau now,” he continued, “and then the city council will take care of them. You all have done enough damage here already.” He turned aside with a disgusted expression. Snowflakes fell on the lifeless bodies piled up at the cave entrance like so many slaughtered animals.
The Dark Monk Page 17