1634: The Ram Rebellion

by Eric Flint

  Anse rubbed his face. He didn’t know the German captain in command of the Swedish garrison, but he did know Johnny Horton. Stupid and quarrelsome were pretty fair descriptions of the man. He’d been perhaps the least popular teacher at Grantville’s high school.

  “The whole army’s stretched tight as a drum, Pat,” he said, by way of an explanation-excuse.

  “Sure, I know. Just like I know that it probably looked like a smart idea, back up there in Grantville, to shuffle him off to Suhl. But I can tell you it was one terrible idea. There’s enough trouble here as it is, without us stirring up more of it. And why the hell do we need a ‘military liaison’ in the first place? The whole damn Swedish garrison isn’t more than maybe forty men.”

  Anse didn’t bother answering the question, since it was obviously rhetorical. The answer was the same, anyway: Somebody in headquarters thought it would be a bright idea to get rid of Horton by saddling Suhl with him.

  “What about that ‘trouble’?” he asked, instead. “We told you what we saw on the way here. Are you seeing any of that here?”

  “Anse, I’ve lived here now for over a year, and I’ve made a lot of friends among the local gun makers. Masters and their journeymen, both. As you can see, I dress and live just like my neighbors, but no one is talking to me about politics. There’s less than a dozen of us up-timers here, and none of us know what’s going on. We know there’s a lot of bad feeling about Gustavus Adolphus giving Franconia to Grantville to govern, but it doesn’t seem directed at us, so much. Not personally, I mean. It’s just that I doubt you could find three people anywhere in the area who’d give you two cents for Gustavus Adolphus and his Swedes.”

  He sipped from his beer. “The truth is that there’s really nobody in charge this close to Franconia, beyond the limits of the major towns. We’re now officially the top honchos, sure—but we don’t have anybody south of the Thueringerwald except a handful of people scattered in the big towns and a ‘military force’ that’s just barely this side of a joke. The Swedes have small garrisons here and there, but since everybody hates them, nobody ever turns to them for help. I doubt they’d be any help, anyway. Truth us, I don’t have a much higher opinion of the mercenaries working for Gustavus Adolphus here than the locals do.”

  He dipped into his beer again, this time for a full swallow. “All that adds up to Franconia and the mountains of the Thueringerwald outside of the walled cities and fortified villages becoming a magnet for every gang of robbers and thieves around—of which they’re are plenty, after fifteen years of this madhouse war. The difference between ‘army deserter’ and ‘bandit’ is the difference between Monday and Tuesday. And on Wednesday, often enough— maybe Thursday—you’ll find them re-enrolled in somebody’s army. Here, it’s likely to be the Swedish army, which makes everybody trust them even less.”

  “Have you talked to the CoC leaders?”

  Pat issued a sarcastic snort. “Leaders? Anse, get real. The Committees of Correspondence here in Suhl—everywhere in Franconia, so far as I can tell— don’t amount to more than handful of kids. The CoCs are not popular even here in Suhl, the way they are further north in Thuringia. Not anywhere in Franconia, so far as I know.”

  He paused to take a bite of his stew, and washed it down with some more beer. Then, continued:

  “The attitude of people here toward the CoCs is pretty much the same as their attitude toward us. Up-timers, I mean. They don’t have anything against us personally—not yet, anyway—but since we’re associated with the Swedes they figure we can’t be worth much, either. They certainly don’t trust us, as a group, with the exception of some individuals here and there. Some of the villages in the Thueringerwald, too, like the one you ran across. They’ve had longstanding ties with Thuringia, many of them. But those people don’t carry much weight in Suhl or any of the other major towns, once you get over the mountains.”

  Anse nodded. “Gotcha. Now, on another subject, I need to talk to you about something other than those guns going south. How many rifles, smooth bores and pistols do you have on hand right now?”

  Pat looked thoughtful for a moment. “Finished . . . maybe ten pistols, ten to twelve rifles and at least thirty smooth bores. Wait a couple of days and we can add a dozen more pistols, four rifles, and maybe ten more smooth bores. Rifling takes time, but we can make three pistols for every rifle. Most of our guns are shipped as soon as we finish them. Ruben might have another dozen pistols, and ten to fifteen rifles in his shop. I know he’s sold out of smooth bores. He was by last night wanting more.”

  “Ruben?” Anse asked.

  “Ruben Blumroder. He’s one of the major gunmakers here—owns some of the stock in our company, too, plus being involved in the same trade in Schleusingen. That’s about ten or twelve miles further down the road. Maybe in some other towns, too. He has a lot of connections all through this region. He’s friendly and has been a big help to us. In fact, without him I don’t think Joe and I could have got our factory started as fast as we did. The man knows everyone in town, and was able to recommend some good gunsmiths looking for work. He speaks something like eight languages, including English. But why are you asking about what guns I have on hand?”

  “It’s simple. It looks like the TacRail company is going to war. And we’re getting the littlest pig’s share when it comes to weapons. What I want to do is to fill the wagon with anything that will shoot, and haul it back for the boys and girls. Think of it as a late Christmas present.”

  “Okay. We’ll write it off against the debt the factory owes you and save you some money. I take it this is not official.”

  “No, it’s not official, although eventually I’ll finagle some kind of reimbursement. But I’ll pay cash money. Gold, in fact.” Anse grinned. “You can handle Krugerrands, can’t you?”

  Pat chuckled. “Hell, yes. They’d be a lot better than most of the coins floating around.”

  They’d finished eating. Pat pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Let’s go down to Ruben’s shop and see what he has in stock. I’ll introduce the two of you and make sure he gives you a discount.”

  * * *

  “It’s convenient that his shop is so close to the factory,” Anse commented as the two walked along.

  “Ruben found the location for the factory, so it’s not surprising it’s close to his shop. It works out fine. The gunmaking companies in Suhl are competitors, I suppose, technically speaking. But it’s really more of a co-operative relationship, in the real world. Kinda like, back home, a bunch of furniture stores would set up right next to each other. Whatever sales one of them might lose to a guy next door, they all gained from the fact that, bunched up like that, they drew a lot more customers to begin with.”

  He pulled up before a sign and pointed at it. “Here we are. You should notice that Ruben changed his sign. Before, it was two crossed wheel-lock pistols. Now look at it.”

  Anse looked up. The sign on the gunshop featured two crossed flintlock pistols, just like those that were the output of U.S. WaffenFabrik.

  Anse liked the shop, the minute he walked through the door. Its walls were covered with all kinds of weapons. Wheel-locks, the old Dutch-style flintlocks and the modern flintlocks introduced by Pat were in the places of pride, but there were guns of every description on the walls. The floor was crowded with racks that were also loaded with guns. Those spaces in the floor racks that did not have firearms were filled with crossbows, spears or swords. And in between the guns on the walls there were accouterments, powder flasks, bullet pouches and tools.

  It was so much like his favorite gunshop back in West Virginia, that Anse felt almost at home. If you added a couple of stuffed deer heads and a girly calendar this place would be just like Jimmy’s Gun and Pawn.

  “Herr Blumroder, come on out!” Pat called, waving the sales clerk aside. “I want you to meet Anse Hatfield. I know I told you about him.”

  When Blumroder came out of the back of the shop Anse saw a tall man
somewhere in his late fifties, slightly older than himself. Blumroder had the confident air of a successful businessman. “Ah, Herr Hatfield! I have wanted to meet you. Patrick has said so much about you.”

  His English was fluent, and less heavily-accented than Anse would have expected.

  “And he has written a lot about you, sir. I’m glad he had your good advice to help him set up here in Suhl.”

  “Nonsense. Patrick is a wise young man. My major contribution was to make it easier for him to meet people. As you Americans say, I introduced him around.”

  “And one of those people must be your tailor. Pat was always in jeans and a sweat shirt, before. Now I find him in the latest styles.”

  Blumroder smiled. “Of course. A successful man must look successful, or no one will take him seriously. But I doubt you are here to ask for my advice on clothing. What can I do for you, Herr Hatfield?”

  “Herr Blumroder, I need all the flintlock rifles and smooth bores in your shop and probably most of the pistols.”

  Before Ruben could react. Pat said: “He’s paying in gold, Ruben, and I promised him a discount. What he can’t cover right now we can write off against the debt the company owes him. Besides, it’s good business. With a major war looking to be in the works, Anse’s railroad outfit is bound to expand. And even after the war, the railroads will keep going. If we get in on the ground floor now, we’ll be sitting pretty.”

  Blumroder considered Anse carefully. “Railroads, ha? When you have time later, Herr Hatfield, I would appreciate a detailed explanation of how these things are constructed and operate. From what I’ve heard from Patrick, it strikes me that there might be a profitable sideline for us there. Not making rails, of course. That’s the sort of heavy iron work we don’t do. But if those machines are as complicated as they sound . . .”

  He shook his head. “But, that is for later. For now, in terms of your immediate business, I will be glad to give you a discount. You are, after all, one of Patrick’s partners—and I hold stock in the company myself. I’ll have Horst prepare all of my modern guns for shipping. We’ll talk about price and discounts when I know what we have.”

  “Herr Blumroder,” Anse responded, “I have a team and a wagon at the factory. We can pick up the weapons and save you any shipping costs.”

  “Ja, even better.” Ruben turned and called to his clerk. “Horst, wieviele moderne Waffen haben wir im Geschäft?”

  Horst’s immediately started making a count of the modern flintlocks. After a short time, he handed a list to Blumroder.

  “It seems we have twenty-one rifles and twelve pistols on hand. Will that be enough for your needs? I will personally add a powder flask and bullet pouch for each weapon to the order at no charge.”

  Anse did his own calculations. “With the ten rifles and thirty smoothbore Pat has at the factory, that makes sixty-one long guns and twenty-two pistols. Yes, Herr Blumroder, that will make a proper wagon load. Gold on delivery, when I leave Suhl. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Ach, pay the money to Patrick,” Blumroder said, waving his hand. “I trust him to give me my share. It is not safe to walk around with that much money.”

  January 21, 1633

  When Anse walked into the factory office two days later, early in the next morning, Jochen Rau was waiting for him, along with another man.

  “Herr Hatfield, I would like to introduce Jorg Hennel, one of the members of CoC here in Suhl. Herr Hennel, this is Warrant Officer Anse Hatfield of the NUS Army.”

  Anse studied the man with Rau. He was a bit younger, in his early twenties at a guess, and a bit shorter. But, all in all, the two looked enough alike to be cousins. Given odds, Anse would have bet that a couple of years earlier Jorg had been in the same business as Rau. He had that look about him.

  Anse stuck out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Herr Hennel,” he said in German.

  Hennel replied in English, after shaking the hand. “Ich bin – I am – Jorg. You are Anse.” His smile was a brash sort of thing, the kind of smile a young man puts on when he’s trying to probe an older one. “Jochen was trying to impress me with how important you are.”

  Anse smiled back. “I’m not much given to formalities, myself. I assume you have some of the information I ask Jochen to find out.”

  “Yes. He asked for my help in finding who is selling weapons to those Bavarian and Austrian pigs. But perhaps you do not need my help.”

  Anse frowned. “Why do you say that? We still don’t know who’s shipping guns or how much they’re shipping.”

  Hennel shook his head. “You just visited—just yesterday—the man who is the worst offender.”

  “Blumroder? Ruben Blumroder? He’s shipping guns to unfriendly princes?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Anse shook his head. “No. Are you sure?”

  Rau interjected. “Not only his own guns, either, Anse. It seems that Blumroder is something in the way of a general factor for all the gun-makers in Suhl. He puts together gun shipments from many shops and every two weeks he sends out a pack train loaded with guns to Nürnberg. But only part of the pack train arrives there.”

  “The rest is split off,” said young Hennel. “At Schleusingen, we think. What is your American expression?—‘peeled away,’ I think—before it gets there. That part goes south to Bavaria, we think, probably Munich. From there . . .”

  He shrugged. “The Bavarians and Austrians are close. ‘Thick as thieves,’ I think you say.”

  “You’ve seen this?”

  For the first time, Jorg Hennel didn’t look brash. Indeed, he seemed a bit embarrassed. “Well . . . no. We know it’s true, but we are not woodsmen. Certainly not Jaeger—and Blumroder always has some Jaeger to guard his pack trains. If we tried to follow, they would surely spot us.”

  And might very well shoot you, Anse thought to himself.

  The Jaeger were nobody to fool with. They were seventeenth century Germany’s equivalent to forest rangers, game wardens, and professional hunters, essentially. The best-positioned worked on a salaried basis for a national authority. Well, for a principality, at least. For a duke or count. Younger men, or those less well-connected, worked on what amounted to a contract basis for local employers until someone retired or was injured or died and a cousin or brother-in-law put in a good word so he could get a permanent slot when it opened. There were Jaeger family trees almost as complex as noble dynasties, and stretching over as many local borders and political boundaries as those of specialty guilds such as the glassmakers.

  The Jaeger were crack shots, using rifled muskets instead of the normal smoothbores-and they were perfectly prepared to be ruthless. Even large bandit gangs generally stayed away from them.

  At the same time . . .

  Anse couldn’t help but wince. At the same time, the Jaeger were not rootless mercenaries, like the men who filled most of Europe’s armies, including the Swedish army. They almost always had close ties to their local communities. In that sense, they were more like the mountain guides of left-behind modern Europe—or their equivalent, along with bush pilots, in up-time Alaska. Which meant that if they were willing to work for Blumroder, the man—and his activities—had the tacit support of the inhabitants of the area.

  In short, a delicate situation just got a lot more delicate—and potentially even more explosive. If the NUS really pissed off the Jaeger, the Thueringerwald would become impassable for any but large military units.

  “Shoot, and I like the man,” Anse muttered. “So does Pat.”

  “That’s not all, Anse,” said Rau gloomily. “It gets worse. Tell him, Jorg.”

  What brashness had been in the young man earlier was gone now. Hennel took a deep breath and almost blurted out: “Some of the other CoC members—well, all of them, except me—have been talking to your officer, that Horton Scheissk—ah, up-timer fellow. And just last night, they and Horton met with the German officer you brought with you. Captain von Dantz. I think the commander of t
he Swedish garrison was there, too. I am not sure about that, though.” He shrugged. “I was not invited. Things have been strained between me and the rest of the CoC the past few weeks.”

  Anse had a bad feeling he could guess what the meeting had been about.

  “These other CoC members . . . They are, ah . . .”

  “What you call ‘hotheads,’” Hennel replied, scowling. “Or—what I think—simply lazy. They do not have the stomach for patient work. For . . . I forget the English word.”

  “Organizing?”

  “Yes, that one. Always they think of what they like to call ‘the bold move.’”

  Bold move. Anse was pretty sure the difference between that, in these circumstances, and terrorism . . . was just about nil. But it was the sort of notion that would appeal to impatient, inexperienced and angry youngsters. All the more so with someone like Horton to give it the blessing of “up-timer approval” and an arrogant ass like von Dantz to egg them on.

  For that matter, von Dantz might do more than simply egg them on. If he’d gotten the ear of the garrison commander . . .

  “Christ,” Anse muttered. “This is way over my pay grade.”

  He took a deep breath. “Well, I guess it’s time to find out if Mike Stearns is right.”

  Hennel cocked his head quizzically. Rau just said: “Eh?”

  Anse turned and started back into the shop, gesturing with his head for the others to follow. “Never mind. It’s too complicated to explain, and you’ll see for yourselves anyway.”

  * * *

  Noelle Murphy was in her room, thankfully. She listened carefully to everything Anse had to tell her, with Rau and Hennel standing against a nearby wall. Throughout, her expression was simply attentive, and her slim hands were folded neatly in her lap.