1634: The Ram Rebellion

by Eric Flint

  When Anse was finished, through, an expression came to her face. And she uttered a number of phrases that didn’t fit well—not at all, in fact— with her reported ambitions to become a nun.

  Admittedly, she did not take the name of the Lord in vain. Didn’t mention Him at all, even if there was no act involving procreation or the elimination of bodily wastes that was overlooked.

  ” . . .wrong with those fucking morons?” she concluded. Eventually.

  She brought her angry gaze to bear on Anse. “Wha—exactly—is your authority here, Warrant Officer Hatfield?”

  Anse shrugged. “I’m not sure, really. But it doesn’t extend as far as handling this.”

  Noelle rose abruptly to her feet and stalked over to her handbag, perched on a shelf under the window. “Stalked” was the word for it, too. For those few moments, she bore no resemblance at all to a slender young woman. Anse was reminded of an eagle, shifting its talons on a limb to get a better perch for swooping.

  She hauled out a fancy looking envelope and handed it to Anse.

  “Read that, please.”

  It had a fancy seal and everything—except this one was embossed by the insignia of the President, not the Secretary of State. And when Anse opened it up, he recognizing the handwriting. No assistant had drafted this. Mike Stearns’ handwriting was pretty unmistakable. Large, looping letters. Not the world’s best penmanship, by a country mile—but it was legible, and the handwriting was about as forceful as the contents.

  When he was finished, Anse folded the letter back up and returned it to Noelle.

  “Okay, Ms. Murphy.” He smiled, slyly. “Or should I say Ms. Envoy Extraordinaire?”

  For the first time since he’d come in, that characteristically quick smile flitted across her face. “’Envoyette Junior’ is the way I actually feel.” The smile vanished. “Is it good enough for you?”

  “Sure, Ms. Murphy. I have no idea if the President’s orders are legal, mind you. What I do know for sure is that I could care less. The way I figure it, he’s my ultimate boss and he pretty clearly put you in charge if, in your estimation, the situation called for your direct intervention.”

  Noelle stared at him for a moment. Then, seemed to swallow.

  “Well . . . It’s not so much that, Warrant Officer. The fact is, what I’m really doing is putting you in charge. But I guess I do provide you with the official cover.”

  “That you do,” Anse mused, thinking about it. “We’re both agreed, I take it, that any attempt to threaten or attack Ruben Blumroder—or any other gun-maker in Suhl—needs to be cut off at the knees?”

  “Yes.” She waved her hand, impatiently. “For now, anyway. Later on, if and when our authority here gets put on a solid basis, and clear laws are passed, things might be different. But for now, yes.”

  She took a slow breath and let it out in something that was very like a sigh.

  “I’ve spent months studying the down-time laws that apply to this stuff, Warrant Officer. And the fact is that Blumroder is doing nothing illegal. It might be unethical, depending on how you look at it. But he’s breaking no actual laws. Nobody in this time and place ties himself in knots over ‘trading with the enemy.’ We can’t change that in a few months. Even the Swedes really just want all the weapons without having to outbid the other guys, if you ask me.”

  Anse must have looked a little surprised, because Noelle sniffed. “Please, Mr. Hatfield! The dictates of a conqueror—and that’s really all Gustavus Adolphus is, here—are not ‘laws.’ Not in any sense of the term that our own Founding Fathers would have accepted, anyway. What Blumroder’s doing is possibly immoral, if you think in terms of ‘us the good guys’ and ‘them the bad guys.’ And it’s certainly dangerous for him, if the Swedes find out and get their backs up. But it is neither illegal nor, given the history of the area and its customs, is it even unpopular.”

  She ran slim fingers down her dress. It was a seventeenth century garment, although more severely cut than the norm. “So. The way I see it, our responsibility—for the moment, at least—is to forestall an explosion. Hopefully, down the road, we can persuade Blumroder and the others to cease and desist. But, in the short term, what we have to see to it is that his rights are respected.”

  She barked a little laugh. “It might be better to say, establish that he has rights to begin with.”

  Now, and for the first time, she seemed uncertain. “I admit, I’m not sure where to start or what to do.”

  But Anse had already figured it out. Most of it, at least. He rose from his own chair and turned to Hennel.

  “Do you know how to get to Grantville, Jorg?”

  Uncertainly, young Hennel shook his head. “Not really.”

  Anse nodded, and turned to Rau. “Jochen, tell Wili to guide him. I want them on the road as soon as possible. I wish we had a radio, but we don’t— and under the circumstances, we sure as hell can’t ask Horton to borrow his.”

  “And they are to . . . ?”

  “Wili is to report—personally, and tell him not to take any crap—to Mike Stearns. Not Jackson, not Piazza—Stearns himself.” He turned back at Hennel. “As soon as you arrive, I want you to meet with Gretchen Richter. Tell her everything you know.”

  “Very well. And what do you want her to do?”

  Anse smiled, very thinly. “Plain to see, you’ve never met the woman. First, it doesn’t matter what I want, since—as she’d be the first to tell you—she doesn’t take orders from me. She doesn’t take orders from anybody. Second, it doesn’t matter. She’ll figure out what to do, all on our own. Unless I miss my guess, she’ll come right down here herself, like . . .”

  His smile widened. “You may as well get acquainted with another American expression. ‘Bat out of Hell’.”

  He turned back to Rau. “Jochen, do you have any idea if we’d have any influence on the garrison?”

  Jochen shook his head. “Not a bit, Mr. Hatfield. They’re bought and paid for, and they work for Captain Bruno Felder.”

  Anse wasn’t surprised. Most mercenaries in the seventeenth century didn’t hire on as individuals, paid directly by their ultimate employer—who, in this case, was the king of Sweden. They hired on as companies or regiments, and they got their money directly from their own commanders.

  “That means they won’t pay much attention to Ivarsson, either. If they pay any at all.”

  “You think . . . ?”

  Anse spread his hands. “Who knows? But I’m going to find out. Ivarsson struck me as a level-headed fellow. I’m hoping he’ll see it our way. Whether he does or not, though . . . “

  He made for the door. “First thing we do, we make clear to all parties involved that if anyone wants a fight, they’ll have it. Follow me, everybody – except you, Jochen and Jorg. Round up Wili, right off, and get on the road. When you’re done with that, Jochen, meet me at Blumroder’s shop. Or I might be at Pat’s, next door.”

  About halfway down the corridor, he heard Noelle snicker.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, a bit crossly.

  “You are,” came the reply. Her tone thickened, mimicking that of a man. “Follow me, all three of you—except two of you.” She snickered again. “That leaves me, the sole follower. Or should I say, fig leaf trailing in the wind?”

  Anse couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re okay, Ms. Murphy. My strength is as the strength of ten, because my fig leaf is pure.”

  That brought an actual, down-home laugh. The first one he’d ever heard coming from her.

  * * *

  Anse found Ivarsson in a tavern on the next street. Oddly enough, given the reputation of Swedish soldiers in the area, having what seemed to be a convivial – even jovial—conversation with several other patrons of the place.

  All of them, in fact, including the tavern-keeper: some dozen men, all told.

  When the Swedish lieutenant spotted Anse entering the tavern, his tough-looking middle-aged face was split by a grin that belonged to a t
eenager.

  “You see?” Ivarsson demanded, lifting his tankard. “Did I not tell you all?”

  Everyone else in the tavern swiveled to study Anse, as he approached the big table in the center.

  “We still don’t know . . .” murmured one of the patrons.

  “Skeptic! For shame!” Ivarsson bellowed. He took a slug from his tankard, plunked it down on the table, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “Does anyone care to make another wager?”

  No one did, apparently. Whatever the bet involved.

  Anse drew Ivarsson away from the table, toward the doorway where Noelle waited, so they could talk privately.

  “Lieutenant Ivarsson, it has come to my attention that certain persons, it seems, plan to attack Herr Blumroder. I believe Captain von Dantz is involved in the business, along with the military liaison from the NUS, Lieutenant Johnny Horton. Probably Captain Felder and his garrison, also. Some other persons.”

  Ivarsson belched. “To be precise, six out of the seven members of the local Committee of Correspondence.”

  Ivarsson, clearly enough, had his own sources of inside information in Suhl. Anse wondered who they were, but decided this was not the time to try to find out. Most likely, members of the garrison who had their doubts about the whole thing.

  “Uh, yes. I need to know what you propose—“

  “I propose?” Ivarsson’s expression was a comically exaggerated version of surprise and indignation. “Warrant Officer Hatfield, I am simply here as a representative of the staff of General Kagg. It has been clearly established—your President Stearns was most insistent—that you are the people in charge, here in Suhl. Not us.”

  He waved his hand airily. “So I have nothing to do with it. Other than to wish you the best, of course. Whatever you decide to do.”

  Anse studied him. Beneath the jovial, almost buffoonish exterior, he didn’t miss the keen gaze Ivarsson was giving him. The Swede was perhaps not completely sober, but he was very far from being drunk.

  So.

  Anse fought off a strong wish that he had been able to down a couple of tankards of beer, himself.

  So.

  He cleared his throat. “May I assume, then, that neither General Kagg— nor the king of Sweden—have in any way authorized these activities?”

  “You may.”

  “And will stand aside, whatever is done.”

  Ivarsson smiled. “Oh, yes.”

  “Will not criticize after the fact?”

  The Swedish officer’s smile widened. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  So.

  Anse nodded curtly. Ivarsson headed straight back to the crowded table in the middle of the tavern, where he picked up his temporarily abandoned stein.

  “Heinrich and Wolfgang, you each owe me a beer,” he announced. “Kiefer, by now you owe me the whole tavern. But I’ll settle for a pork Schnitzel. No gristle, you understand!”

  * * *

  “Well?” Noelle asked, after they left the tavern.

  Anse shook his head. “It’s weird. What I can’t figure out is whether Ivarsson is acting on his own, or whether Kagg gave him instructions.”

  “Probably both,” Noelle said shrewdly. “One thing I found out before we left is that Ivarsson’s been Kagg’s right-hand man since forever. Runs in the whole family—both families—it seems. Kind of like old feudal retainers, updated some.”

  “Um. So what you’re saying is that Kagg would have given him some general guidelines, and would then rely on Ivarsson to figure out the footwork.”

  “Pretty much. I think what’s happening is that Gustavus Adolphus told Kagg to see if we could handle the situation—and give us the leeway to do so.”

  Anse sighed, took off his cap, and ran fingers through his hair. Wishing there wasn’t so much gray up there.

  I’m too damn old for this—and it’s still way over my pay grade.

  But . . . there it was.

  “Or the rope to hang ourselves with. Okay, so be it. Let’s head over to Blumroder’s.”

  * * *

  Once they were within sight of Blumroder’s shop, it was clear as day that Ivarsson wasn’t the only one with his own inside sources of information. Two very hard-looking men—Jaeger, from their clothing—were standing guard outside the door. And all the windows had been shuttered.

  Just to make things perfect, the shutters all had firing slits—and Anse could see musket barrels poking out of two of them.

  In fact . . .

  He scanned the whole street, up and down. All of the gun shops were shuttered—and he could see musket barrels in at least four of the windows. Even his brother-in-law Pat had the shutters up.

  “Swell,” he muttered. “One gunfight at the Suhl corral, coming up.”

  He headed for the entrance to Blumroder’s shop. Anse didn’t see any point in talking to Pat until he knew where things stood with the central figure in the situation. Noelle followed, a few steps behind.

  He wasn’t sure the Jaeger standing guard at the door would even let him in. But, as he approached, that problem became a moot point. Blumroder himself emerged from the shop.

  Carrying a flintlock rifle, and with a grim expression on his face. Out of the corners of his eyes, Anse could see several of the shuttered windows of the shops on the street opening a little wider. And, he was pretty sure, two more musket barrels peeking out. Fortunately, none of the weapons seemed to be pointed at him. So far. Directly, at least. But it wouldn’t take more than a second for that situation to change.

  “Yes, Herr Hatfield?” asked Blumroder. Despite the expression on his face, his tone was courteous.

  Anse didn’t see any point in beating around the bush. He stuck his thumb over his shoulder, more-or-less pointing backward.

  “First, I’m pretty sure an attack is going to be launched on you. The Swedish garrison will probably be involved.”

  “An attack has already been launched. Three shots were fired into my shop last night, through an open window in the rear. They barely missed me—and they did injure one of my apprentices. Fortunately, the wound was minor.”

  Anse had heard the shots himself, as it happened. He simply hadn’t thought much of it, because there were often shots being fired on that street. Just about every gunmaker had a firing range as part of his establishment.

  A firing range of sorts, at least. For Anse, accustomed to up-time firing ranges, the distances involved were ridiculously short—not more than ten feet, usually. The purpose of the ranges was simply to check a new gun’s reliability, not its accuracy. Even with the new flintlock muskets, accuracy still ranked at the bottom of the list, when it came to the qualities looked for in seventeenth century weapons.

  “That would have probably been some of the people in the Committee of Correspondence,” he guessed.

  “Almost certainly,” replied Blumroder. “Not even the drunken swine in the Swedish garrison would have missed, so closely did the would-be murderers stand to the window.”

  He jerked his head toward the Jaeger at the door. “You can be quite certain they will not miss, once they track down the culprits,” he said coldly. "The training we get as members of the Suhl militia is not bad, either.”

  “There’s not going to be any ‘tracking down of culprits,’ Blumroder.” Anse’s tone was every bit as cold. He turned and motioned Noelle forward. “Ms. Murphy is now in charge, here in Suhl. She has the documents from our president to verify that. And she’s placed me in military command. So I’m declaring martial law. Which includes assuming authority over the city militia, by the way.”

  Anse was pretty sure he was wildly exceeding any formal authority either he or Noelle had, in doing so. “Martial law,” to down-timers, was indistinguishable from “conqueror’s fiat.” And Anse remembered enough of the sketchy legal training he’d gotten to know that up-time American notions were tightly circumscribed by law.

  But he didn’t care, at the moment.

  Blumroder started to say something,
but Anse waved him down.

  “Be quiet, Blumroder—and don’t act as if you’re just an innocent party in the business. You’ve been selling guns to the Bavarians—probably the Austrians, too. You know damn good and well such business is bound to stir up trouble.”

  “The Swedes,” Blumroder hissed. “Why are they supposed to be any different from—“

  “Be quiet, I said.” Anse stepped forward, ignoring the rifles in the hands of the Jaeger—which were now definitely being pointed at him.

  “You’re not dealing with Swedes, any longer. You’re dealing with the New United States, which happens to be the sovereign authority in the city of Suhl. Since your actions aren’t technically illegal—yet—I don’t propose to do anything about it. Other than give you a private warning, I guess, that you’re playing with fire. But I’m not going to tolerate any ‘private justice,’ either. Not from you or anyone else.”

  Blumroder was now visibly angry. Anse forestalled the explosion by adding, a bit hurriedly: “’Private justice’ also includes any unauthorized actions on the part of the garrison here, or any of its officers or men.”

  Blumroder snorted sarcastically. “As if they will listen to you!”

  Anse shook his head. “It doesn’t matter whether they’ll listen to me or not. If they don’t, they are legally nothing but mutineers—and I will deal with them accordingly.”

  Another sarcastic snort came from the gunmaker. “You? And who else?” The musket still being in his hands, he pointed with his chin at Noelle Murphy. “The estimable Fräulein?”

  Blumroder’s eyes seemed to widen a bit. Turning, Anse saw that Noelle had pulled out a pistol from somewhere in her garment. An up-time weapon, at that-but at a glance, he thought it was just a .32 caliber automatic. A “lady’s gun,” suitable for fending off a mugger—and damn near useless for real military action.

  Still, she seemed quite determined. Particularly when she looked at Blumroder and announced that she would provide the mayor and council with official copies of her letter of authorization from President Stearns. Properly sealed.