The noise of someone clearing his throat behind him brought Estil back from his musings. He turned and saw a middle-aged servant dressed in the Loredano livery looking at him.
"Signore Bubba, seguitemi prego," the servant said, making a signal for Estil to follow him.
Estil smiled and nodded in understanding. He shrugged into his leather jacket and stepped outside the room.
A few moments later, after hurrying up the interior staircase two steps at a time, he was standing in front of a mahogany door at the top floor of the building.
The servant opened the door and stepped inside. "Signore Bubba," he announced.
All the noise stopped, and everyone looked at him.
"Maestro Bubba," he heard Gian Francesco calling for him. He saw him sitting right across the room in the company of another unfamiliar young man.
So that's it. The moment of truth, Estil mused and walked toward them, ignoring the rest of the people in the room.
"Maestro Bubba, you did it," he heard Gian Francesco. "I had my misgivings but you exceeded my expectations."
A great deal of Estil's anxiety evaporated and a sense of almost reverent awe washed over him. Deep inside, he knew that, this time, everything would be all right.
"I am glad to hear that, Signore Loredano," he said.
"Maestro Bubba, allow me to introduce to you a good friend of mine. This is Cesare Bartoli, the secretary of our little brotherhood."
Estil took a hard look at the other younger guy, taking in his clothes and his person. This Bartoli guy was dressed in an up-timer-inspired set of clothes cut from fine cloth, but it was his demeanor which impressed him. This was a man who stood on his own two feet. This was a man he could work with, a true kindred spirit. He smiled and extended his hand for a handshake.
"Hello," he said, "My name is Brown. Bubba Brown. You can call me Bubba."
"Maestro Bubba," the younger man replied back in German, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. "It is a privilege to meet you."
Gian Francesco cleared his throat and looked at Cesare.
Cesare nodded. "Maestro Bubba," he addressed Estil, "in recognition of your epic achievements . . ." and then said something in Italian that Estil could not understand.
Estil saw Gian Francesco turning a little bit red and the other men broke into a spontaneous laughter. "I don't understand," he said to Cesare.
"It was a joke on me, Maestro Bubba," Gian Francesco said. "It seems that you passed the test with…how you say it…yes, with flying colors."
He looked at each person in the room who silently nodded in agreement. Last he turned his graze towards Estil.
"It seems, Maestro Bubba," he said "that we, the Incogniti, would like to taste more of your fine coffee. Maybe you will grace us with your presence, and your coffee, of course, to our next meetings."
Applause erupted from all the people in the room.
For Estil, this was one of the strangest job offering he ever had. He felt his eyes watering . . . damn allergies, he thought.
"Signore Loredano, Signore Bartoli," he finally said. "I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
****
Birthday Blues
By Nick Lorance
Magdeburg, 30 October 1634
Hartmann looked at the sign in Fraktur:
He had heard of the shop from Linus Becker, his assistant at the training facility. They had come up to Magdeburg from Suhl and opened their shop here less than a mile from the Army base outside the city of Magdeburg.
He walked into a room empty except for glass display cases, and his attention was caught by a rifle hung on the wall. A man came from the back at the bell.
"Ah, Sergeant, welcome! I am Franz Schönebeck, co-owner of Schönebeck and Wulff firearms." Unbidden, the shopkeeper lifted the rifle down. "That is our newest model. Everyone looks at it first." The shopkeeper moved his hand, the trigger guard swept forward, the block dropping, and he passed it over for inspection.
Hartmann had thought the rifle he held was yet another knockoff of the Cardinal which had been based on the Sharps rifle of Civil War fame until he examined the breech and saw it was deeper than those weapons. It was heavier too; around the same weight as an old arquebus. "This is beautiful."
"Yes it is." Schönebeck took it back. "This weapon is different from the one it is modeled after in many ways. The same caliber, but up to eighty grains powder and the new cartridges." Schönebeck held up a bronze-ended paper cartridge. "At the moment we only have the paper cartridge, but will have full metal cartridges in a few weeks." He saw the child-like light in Hartmann's eyes. "Want to fire it?" At Hartmann's nod, he opened the small walk-through and took him into the back.
Another man was at a table, and he looked up before offering the pistol he was working on. "He might like this as well."
Hartmann took the heavy pistol, noticing the large holes in the cylinder. Much larger than the H&K revolvers he had seen. At his curious look, the workman grinned. "A companion piece. It fires a .52 caliber bullet, forty grains of powder, the same bullet as the rifle so you only need the one bullet mold for both. We do offer molds for the three standard bullet weights used in the weapon, and all will fit both the pistol and the rifle. If you have two or more additional cylinders, you can fire, drop it out, load the next, and keep shooting." The workman held up a cylinder with caps already set on the nipples, moving it back and forth like a man teasing a pet. "Come on, you know you want to," the workman added in a wheedling tone.
Hartmann took the weapon back, removed the pin and cylinder, then set the loaded cylinder back, and reinserted the restraining pin. The hammer moved back smoothly, almost like sliding on ice. He gently lowered it. "Yes. Do you have more cylinders ready Herr…?"
"Lüdecke Wulff, at your service." Wulff held out three preloaded cylinders.
The workshop opened on a small shooting range; maybe twenty-five yards deep. Schönebeck set the rifle down with a wooden box of ten cartridges. He pulled a lever, and a target about half-way down the range came up. Hartmann set down the extra cylinders, and aimed the pistol. He cocked it, then gently squeezed the trigger. The gun slammed back, his arm going up until it was aimed almost straight up. "The trigger is a bit stiff."
"It will loosen up after about thirty rounds. We can also stone the sear to make it break more smoothly."
Hartmann nodded absently, then emptied the revolver. He caught the pin, popped out the cylinder, and loaded another before emptying it as well. Twelve rounds in about thirty seconds.
"I like it." He set the weapon down, then opened the breech on the rifle. The box had red lines drawn between the cartridges.
Schönebeck touched each line as he spoke. "All use the same cartridge. The first three are sixty grains of powder, the next four seventy grain, the last three eighty grain." Schönebeck dropped the closer target, revealing the back wall, then pulled another lever, raising a more distant target.
Hartmann loaded one of the sixty-grain charges and closed the breech. He aimed, then gently pulled the trigger. It fired, and a hole sprouted near the center of the man-shaped target. He opened the breech, slid in one of the seventy rounds, and fired again. This bullet hit a little higher, perhaps a finger's width. "More powder, so the bullet does not fall as far." Hartmann nodded, loading one of the eighties. Again the bullet hit higher. Less bullet drop. "I would like a longer range to test how well it does. How much for both?"
Schönebeck looked at him for a moment, then named a price. Hartmann didn't flinch. Thanks to prize money from his previous years, and his savings that had been invested by his late wife in OPM, he had enough to buy them both. But he wanted the newer model of the rifle. "Notify me when you have the metal cartridge model of the rifle available. Next month you say?"
"Yes, sergeant. Perhaps sooner."
"I will be back."
****
"He's leaving," Becker commented. He looked at Luftmann who was with him. "Follow him back to the traini
ng base. I will check with you." Once the man had run off, Becker walked over to the shop.
Schönebeck smiled as this man entered. This man was smaller, slimmer, but also in a USE uniform. "Well?"
Schönebeck held up the rifle Hartmann had used. "He liked both this and the matching pistol."
Linus Becker gave a small predatory grin. "Excellent."
****
Hartmann passed through the gate of the camp, marching toward the Third Regiment's orderly room. He looked around, wondering where Becker had gotten to, then sighed, sitting at his table to check the reports. Instead of having each company recruit on its own, Regiment had ordered that all new recruits would go through the same training together, and be reassigned to fill in the gaps caused the spring before.
So instead of having to train twenty men, Hartmann as the senior sergeant of the regiment was looking at training just over one hundred who would be arriving the next day. A barracks in the Regiment's 'street' had already been chosen, and hopefully Becker had seen to it.
"Small beer, sergeant?" He looked up at Becker, who slid a mug across toward him.
"Think of the devil. Have you checked the barracks as I told you?"
"Yes, sergeant. I made sure the fourth company left it suitably grubby." Becker sipped his own beer. "If I remember correctly tomorrow is your birthday."
Hartmann growled, "I do not celebrate such things. No matter how much store the up-timers put into it. I have recruit indoctrination, then guard duty tomorrow evening, and there will be no talk of it in the company. Is that clear?"
"Of course it is." Becker smiled irrepressibly. A good thing he had made all their plans before that order was given.
31 October 1634, 6:00 AM
Richard checked his uniform one last time. One thing that had impressed him when he had trained with the up-timers was the attitude he should have as the training sergeant. In all his years before arriving in Grantville, he had been used to even his superiors dressed catch as catch can. But he had been told that a sergeant should look every inch a soldier, and Hartmann had taken it to heart.
The day was bright and clear. The sergeant marched across to the barracks where the new trainees were sleeping. Becker winked, then motioned to Luftmann and Gross. "I think it is about time, sergeant?"
"By all means. Roust them out." He walked a short distance away with the barracks to his back. Behind him he heard pounding, screaming, and the sound of a lot of men who had thought they would be spending a lot more time asleep.
"Stand there!" Becker screamed. Hartmann knew they were grabbing the four tallest, making them start the ranks as they shouted at the others to form the files. Someone cried out in pain, and he made a note. They weren't supposed to use too much brutality. "Attention! That means stand up straight, hands even with your trouser seams! You sorry lot are the worst I have ever seen! Now speak up when I call your names."
Hartmann stood patiently until he heard Becker behind him. "Sergeant, company ready. But we have three men who are not on this list."
Hartmann turned. The men were in lines, looking at him with fear and confusion in their eyes. Hartmann smiled. Some returned it; they would learn. "Good morning, men. I am Sergeant Hartmann, and for my sins I am in charge of your training.
"You are joining the Third Regiment of the Second Brigade of the First USE Division. The Wolverine Regiment. A name given after our first action when we helped smash the French army at Ahrensbök. We expect to add more honors to our standard, and you men, if you prove worthy, will earn them. You will meet my standards, or I will send you home bloody." He motioned to Becker and the two men with him. "These men were like you a year ago. They thought, as you no doubt do, that I am exaggerating. They know better. You will learn that I speak only the truth.
"You have one hour to eat before you are marched over to the quartermaster to be issued your equipment. Since you were all no doubt raised in barns and pigsties, first you will clean that barracks we graciously allowed you to sleep in. You have twenty minutes allotted for this. I will inspect it before you are marched over to the mess hall. Any additional time you need to spend cleaning it further will be deducted from the meal time. I for one do not care if you eat at all. Gross, Luftmann, get to it!"
As the two chosen men harried them into motion, Becker handed him the clipboard with three names written at the bottom. The sergeant noted them. "I will check the names with personnel while they are getting their issue." Hartmann pinned the clipboard to his side with an arm as he filled his pipe.
"Were we that bad when you first saw us?" Becker asked.
He waited until the pipe was going well, blowing out some smoke. "Becker, you were worse. At least I have the full training time, so they might survive it."
7:30 AM
The three extra men had not been recorded at Regiment or Brigade so Hartmann walked up the steps into Division headquarters. He had seen confused messes before so this was nothing new.
He reached the personnel office when he heard angry voices. "I was sent to find if these men—"
"I do not care who sent you, woman, get out of my office!"
"It would take just a moment—"
"Get. Out!"
Hartmann pushed the door open. Sergeant Dieffenbacher, a thin sparrow-like man was trying to loom over the young woman facing him. Hard to do if she is taller, but he was trying. "My father sent me—"
"I do not care who your father is, woman! Get out or I will throw you out!" Dieffenbacher glared at the door. "Hartmann, you are supposed to knock."
"You probably would not have heard me, Hansel."
Dieffenbacher snarled. "Do not. Call me. Hansel!"
"If you are going to act like a child, I will call you what I please." He looked at the woman, and nodded. "Frau Schlesier."
"You know this woman?"
"I should. She is the stepdaughter of my regimental commander, Colonel Ludendorf."
"He married a Silesian?" Dieffenbacher's tone suggested something obscene.
"About ten years ago, yes. Since you do not care who her father is, I suggest you run smartly over to the regimental area and tell him not to send his daughter on such an errand."
"Do not tell me what to do!"
Hartmann tapped his sleeve. "Since I am senior to you, it is sometimes my job to tell you what to do. So help the woman first, then we can deal with my business."
Dieffenbacher snatched the paper from the woman's hand. When he read the first name Hartman interrupted him, reading the two others on his own list.
"So that is where they ended up!" she caroled triumphantly. "Men who have already volunteered for existing regiments have been showing up all day. They have been trying to find these three since they entered the base yesterday!"
"I will send them along." Hartmann looked at Dieffenbacher. "Now if you had just been polite and helped the woman, we would have not had to deal with this scene, Hansel." He stepped outside, closing the door, and had walked only a few feet when the door opened then closed, followed by something hitting the wall.
"What a horrid little man."
He turned, looking back at the woman. "He is the big frog in the small pond, Frau Schlesier. But he forgot the most important point in life."
"How so?"
" 'She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else,' " Hartmann quoted in English.
He paused. " 'The Female of the Species,' by an up-time poet named Rudyard Kipling."
She looked as if she understood something. "Ah, so you are the other fan of Kipling my father speaks of." He nodded. "Are you going back to the regimental area?" He nodded again. "May I walk with you?" He motioned, and she walked alongside him.
9:00 AM
Becker marched the men back to the barrac
ks. Each was now in feldgrau and behind them was a cart loaded with footlockers. "Company halt!" He walked to the front of the column. "Each of you will take your footlocker and set it at the end of your bunk. Once you have done this, you will unpack it onto your bed. Then I will show you how to fold and stow the gear. I do not care how your maiden aunt thought clothes were to be folded—you are in the army! We do it our own way. After that, we will go to the even harder version of it—how to pack it for the field in a knapsack. Perhaps with you lot, we will finish before dinner. However, I am not sure you are that smart." He glanced to the side and saw the sergeant coming.
"Now fall out! Move those footlockers! Luftmann, Gross, make sure they move like they have a purpose!" Becker turned, marching toward Hartmann.
"So the up-timers allow women in their National Guard?" The girl asked as he approached.
"Yes, the best shot I have ever seen among them was a woman," Hartmann replied. "There are a number of positions where a woman can do the job as well as a man. Technically all of our camp followers are now registered contractors under army command."
"You mean . . ."
"No, that is something they do of their own will. I mean cooking and laundry. There are also midwives attached to the hospital units, and soon, I am told, perhaps even nurses, who are medical personnel attending the wounded rather than servants."
"I can cook, but for hundreds! That I think is not for me. What about doing Sergeant Dieffenbacher's job?"
Hartmann stopped. "He made you that angry?"
"Oh, he made me angry, I will admit. But I can balance the household accounts, know what to select if I go to market, and have a good hand when I write. Father allowed me to be educated in things beyond what I would need when I am married."
"I do not know how much the USE will take from the up-timers' example. Perhaps you should discuss this further with your father." Without looking to the side, he asked, "How are they doing so far, Becker?"
"Totally confused. But that is to be expected."
"Feldwebel Becker, Frau Schlesier. And before your thoughts run into the midden, she is Colonel Ludendorf's daughter. Frau Schlesier, Linus Becker."
Grantville Gazette, Volume 65 Page 6