Grantville Gazette 35 gg-35

by Paula Goodlett (Ed)

  The waitress stood in contemplation for a moment. "No . . . Oh, yes, I do know him. That is Cornelis Jansen of Amsterdam. Do you want to leave the book with me, to give him the next time he comes?"

  "No, I am sure I have seen him at the library. I will give the book to him there, I'd like to talk to him about it."

  Not from Amsterdam, he thought. From the vestibule of Hell . . . the Corsair Republic of Sale. Cornelis Janszoon van Sallee was the son of the Dutch renegade Jan Janszoon, Admiral Murad Reis. As Olafur knew from slave gossip, Murad's ships had raided Reykjavik even while the Algierian corsairs had ransacked Olafur's Westmanneyjar. Olafur had seen Cornelis in Algiers, which he had visited as his father's agent.

  Olafur mentally reviewed how much money he had left. It was, he thought, sufficient to buy an up-time pistol.

  ****

  Christine hated being asked a question and not knowing the answer. It was like a tooth ache. You could try to ignore it, but sooner or later you had to do something about it. Christine headed back to the library to look up the prehistory of refrigeration. That led her to fish out the copy of Walden Pond she had to read for school.

  On the weekend, she visited the nursing homes, figuring that some of the residents were old enough to remember the days before refrigerators were common. Then she quizzed the senior researchers at the GRC, many of whom were retirees, although not quite as old.

  Gradually, she put together a new plan . . . "Third's the charm . . ." she said to herself.

  ****

  Cornelis and Sergio left the Grantville Public Library shortly after sunset.

  A voice spoke from the shadows. "Janszoon."

  Cornelis turned, and froze when he saw the gun pointed at him. A gun held by Olafur Egilsson.

  "Cornelis Janszoon van Sallee, the Pirate Prince. Glory be to the Almighty, that he would deliver you to me. At last I will have vengeance for the people of the Westman Islands, and the East Fjords, that were carried off as slaves to Algiers. Including myself and my family."

  "You said, 'van Sallee,' so you know I am from there, not Algiers."

  "Does it matter whether you are from Sodom, or from Gomorrah? Evil is evil. Your father led the devils of Sallee against the poor fishermen of Grindavik. For all I know, you were there yourself. But even if you weren't, you surely prospered from their misery.

  Cornelis' companion cleared his throat.

  "I have no quarrel with you," said Egilsson, "provided you do not interfere."

  "I beg of you, listen to me," the companion pleaded. "My name is Sergio Antonelli and I am a Venetian merchant. Like you, I was a prisoner of the corsairs. I was given my liberty to guide Cornelis Janszoon safely to Grantville, and back. My son remains as hostage in the palace of Murad Reis, and if Cornelis does not return on time . . . things will go very ill for him."

  Egilsson put his free hand over his heart. "I will pray for you and your son. But why would a lord of Sallee come to Grantville, but to learn their arts of destruction? How many more good Christians would die, or labor in servitude and degradation, if this servant of Satan is allowed to return to Sallee?"

  That was when Christine arrived on the scene. She turned the corner, and spotted Egilsson. "Hello, Reverend Egilsson, I have good-What are you doing with that gun? Are those men threatening you? Should I call the police?"

  Egilsson shook his head. "Do you Americans not say, 'God helps those who help themselves?' This man, this van Sallee, is a corsair spy, here to tell the pirates how to build your steamships and exploding shells and who knows what else. If I let him live, what will happen to poor Iceland? And if I cannot raise the ransom, then his death will be some modicum of vengeance for my countrymen."

  Antonelli shook his head slowly. "Have you forgotten the words, 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord'?"

  "Even the Devil . . . or a Papist . . . can quote Scripture."

  "Please, hear me out," said Cornelis. "If you have lived in Algiers, then you know that it lives or dies by the slave trade. And Sale is the same. If there is any chance that this will change, it will be because I bring new arts home from Grantville."

  Olafur made a noise that was almost a chuckle. "You expect me to believe that your father, the admiral, sent you to Grantville to learn how to beat your swords into ploughshares and your spears into pruning hooks?"

  "It's true that he's interested in the up-timers' art of war. Their muskets, their cannon, and especially their flying machines. But what I have learned is that all the great powers of Europe also have their spies here, and are learning to copy up-time weapons. Some of them, at least. Sale is smaller even than Magdeburg, so how can it compete?

  "If I can find a practical alternative to the slave trade . . . And I admit it's a big "if" . . . then perhaps we will consider peaceful trade. At least with some of the European states, I doubt that we will be quick to forgive Spain for the way it treated the people of Islam."

  Olafur twitched slightly, but the gun barrel remained steady. "A nice speech. Antonelli, how much of that is true?"

  "Sir, we have discovered that in the Atlas Mountains, Morocco has much mineral wealth. Minerals that might find a market-"

  "And who would mine those minerals?" Olafur demanded. "I'll tell you, the poor slaves. The corsairs would redouble their efforts."

  "Only if the European navies let them," said Antonelli. "And the USE has declared strongly against slavery. A black woman, Sharon Nichols, is now the USE Envoy in Rome. It is a message that all the diplomats and merchants of Europe can easily read.

  "We would, of course, have to find goods that the people of Sale would want to buy, so they would welcome European trading ships. Based on the encyclopedias, we are thinking about cotton, tea, flour, and manufactured goods."

  Christine spoke. "Reverend Egilsson, please. I think I found a way for Icelanders to pay the ransom. With goods that would be in demand in Algiers, if not in cash. Your family can be recovered. But not if you put yourself in jail for murder."

  She tried to smile. "And you know, the library will revoke your borrowing privileges if you kill a fellow patron."

  Ever so slowly, Olafur lowered the gun. "Can't have that," he said with an answering smile, albeit a fleeting one.

  "Thank you, Reverend Egilsson. And if you wouldn't mind, please safety and holster it, too." He did so.

  Antonelli put his hand on Janszoon's shoulder. "We'd best leave."

  He shook the hand off. "Not just yet. Milady, what are the goods you speak of?

  "Ice. Which Iceland has in abundance, you'll concede? Ice cream. Meats, fruits and vegetables preserved by being packed with ice. Mr. van Sallee, wouldn't those be wonderful luxuries for your people? And if not for them, they could be sold in Spain, or Italy, or Turkey. Or perhaps in Brazil, or Spanish America. Or even India."

  "The ice will melt along the way."

  "There's a solution. There was once a big natural ice trade in America, in the nineteenth century. They cut ice at places like Walden Pond, and shipped it out to Charleston, and Havana, and even Calcutta, packed in sawdust. Or other insulation, but sawdust was the best."

  "Sawdust?" asked Egilsson. "I met a woman engineer at St. Martin's who told me about her work at the steam sawmill."

  "Sara Lynn," said Christine. "Perhaps you could have her ask them to donate the sawdust. It might be good publicity for the sawmill. And a good marketing gimmick, too, as it demonstrates how sawdust can be used."

  Egilsson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "In Iceland we have some glacial lakes. Jokulsarlon, Fjallsarlon, and Breidarlon. The lakes are filled with icebergs from the glacier.

  And of course there are other lakes and rivers that freeze over during the winter.

  "But if it's such a good idea, what's to keep someone from getting ice from Norway?"

  Christina smiled. "I thought about that. Denmark, Norway and Iceland are all under Danish rule. And I would think King Kristjan feels bad, at least a little, about not paying the ransoms himself. If he gives u
s a monopoly for, say, ten years, on harvesting ice and snow for export, then that will give us a chance to get the business going. And it wouldn't cost him anything out of pocket."

  "You seem to have a head for business," said Antonelli. "But where's the start-up capital coming from?"

  "There are a number of possibilities," Christina told him. "We can send a proposal to Other People's Money, or one of the other investment funds. We could get a loan from a bank. Or we could scrounge up private investors ourselves. I sounded out Hendrick Trip-"

  "Trip!" exclaimed Antonelli. "You move in more exalted financial circles than I ever did, miss."

  "What about when the ice gets to its destination?" asked Janszoon doubtfully. "I don't want to discourage you, but it's very hot in Sale, or Algiers, in the summer when the demand would be the greatest, and since it's a novelty, I am not sure how quickly it would sell."

  "Well, that's where you would come in," Christine explained. "Have an ice house built there in advance."

  "Ice houses are very expensive," said Antonelli. "You have to dig a hole, then line it with stone. "

  Christine disagreed. "I'm sorry, that's not true. At least that's not how we usually did it in the States, before there were refrigerators. We built most of our ice houses above ground, out of wood. There are old ice houses like that on a few of the farms in Grantville, I was told. "Perhaps some people took advantage of natural caves, but that wasn't necessary.

  "And perhaps we could get some of the Science Club kids at school to test a few ice house models, and see what design works best."

  "In the Maghrib, trees are not as common as they are here." Janszoon warned. "So wood can be expensive. But we do have matmoras, underground granaries, that may have some free space, and there are caves in the mountains."

  "Do we have to worry about refrigerators driving us out of the business?" asked Antonelli. He didn't notice that he had said "we."

  "Not for a few more years, I think," said Christine. "After all, refrigerators need electricity. And also there's some kind of gas in them. They're both in short supply, so initially the production will be limited. I would imagine that it will be a while before the Barbary Coast gets enough to meet the demand. And anyway, isn't it a bit short of water to make artificial ice?"

  "You could say that," Janszoon admitted. "All right. I will demonstrate my commitment to finding a peaceful way by arranging for one of these ice houses to be constructed, once you can show me a reasonable business plan, and that you have investors willing to put up the money you need to harvest the ice, and that your model ice house can preserve ice."

  "That's no commitment at all!" Egilsson's eyebrows were pulled down and together, as if they were magnetized. "If this, if that . . . You have promised nothing. Nothing at all."

  "What do you expect? I know nothing of this ice trade, so I can't judge the practicality of it all based on my personal experience. Yes, the Americans did it in the nineteenth century, but perhaps it wouldn't work in the here and now. Even with funding, there could be trouble. A winter too mild to produce a decent ice harvest, or a winter so severe that you can't cut the ice. Or problems at sea."

  "'Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra,'" Antonelli quoted. It meant, "many things fall between cup and lip."

  Janszoon nodded. "If I build this ice house, and no ice arrives, I will be a laughingstock, and an embarrassment to my father. Sale is governed by the Council of Corsair Captains, and his position as admiral is precarious. One sign of weakness, and they will attack him . . . like a school of sharks that has scented blood."

  Christine worried her lip. "I think . . . Reverend Egilsson? I think he's making good points-"

  "Good points? I . . . I suppose." The Reverend's expression could have curdled milk.

  Janszoon seized upon this admission. "Then does my proposition sound fair?

  Egilsson looked at Christine, then back at the provisionally reformed corsair. He sighed. "Fair."

  ****

  Author's Note

  Olafur Egilsson (1564-1639) is a historical down-timer. My description of his capture and subsequent adventures is based on Reisubok sera Olafs Egilssonar (The Travels of Reverend Olafur Egilsson) translated by Karl Smarri Hreinsson and Adam Nichols (Fjolvi, Ltd., Reykjavik, 2008). Antonelli's proverb is from the Adagia of Erasmus.

  Samuel Rishworth is a historical down-timer, and his activities are, as far as I know, the earliest European opposition to the African slave trade. (Bartolome de las Casas had previously protested the Amerindian slave trade.) He appeared in my story, "Stretching Out, Part 4: Beyond the Line," Grantville Gazette 16.

  Cornelis Janszoon and his piratical father were historical down-timers, both introduced in "A Pirate's Ken" (Grantville Gazette 15).

  ****

  Solemn Duty

  David W. Dove

  Lieutenant Claus Brockman scraped his boots against the edge of the wooden walkway, trying to remove the mud that had accumulated there. It was early May and that meant spring had finally come to Falun, Sweden, and spring meant that the streets were a sticky mess.

  He looked down at his uniform trousers with despair; mud was splattered up past his knees. For this duty he was supposed to look his best, but there was no way that could happen now. He tugged on the tail and sleeves of his jacket to make it as presentable as possible and patted his pocket to make sure the package he was delivering was still secure.

  He pushed open the door of the shop and stepped inside, quickly closing the door behind him. As he paused for a moment to soak in the warmth of the general store, an older man at the counter looked up to greet him.

  The man eyed Claus's uniform suspiciously. "Yes, how may I help you?"

  Claus removed his hat before answering the man. "Excuse me, sir, is your name Erik Svedberg?"

  "Yes, that is my name."

  Claus felt a rush of relief; he had been tracking down this place for almost a year and a half. Perhaps he had finally found the man he was looking for. "Herr Svedberg, I am Lieutenant Claus Brockman of the United States of Europe Navy. Do you have a son named Bjorn?"

  The man stiffened at the question and answered warily. "Yes, I have a son by that name, but I have not seen him for almost three years. Why do you ask?"

  Claus tried to calm his nerves for what he had to say. "Herr Svedberg, I have news of your son, very sad news. Sir, it is my duty to inform you that Bjorn was killed while fighting against the forces of Denmark."

  The blood drained from the man's face as the news registered. "Bjorn is dead?"

  A scream of anguish came from the back of the shop and a woman rushed into the room, throwing herself into the man's arms. The man held the woman tightly as she sobbed against his shoulder.

  Claus stood in silence, allowing the couple their grief. After a couple of minutes, the man looked up, as if remembering Claus was standing there. "I am sorry, Lieutenant . . . ?"

  "Brockman, sir, Claus Brockman," Claus quickly answered.

  "Lieutenant Brockman, please forgive my manners." He pointed to the woman next to him. "This is my wife, Helena, Bjorn's mother."

  Claus bowed slightly. "Madam."

  The man gestured to a small table and chairs in the back of the room. "Please, have a seat."

  Claus took one of the seats as the man and woman joined him. The woman was sobbing gently, her face buried in a handkerchief. The man took a few moments to compose himself and then began speaking. "Please, I again ask you to forgive me. You see, nearly three years ago, my son parted under unpleasant circumstances. I have not seen him since that awful day." The man paused as he was overcome with grief and regret, tears flowing down his face. "My last words to my son were words of anger."

  Claus felt uncomfortable hearing the man's story. "I am sorry; I did not mean to bring up bad memories."

  The man shook his head. "No, that is in the past and not your concern. You said that my son died in battle."

  Claus nodded. "Yes, let me start again." He took a momen
t to organize his thoughts. "On October 7th, in 1633, the city of Wismar was threatened by an invading Danish fleet. A small group of U.S.E. forces was gathered to repel the fleet. Although they were greatly outnumbered, the group was successful; they destroyed some of the invading fleet's ships and repelled the invaders. Regretfully, several men were killed that day, including Bjorn, whose boat was destroyed in the battle."

  The man sat in silence for a few moments as he digested the news before speaking. "My son was at Wismar, where that German boy died in the flying machine."

  Claus nodded. "Yes, sir. Your son was one of only a handful of men who faced the Danish fleet. Because of them, the city remained safe."

  The man nodded in understanding. "My son died honorably then, he fought bravely?"

  "I believe he did, sir." Claus reached into his jacket and pulled out the package he carried. He opened it, took out an envelope, and handed it to the man. "Sir, this is a letter from Bjorn's commander. I believe it contains more details on your son's last days."

  The woman had regained her composure. "Did you know my son, Lieutenant? Were you there that day?"

  "No, madam," Claus answered. "I never met your son and I joined the navy a few months after Wismar." He reached into the package and pulled out two small boxes and two sheets of paper. "I also brought something for you. As a result of your son's final actions, the navy has awarded him decorations."

  The man was obviously confused. "Decorations?"

  Claus opened one of the small boxes to confirm its contents and then handed it to the man.

  The man looked at the box and its contents. Inside he found a medal, a heart shaped metal medallion suspended from a purple ribbon. He looked up at Claus.

  Claus picked up the certificate and read. "This is to certify that the Prime Minister of the United States of Europe has awarded the Purple Heart (Posthumously) to Gunner's Mate Bjorn Svedberg, for fatal wounds received in action at Wismar on 7 October 1633. Signed John C. Simpson, Admiral, United States of Europe Navy."