Decennius said nothing, simply nodded. Johann decided that was acceptable to him. He had no desire to get crosswise with the pastor.
"At that time I had no idea myself that I would," Johann confessed. "Become a competitor, I mean. But after I came to Magdeburg, and the Arts League sent out the proposal for the new organ, I thought there was nothing to be lost by making an offer. I was very surprised to find out that I had been awarded the contract."
Compenius chuckled again. "Herr Bach, you should never be surprised to find you've won a contract. You should be gratified."
"I shall endeavor to do so, Master Compenius."
The two men shared a grin before Compenius looked back up at the ravaged pipe loft. "The vandals were thorough, I will give them that," the master builder said.
"Unfortunately," Johann agreed.
"Well, the scale of the theft actually does help in one respect," Compenius said. "Since they took everything down to bare wood, it will actually make it easier to design and build new ranks." He shrugged. "It will still be an awful lot of work, and rerunning the air feed pipes will be almost as large a challenge."
"They took those as well?" Johann said, astounded.
Compenius nodded. "At least part of them, the parts that were easiest to reach."
"I begin to understand why Pappenheim's name drives people in Magdeburg to blasphemy."
"Indeed."
Decennius had frowned at the mention of blasphemy, but forbore speaking at the moment.
Compenius continued to stare up at the organ loft, fingering the beard on his chin as he did so. "Herr Bach," he said as he moved his head slowly from side to side, obviously scanning the entire structure, "I have heard tell that there is music from the future in Grantville by a Bach."
"Correct," Johann said. "Actually, there is music by three or four Bachs, but most of it is by one Bach, the greatest of them, one Johann Sebastian Bach."
"The greatest of Bachs?" Compenius said.
Johann shrugged. "He would have been born fifty years from now, in 1685, and would have lived a very full life, dying in 1750. And he wrote…would have written…some of the greatest music ever composed."
"Greater than our best?" Decennius said. "Greater than Praetorius or Schütz? I doubt that."
"Magister, a few weeks ago I told someone that if music was a religion, Johann Sebastian Bach would have been its chief apostle, Peter and Paul together." The caplan seemed to swell up. "I have reconsidered the notion. I now think the man would be the chief saint…or better yet, the archangel."
"He was that good?" Compenius said.
"Master Compenius, he was so good I weep at the beauty of his music, and I despair of ever approaching his skill and craft and art."
"You hear that, Magister Decennius?" Compenius said. "That is the judgment of a Bach, and one who is not the least among them."
"His judgment verges on blasphemy," the caplan muttered, turning his head away.
"Of course it does," Compenius said after a snort. "He is a musician. That goes without saying."
There was a moment of silence, then Compenius looked up at the pipe loft again and heaved his shoulders in a big sigh. "Well, there is no help for it but that I must climb up there and examine what little remains. I cannot assess the damage from down here. Good day to you, Herr Bach. We will meet again, I am certain." The organ builder nodded at Johann, then looked to the pastor. "Magister Decennius, the door to the loft, if you would."
Johann watched as the two men crossed to a door barely visible in the side wall of the end of the nave and disappeared through it. He shook his head, looked around the nave once more and up toward the vaulted ceiling, then made his way out the doors he had entered through.
Well, he thought, that hadn't gone as poorly as it could have. But it was clear that while Master Compenius respected the Bach family as a whole, he had no reason to be accommodating to them or to Johann in particular. And Johann doubted that he would be. So his instructions to Master Luder would stand. But he needed to have a conversation with Lady Beth Haygood now. And at this hour of the day—he glanced at the position of the sun—she was probably at the school, so that was where he headed.
****
The Long Road Home, Part 1 by Nick Lorance
The Battle of Ahrensbök
Early May, 1634
From where the French command group stood, what had been a glorious struggle became tragedy. With the cavalry along with their commanding general in flight, Charles de la Porte threw his men into the attack hoping they could at least break through. The armies closed together, and to the right of the center, an enemy infantry charge started. It began with a single company, then another, and another, until an entire regiment was advancing. At the head ran one man with a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other.
“Incroyable.” Marin Le Roy de Gomberville whispered as that single man vanished from sight. No doubt one afflicted with désir de mort; a death wish, who would die in the grand fashion. Marin was here by purest chance, but there was nowhere else he would rather be at this moment.
Marin had been devastated while writing his latest version of Polexandre early in 1631. It had seemed a wonderful jest; send the characters back nine centuries! But that spring God played his own jest. A town had actually appeared from the future! He wanted to continue the work, but the words would not flow from his pen.
The author had been asked to come to the siege by one of the Duke of Angoulême's aides to witness the death of the Swedish king's hubris, and the end of Grantville. The young officer was a fan of his previous works, and when they drank to excess one evening, had told him of Richelieu's plan to deal with Grantville once and for all.
Which was how he and Poirot, his manservant, had ended up on a ship bound for Lübeck and now were watching the French army sent to fight alongside the Danes going down in defeat, trapped.
“Poirot, go to the luggage. Make sure those who flee do not take our things.”
“But monsieur! The battle is not yet over.”
“My dear Henri, it is all over but the surrender.” Marin opined as he saw the smoke of guns not in front of the now shattered tercio, but from its rear as the men who had broken it fired both right and left into the as yet steady formations. Almost a thousand men had poured into the hole created, and many French soldiers were already fleeing for their lives. “Do go and guard our things.”
****
Kirsten Jansen stood stolidly as Rolf filled the sack she held. Her life had been hell for months, and it seemed that wasn't going to change except for the worse.
She had been among the French camp followers, watching the armies face each other. She didn't know the name of the town they had just passed, only that the enemy had cut off the retreat. Then the firing, the screaming, the dying.
Either she would be dragged along by Rolf until she couldn't keep up, or one of the men of that army would use her instead. It didn't matter to her who won.
Rolf was one of the first to flee. He had dropped his musket, and when he reached the wagons he threw aside helmet and armor, stripped down to just shirt and pants. In fact, he looked like one of the sutlers. Then he dragged Kirsten to a wagon, grabbed out a pair of sacks, and began looting. Something told her things were not going well for this side.
Rolf ignored the wagons of his fellow soldiers. Instead, he went to the wagons of the officers. He began pawing through the trunks of those men, throwing aside anything not light and valuable enough to carry. When his bag was full, he began on hers.
A man shouted in French. It was Poirot, who had been nice to her. Rolf snarled at him in the same language.
Someone else shouted, this time in German, and Rolf grabbed her shoulders. “Keep your mouth shut, bitch. They will think we are just camp followers grabbing things before we flee.” Then he turned from her. “Please, monsieur, we are…” His voice slowed then stopped.
There was silence except for the sound of men walking forward. She didn't k
now what was wrong. But it still didn't matter.
"Well, if it isn't Rolf." The voice was a purr, and something about it made her slowly turn to face them. The men approaching were in gray; the enemy. The closer of the two had the eyes of a wolf, and his smile looked dangerous. "I remember seeing your picture last time I was in Grantville. Wanted dead." The man drew a wheel-lock from his belt.
“Hartmann, this is not Grantville or that damned American territory. Why not just let me go, and you can have half.” Rolf said in a wheedling tone. He pulled off his pack, opening it.
“Twelve.” Hartmann tapped the wheel-lock against his hand, then opened the pan to assure the powder had filled it. He pulled out a ring of keys, using one to test the spring.
“Twelve what?”
“The 'woman' you dragged out of Magdeburg during the sack. Twelve years old," he lowered the dog with finality. “The woman, no, the child you used who escaped that night while you were passed out. But she did not escape. Her mother slipped in among our camp followers the same day and rescued her, But too late to save her life.”
The worst to Kirsten's mind was the bantering conversational tone. As if they were two men that had met in a tavern talking about the latest harvest, nothing more important. "I was on guard duty that night and heard a keening sound. My men found her, clutching her child, rocking and shushing the corpse as if the screams of sorrow were the girl and not her. At first, she must not have seen the blood from you using the child for hours; she thought her daughter had just been quiet as she bid her. But the girl bled out before they could go very far.
"When she saw me, she drew a knife and before she plunged it into her own heart, spoke. 'Elizabeth is so frightened of the dark. I must guide her to God.' " Now he looked up. The wolf was there in his eyes, prepared to leap. "I buried them together, mother holding child just as they went to God. If there is anyone who deserved to go to heaven; committing suicide just to guide her daughter to the Throne, it would have been her." Hartmann looked at Kirsten, her thin form, her grossly swollen belly. "I see you still like them young. But this one is a bit old for you."
Rolf's voice was now begging, his hand reaching into the bag he held. "Hell, take the girl! I have her trained just right. Richard, take this—" He dropped the bag, a flintlock pistol coming into view as he raised it trying to cock it as he did. Hartmann aimed his pistol and shot him in the chest. Rolf flopped backward gasping, his weapon discharging into the ground. Blood trickled from his mouth as he tried to sit up. He tried to speak, but no words came. Kirsten watched his eyes begin to fade. But then they widened, as if he saw something, one hand coming up as if to fend it off, then falling to lie still, a look of terror on his face.
Hartmann lifted his pistol, blowing into the pan to clear the smoke from the barrel. “I always knew Satan would come to collect you personally, you bastard.” He began idly reloading it. “Luftman.”
“Sergeant?”
“Find the lieutenant. Ask him to bring the company up here. From what I can see in that pack, this is a looter's heaven. Have someone report to the colonel. We will need some cavalry to collect the ones who left with the horses.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” The man with him trotted back toward the battlefield. The Frenchman still stood there as if he had been frozen.
Kirsten was trembling. Anyone who killed that easily would not think twice of killing the baby—and her with it.
Hartmann looked at her, then took her arm gently. "Sit down before you fall." Kirsten dropped as if she were a puppet with the strings cut. The man started to take his canteen from his belt but instead took an ornate silver flask from the pack before her. He sniffed, then handed it to her. "Take a sip of this. Then another," he ordered gruffly. Poirot started to protest, but his words faded under Hartmann's glare.
Kirsten did, coughing and gasping at the bite of the neat spirit. But the second went down almost as if it were water. As she drank the second time, Hartmann looked at Rolf's body, then stood and walked over. “Well look at you, my beauty.” He bent down, picking up the weapon.
She had seen just about every kind of weapon in the last months, but this one was odd. A pistol of some kind, but instead of a wheel-lock mechanism, it had an arm with a piece of flint above a cylinder behind a single barrel. The sergeant lifted it up, pulling back one of the small brass pan covers, then closed it. "And loaded. Now, what idiot left you behind?"
“Stand fast!” Kirsten flinched at the harsh tone, but Hartmann just turned his head.
A pair of men on horseback stood there. One had drawn a wheel-lock to aim at Hartmann. The other just sat with his hands on the pommel of his saddle. “Just like any mercenary. Come to get the best before it is cataloged?”
“Investigating what a looter was taking, Captain.” Hartmann moved a hand to point at Rolf.
“Of course,” the officer purred. “No doubt you saw that and decided to add it to the others you have stolen here.” The captain's hand waved toward Hartmann's belt. “We will see what a court-martial has to say about it.”
The cavalryman beside the officer lifted his left hand to support the barrel of his weapon. Something about the sergeant's eyes made him nervous. “Captain, these,” Hartmann waved toward his belt. “are mine. This was in his hand when I shot him.”
“Stop lying, soldier. Thieves falling out is an old story.”
“What is this?” Another horseman was coming toward them. Colonel Ludendorf.
“Caught a soldier, a sergeant of all things, looting, Colonel,” the captain replied.
The colonel looked at the tableau. "Let me see it, sergeant." Hartmann stood and walked over to hand the pistol up, butt first. Ludendorf looked it over and opened then closed a pan. Then he hefted it, aiming. "Hans Stopler's shop in Nürnberg, I see. Not much good for a cavalryman. Too heavy to aim well when on the charge. But if the horse is standing, in a caracole, or on foot, a fine weapon. Some Frenchman obviously thought very well of himself." He passed it back the same way. "Back to your duties, Sergeant."
“Duty? Colonel, with all due respect, I am about to arrest him!”
“For what? Finding that?”
“Look at him!” The Captain pointed at the wheel-locks on his belt. “He has already stolen four guns today!”
“With all due respect, Captain, as I told you before, these are my guns.” Hartmann repeated.
“And again, I am calling you a liar, Sergeant. I saw your kind often enough back home. Drinking and whoring all night, hiding in the rear of the formations until the battle was over, then first for the loot! The colonel no doubt knows what I am speaking of.”
When he looked to the Colonel, his sneer slipped. Ludendorf was smiling—if you thought a predator snarling was a smile. The colonel leaned forward in his saddle. "Oh, I know it well, having been a mercenary for most of your piddling life, Captain. We always slept in, never did a lick of work, just showed off our prowess at drinking, whoring, and looting. And when some little pissant like you protested, we just killed them! After all, dead men tell no tales."
He looked at Hartmann. “Sergeant, I know they were yours before this battle, but indulge me; give him the provenance of your wheel-locks.”
"Yes, Sir." Hartmann handed the new weapon to Kirsten. Then he drew the one he had used to shoot Rolf. "This one I took off the body of a cavalry lieutenant in Magdeburg I caught raping a woman. Using it today was fitting." He drew the one behind his right hip. "This one I took in the same city. A young ensign of the lieutenant." The one on the left front. "This one was from an infantry sergeant at Jena after the up-timer Julie Sims shot him. She thought it was…I think the term is 'passé,' " The last. "This one from an officer at the Crapper."
There was the sound of jogging, and seventy men along with a lieutenant on horseback came to a halt. "Oh, Colonel, I had sent one of the men to find you." He reported as he saluted.
“Very good, Lieutenant Reicher. And who, by chance, asked for these men to come here?”
The li
eutenant looked a little confused. "Sergeant Hartmann did, Sir. To guard the train until it can be inventoried after he shot a looter. Did he not tell you?"
“No.” The colonel looked at the now very upset captain. “We were too busy discussing the horror of looting with Captain…Oh, you never gave your name or unit, Captain.”
"Volker, sir." The voice was now almost squeaky. "Quartermaster Corps. I was sent to begin the inventory of the enemy baggage."
“So, Sergeant, give your orders.”
Hartmann turned to the men. "I want a cordon around these wagons to make sure no one else decides to fill his pockets. Collect the camp followers or sutlers and send them here. Becker, put these two packs, and this weapon, in that wagon, and detail someone to guard them personally." He pointed at Rolf. "I knew that man, and if he stole anything, he would have stolen the best. Lieutenant, if you would, I think we might need another company up here for that cordon. Colonel, I had sent Luftman to find you as well. If we could, I would request some cavalry to track the sutlers that escaped on horseback, and bring them back."
Ludendorf nodded. “Well thought. Lieutenant Reicher, I agree. See it done. The rest of you, you have your orders.” The men moved out. Once they were alone again, the colonel looked at the captain. “Anything further, Captain Volker?” Ludendorf asked mildly.
“No, Sir.”
“Then I believe you owe the sergeant an apology.”
“Sir—”
“You called the senior sergeant of my entire regiment a thief. When he told you those guns were his, you gave him the lie direct. Twice from your own words. If he were an officer, he could have challenged you for impugning his honor.”
“But he is not an officer!”
“Only because he refused the field promotion to lieutenant I offered him in January. And if he were to duel, having been a soldier before you entered ritterschule, you would be dead. Apologize!”
Volker glared at the sergeant. He spoke as if the words were glass shards. “My words were harsh and improper, Sergeant. I ask that you forgive my intemperate remarks.”
Grantville Gazette, Volume 68 Page 8