Hartmann's gaze was as cold. “I accept your apology, Sir. And with your permission, I will get back to my duty.”
“Yes. Someone here needs to go back to what they should be doing.” Ludendorf looked at the captain. Volker signaled angrily, and the man with him followed toward the opposite end of the train of wagons.
Hartmann watched them ride away. “ ’For it's Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy,’ow's yer soul?” ’ ”
“But it's ‘Thin red line of ‘eroes’ when the drums begin to roll,” Ludendorf finished.
"Pardon?" Hartmann glared at the Frenchman as he spoke again. He continued to talk, and the sergeant shook his head. Nonplussed, the Frenchman spoke again, this time in Danish.
“He is asking that the wagon of his master be spared the sack.”
Hartmann looked down at Kirsten. She had been so silent he had forgotten she was there. She lifted the flask she still held, then pointed at the wagon behind her. “This was taken from his master's wagon, mein Herr.”
“I am not Herren. I am just a soldier.” He looked around, “Schmidt. Move those bags you are guarding to this wagon. If you would, Frau, tell this man we will assure his goods are not counted among the spoils.”
There was a cough, and the sergeant looked up at the colonel. “I am sorry, Sir. Was there something else?”
"The brigadier witnessed that charge of yours. When he found out you were still alive and hale, he told me that he was going to speak to General Torstensson and put you in for a rittertum." Everyone was shocked when Hartmann snorted, grasped his sides, and fell backward. For a moment, Kirsten thought the man was having a seizure of some kind, but then Hartmann roared with laughter, rolling back and forth, slapping the ground.
After a time, Hartmann sat up, leaning forward, still chuckling. "Oh, I could just see it, Sir!" He looked up. "The regiment is having a grand party, and all the adel just have to be invited! And the majordomo announces, 'Sergeant, Ritter Richard Hartmann, and his lovely…" His humor faded. ". . .wife, Marta."
“I am sorry for reminding you.” But Hartmann waved off the apology.
“No, it is fine, Sir. It is a far better image than thinking of how she must have looked when she died. Please, Sir, speak with the brigadier. Ask him to reconsider. I am a bluff and plain-spoken sergeant. If someone were to shout 'Lieutenant' or 'Herr Richard' around me, I would be busy looking for that man. And I do not know of a single man given such an honor who is still an enlisted man.” He stood. “With your permission, Sir, I must get back to work.”
As the colonel rode off, the sergeant looked at Kirsten. “Stay here.”
Hartmann walked a short distance away, looking around at the gathering men and women of the French camp. “Now how the hell do I tell all of these idiots, some of whom no doubt do not even speak German, what to do?” he muttered. “Schmidt!”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
"Where has Becker gotten off to? No, just point in his direction." When he could see him, Hartmann bellowed, and signaled the wachtmeister. When the subordinate arrived, he clasped his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth heel to toe. "Now my lad, here is a bit of sergeant's education for you. Among all of these, we no doubt have some who do not speak German well, meaning more headaches for your dear sergeant. So, who in the company speaks Danish and French?”
Becker blushed. "I used to work with the Council of Nürnberg as a clerk before I went to Magdeburg and joined the CoC, Sergeant. I speak and read Latin, Danish, French, Italian, Spanish, and Dutch." At Hartmann's cocked eyebrow he added, "I have a flair for languages."
Hartmann grinned. “Well I know it, lad. Anyone who can quote Seneca, Machiavelli, and Montaigne in his arguments must speak Latin, Italian, and French at least. You have to assume your sergeant is not completely stupid.” He motioned. “So you get to stand here and act as my translator while I tell these odds and ends what they must do.”
He climbed into one of the wagons so they could see him clearly. "Translate into French and other languages as needed, Becker." He raised his voice to a shout. "All of you, come here, please! First, does anyone speak only French? Danish? Italian? Spanish?" As Becker also shouted the question again in all the languages he spoke, they raised their hands; each group was signaled into a cluster in the center. Not too many, thank God. "Your attention, please! Any of you women who were forced to be camp followers are free to go. Before you go, if your men are dead on the field, I will see about getting you their effects as compensation. If they are not, we will take it from those who stole you from your homes.
"If you wish to remain with the army or your men, you will have to register. It is a requirement in the USE, so we do not have half of the people of the region we are in deciding they have been our camp followers all along for free meals. In a short while, some of my men will take you to our camp, and speak to our sergeants, who will list you for approval. You sutlers and men who were working for the French, once you have been searched for loot, you will be free to go or hire on."
Hartmann climbed down, going to Rolf's body and taking his purse. It was bulging. No surprise. He then went to the bags Rolf had packed and took out another silver flask. He walked back over to Kirsten and pressed them into her hands. "You are free. Take this and go home."
****
Kirsten watched him walk away. For a long time, she just knelt there, eyes blank. She had heard what the sergeant had said, but how did it apply to her? Even with the money and loot he had pressed upon her, what was she to do?
“Frau?” She looked up into an earnest young face. “We need to get you to our camp. Follow us, please?”
She walked in the crowd still deep in her morbid thoughts. Her old life was as dead as the bastard that had used her body and left her like this. She could not go home.
“Any camp followers who are remaining come over here, please!” A spare little man who looked more like a clerk than a soldier had set up a table and stool. With nowhere else to go, she got into the line, waiting vacantly.
“Name?” She looked up. The man looked at the women behind her impatiently. “Frau, your name?” She gave it. “And who are you with?” At her still blank expression, he added gently. “Who has responsibility for you?”
She suddenly saw her chance. A chance for a life. “Sergeant Richard Hartmann.”
****
Hartmann had his men assisting Volker and the company from the Quartermaster Corps once the cordon was set. Each wagon was checked, the baggage carts unpacked, and spoils cataloged after being moved into the USE train where it would be divided up as necessary. But some of the wagons had food, and that had to be inventoried now. Mainly it was pickled meat and fish, sauerkraut and pickled vegetables and flour, all in barrels. Then hams, sausage, and cheese, both rounds and wheels. Finally, fresh fruit and root vegetables in bags, and more bags of grain, and hardtack bread. Everything an army needed on a campaign. But with a practiced eye, he knew not enough to feed the prisoners for very long.
He knew from bitter experience that one reason armies foraged was that the supplies were usually so poor. After months in the casks, the meat would be so tough that it had to be boiled just to make it edible. The hardtack bread would live up to the name, hard enough to loosen your teeth when chewed, or would no doubt be moldy or infested with weevils and maggots. In one unit he had been with, the officers had confiscated living chickens, dragging them around in a wagon fitted with cages to contain them, and used the insects to supplement their feed of scraps. Of course, the officers were the ones who ate the eggs and chickens—and the lion's share of the fresh foods.
Even the fresh foods would spoil until the up-timer designed canning industry got into full career, and again, in most armies, it would be the officers who received that first. The men would probably still eat the same garbage, maybe one meal a day worth eating unless they took fresh food from villagers.
Most armies also had problems with the men's health. He knew from his time with the u
p-timers that scurvy was caused by a vitamin deficiency, though exactly what a vitamin was still escaped him. The primary thing the up-timers had done for the men in the army was a more varied diet and one that supplied as much of those 'vitamins' as possible.
Tonight they would feast, however. The dead horses would be dressed out over the next days, the skins and bones along with the inedible offal would be packed into wagons and would be sent to the tanners, gluemakers, and to feed pets or swine in Lübeck and Hamburg. At least that would make some money to help pay for the campaign. And a good meal after a hard day for perhaps four days.
There had also been orders to send riders to the neighboring villages to have them come and collect some of that meat for themselves, and the villagers had replied with shock. An invading army feeding them?
“I think a shrew.” One of the men suggested to his companion as Hartmann strode past. “Small but fierce.”
“No, a weasel. Something that kills for pleasure.” His compatriot replied.
“Or that bunny with a knife,” he made a motion as if holding something, 'Ka-click!”
Hartmann snarled. “Bachmann, Wien, if you have enough breath to debate, you have enough to do some real work.”
“Yes, sergeant,” they replied, moving baggage back into the cart.
Again with the battle standard! Honestly, why waste breath deciding on a symbol when you should be working? They had been at it since they had marched from Magdeburg. Some were desolated when they had seen the lion on another standard. It had been the front runner up until then.
Since his men were busy, and his feldwebel well-trained, he wandered the camp where the Third Regiment tents were. Everything was as he would want, and the women were already putting another full side of meat on a spit to cook for the men. Maggie, the woman in charge of the regimental camp followers, put three lazing men on each end of the spit, and they lifted the almost four hundred pounds of meat to cook over a blazing fire before attaching a handle to turn it. Some women saw him and waved or called to him. They also giggled and spoke in hushed voices. Mentally he shrugged. Women always did that. A couple were from the French army camp, including the pregnant girl he'd seen who was kneading bread dough to put in pans to rise; now in the burgundy of the Third's camp followers.
He wondered who had chosen her? Someone desperate for a son? But that was a question for later. There were still things to do. He decided to check with the senior sergeants of the other regiments of both divisions. He agreed with the up-timer logic that communication was the key to proper order. And he had other things to do. Dietrich had given his all saving Hartmann's life. He deserved having someone sit with him for these last hours.
****
Several hours later, in the gathering darkness, he returned to the battalion area, getting some meat, boiled potatoes, and sauerkraut with fresh, hot bread. Guards had already been set, his feldwebel doing their jobs. Even the other senior sergeants of those units that surrounded them had little that needed a sergeant's hand to deal with. He lit his pipe, leaning back. For a soldier, it was as good as life in the field got.
"Ah sergeant, there you are!" He looked up, good mood souring. He had as little to do with Sergeant Diefenbaker, who handled regimental personnel, as he could. Frankly, he was a lackluster squad leader and would have been a rifleman in Hartmann's company. What did the little idiot want now? "You have to sign the authorization." He held out a pencil and a clipboard.
“Authorization?”
“Yes, Hartmann, Authorization. When someone adds a camp follower, they have to give their name and who is responsible for their inclusion. You know that.”
One reason he loathed the man was that Diefenbaker would automatically assume the person he was talking with was ignorant of the regulations in the USE Army. But this one Hartmann did know since he had to approve it when one of his men added one. "All right. Who added a camp follower?"
“You did.”
Hartmann looked at the idiot. “I did what?”
“She gave her name, and said you were responsible.” Diefenbaker looked at the form Hartmann had not touched. “Kirsten Jansen, camp follower of Sergeant Richard Hartmann.”
Hartmann snatched the clipboard away, looked at the form, then leaped to his feet and took off at a fast walk. Diefenbaker squealed like a stuck pig, then followed after, bleating about his lost clipboard. His tent was right there, and he flipped the flap aside, ready to bellow in fury.
Kirsten had curled up on his bedding. Obviously, she had been tired from her long day, and sleep had overcome her. Part of him wanted to snatch her up and fling her from the tent with choice words about hubris. But the comments died. When he had seen her before, he had judged her age to be around seventeen. But looking at her now peaceful sleeping face, he decided closer to fifteen. Some poor child stolen from her home, raped, impregnated, and forced to work for someone that terrified her. His gentle manner had probably been the kindest thing she experienced during the entire campaign.
“Hartmann really—” Diefenbaker fell silent as Hartmann turned back to him.
Hartmann dashed out his signature, then shoved the clipboard back into his hands. “Go. Away.” He went back into the tent and sat, looking at her sleeping. As much as losing Marta hurt, he couldn't just throw this girl aside. She had already been through horrors he could very well imagine, and his denial of her would no doubt be the stone that crushed what spirit she had left. Tomorrow would be soon enough; he would talk with her, find where her family lived, and then arrange her return.
****
When he awakened right before dawn as he always did, the first thing he noticed was that someone was spooned up to his front. He could feel the bulge of a pregnant woman under his hand, and for a moment, he thought he was still dreaming of Marta. But he could feel the greatcoat he had rolled up in last night; could see the edge of his woolen blanket he had wrapped her in and the red hair of the girl. Sometime during the night she must have awakened, and moved it to cover them both.
Trying to be careful not to awaken her, he moved his arm and started to sit up. But at his movement, he heard her breathing catch, then she rolled away, hand up protectively before her face. For a long moment, she sprawled there, eyes closed, gasping in terror. When she had awakened during the night, she had undressed, and now lay there in only her chemise. When nothing happened, she slowly opened her brilliant hazel eyes.
Hartmann had stopped moving when she reacted and still lay with one arm raised as if entreating. Once he was sure she remembered where she was, he slowly sat up, crossing his legs. "I think I deserve an explanation."
“Rolf was always demanding in the mornings,” she whispered.
“No, before that.”
“When I sleep, my back hurts if I lay flat on my back, and I cannot lay on my stomach. Unless I have something to lean against it also hurts if I curl up on my side. When I woke up during the night, I moved over to lay with you so I had something to rest against.”
He sighed. “Let us go back to yesterday, and how I suddenly gained a camp follower.”
“You were kind to me.”
“Why did you not go home?”
She looked away, her voice dropping to a whisper, her hand touching her stomach. “I tried almost three months ago. But my father is a very religious man. He believed this was proof that I must have enjoyed the time I was being used rather than fighting until they killed me.” She looked up defiant, tears in her eyes. “He was not there to see Rolf and his friend Simon break me like a newly whipped hound. Or being bred like a prize bitch. The village near our home has been raided so often by the army that they could not support a girl in this condition, and a bastard child as well. They would not let me stay.” She looked down. “Where else could I go? I was found by a cavalry patrol and taken back to the camp.
“When I returned Rolf told me as long as I was willing to satisfy him with my hand or—” She motioned toward her rear. “—until the child was born, he was will
ing to protect me, though he was upset that I would try to bite him if he was to. . .” she hung her head, pointing at her mouth. “Except for that, as long as I was compliant and worked, I was left alone.” She looked up, then down in her misery. “If I must, I will satisfy you with my mouth.”
Hartmann noted her abject surrender, his fury absent from his face. “When is the baby due?”
"I do not know. If I were a pig, it would have happened months ago." Her gaze sharpened as he chuckled. "Now I am amusing?"
"With pigs, it is only four months or so. With humans, it is much longer. Had your mother not told you this?”
“My mother died when I was young. My father is a forester and only went to the village to sell the trees he cut, and I would go along. I never saw a pregnancy from start to finish.” She shrugged. “Except for our pigs.”
"Oh, life is so good," he muttered sarcastically. He stood up, careful to stay far from her, and went through his pack, getting out a clean uniform. "Come on."
She looked at him with terror in her eyes. “You are going to cast me aside?”
“I have to take you over to our field hospital to find out when you are due. Then I will see what I can do.”
****
The midwife knelt, then turned. “Herr Mediziner?” she motioned for the medic to come over. Kirsten blushed, covering her face as the man leaned to look closer.
"Odd. What are these?" The girl flinched at his gentle touch. "They look like needles were stuck into her thighs over and over." He stood back, so he was no longer looking at her bare body. "I have seen some the women who joined our camp followers with such injuries. Frau Jansen, can you tell me what caused these marks?"
Kirsten refused to meet his eye. “Rolf was friends with a sutler he always called ma petite Simon. When I refused at first what Rolf wished to do, Simon would take needles, and…” She mimed sticking a needle into her chest with her forefinger, then flicked it with the other forefinger.
“Monster,” the medic commented. “Continue, Frau Stein.”
Grantville Gazette, Volume 68 Page 9