1636- the Flight of the Nightingale

by David Carrico

  Johann’s brothers laughed as they followed him out of the bakery. The three of them walked down the street side by side, eating their bread, Johann in the middle.

  “So,” Christoph said after swallowing a lump of bread, “you said you’re building an organ?”

  Johann nodded, mouth full of bread.

  “Isn’t that a bit ambitious for you? I mean, you’ve not done that before, have you?”

  Johann swallowed. “Not designed one, no, but when I left Suhl for Schweinfurt, I was involved in a repair and partial rebuild of the Schweinfurt church organ. And I did get to spend some time with two of the Compenius family and talk organs one night in Erfurt, and I made careful notes afterward. I think I can do this.”

  “You’d best do it,” Christoph said around the bite he was chewing. “You will taint the name of Bach if you don’t.”

  “We will do this,” Johann said. “You have as much interest in seeing it happen as I do. As the up-timers say, a rising tide lifts all boats.”

  “I’m not a boat,” Heinrich announced. “I’m a ship. See my sails?” He extended his arms to their full length to the side, and smacked Johann in the chest with one of them, which made Johann choke on the bite of bread he had just taken.

  “Id…idiot,” Johann gasped between coughs.

  Both brothers pounded on Johann’s back. When he finally got his breath back, he snapped, “Enough!” He caught a grin on Heinrich’s face before the youngest brother could erase it. “Just wait until I find you coughing, Heinz. Two can play that game,” he said with an evil grin of his own, lifting a hand.

  Heinrich edged around to the other side of Christoph, who immediately stepped out from between them. “Don’t try to hide behind me,” was all he said with a smirk.

  The youngest brother lifted both hands, palm out, shoulder high. “I’ll be good,” he said with a solemn face and a motion of the cross.

  “Right,” Johann snorted. “And if anyone believes that, I have a castle on the Rhine I’d like to sell them.” Christoph laughed at that, and even Heinrich reluctantly cracked a smile. “Now come on,” Johann continued. He turned, and headed down the graveled road that was Kristinstrasse, one of the major east/west avenues in Greater Magdeburg outside of the walls of the old city.

  His brothers fell in beside him again. “So what are you doing today?” Christoph asked.

  “Today we go check on the wind-chest for the organ.”

  “Ah, they’ve gotten that far with it, then?” Heinrich asked with interest.

  “Yah,” Johann answered. “The building of it is basically complete, and they should be sealing the inside of it. That’s what I want to check on. If they make a mistake, it will be much easier to correct if we address it before the glue sets and cures.”

  “Right,” Christoph said with a nod, echoed by Heinrich. Although neither of them were instrument makers in their own right, they both had observed craftsmen at work on violins and claviers, so they had some idea of how that kind of work was done.

  “So,” Johann said, turning north on the ring road around the old city of Magdeburg, paralleling Der Grosse Graben, the moat around the Altstadt, the oldest part of the old city, and the walls around the Neustadt, the rest of the old city, “we shall see how well they are doing.”

  It wasn’t long before Johann had led his brothers through the southwest gate of the Neustadt and into the west side of the construction site, where they found themselves watching the carpenters glue paper to the inside of the main wind-chest. The wind-chest had indeed been solidly built, but the cracks between the boards would allow for air to escape and weaken the pressure needed to make the pipes sound. So the carpenters had to seal the inside of the chest, and the manner in which they had chosen to do so was interesting to him. His brothers stood beside him, just as fascinated.

  The little brazier under the carpenters’ glue pot kept the chamber rather warm. Johann had taken his jacket off not long after they had arrived and laid it atop the carpenters’ tool chest. His shirt-clad arms were crossed as he watched them.

  It was a matter of some humor that both of the carpenters working on the organ were named Georg. It wasn’t the most common of names in Thuringia, after all. But Big Georg and Old Georg, as he thought of them, didn’t seem to have any trouble keeping straight who was talking to each of them, and they were good at their craft, so Johann just smiled from time to time when the thought crossed his mind.

  At the moment, Big Georg was brushing glue from the pot onto the back of a large thick piece of paper. His strokes were smooth and steady, almost like it was a task he’d done a myriad of times, yet Johann knew that this was the first organ the man had worked on.

  Big Georg put the brush back in the gluepot and placed the pot back on the brazier, careful not to spill a drop. He then lifted the piece of paper with care by two corners and passed it to his partner.

  Old Georg applied it to the inside of the wind-chest with equal care, overlapping with the piece he had just applied a few moments ago. He took up a brush and smoothed out the new application, then picked up a tool that was nothing more than a piece of thick leather folded over a brass blade and began smoothing the air bubbles out, pushing them toward the outside edge.

  Johann’s gaze was very intent, following every practiced move. It startled him when Big Georg chuckled.

  “You know, Master Bach, you really do not have to stand around and watch us like my old schoolmaster. We will do the job right.”

  Johann looked over to see a wide grin on the big man’s face.

  “Nah, not like a schoolmaster,” Old Georg’s voice echoed from inside the wind-chest. “More like a first-time father when his wife is in labor.” Johann could hear the humor in the older man’s voice, and he did not doubt a smile was also present.

  “How do you mean?” Big Georg asked.

  “Well, he knows he’s responsible for what is going on, and he wants to do something to make sure everything goes right, but he does not know what to do and is totally dependent on someone else who does not want or need his help to get it done.”

  The two Georgs broke out into raucous laughter, and Johann could feel his lips curling up, however reluctantly. “Not being married, I cannot say from my own experience if you have the right of it, Georg,” he replied.

  “Not married, are you?” Big Georg asked.

  “Not yet. There was a girl in Erfurt, but…” Johann shrugged.

  “You came to Magdeburg, and suddenly Erfurt does not look so grand, eh?”

  Johann shrugged again, hearing muffled snorts from Christoph and Heinrich.

  “Got your eye on a woman here?”

  A vision of Staci’s face crossed his mind. “Perhaps.”

  “I knew it.” Old Georg crawled out of the wind-chest. “Side walls are done. Cap the brazier and set the pot to cool, Georg. We’ll pick up from there in the morning.” He straightened his slight frame and twisted his back, generating several loud pops. “Oog, I am getting too old to be crouched like that all day.” The older man took his hands, grasped his head and jerked it to each side, generating more pops.

  “You knew what?” his partner demanded.

  “He is looking for a city girl, a bürgemeister’s daughter, or maybe a younger daughter of one of the Niederadel. Or, even better,” Old Georg leered at Johann, “he wants one of those uppity up-timer women. Am I right?”

  Johann said nothing, just smiled.

  “Hah! I thought so.” Old Georg slapped his knee. “You just be careful, Master Bach. Them up-timers can be a tricksy lot at times. Everyone knows that. You think things through with care before you tie yourself down with one of them.”

  Johann picked his jacket up as the two Georgs lifted their tool chest to take it to the locked storage area. “I will take your advice to heart, Georg.”

  “You do that,” the older man called over his shoulder as they maneuvered out the door.

  Johann looked around. Solid progress being made at last
. It had taken longer than he had hoped for the wind chamber to be built, but now that it was up and roofed the carpenters were making good speed. He bent over and peered into the wind-chest. Another day, maybe, to finish lining the chest with paper, unless they decided there needed to be two layers. Two or three days past that to make sure the glue was cured, then the varnish would be applied. Once that dried, he could rest assured that there would be no air leaks from the inside of the chest.

  He slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked through the shell of the building, his brothers following, feet following the safe paths with unconscious thought as he mused. An uppity up-timer woman, huh? Is that what he wanted? Hazel eyes above an impish grin floated before him, sparking a smile of his own. Yes, if he was going to be honest, that was what he wanted.

  “An up-time woman?” Heinrich asked. “When do we get to meet her?”

  Johann heard the glee in his brother’s voice, and groaned inside. He had really hoped to keep Staci a secret for a bit longer, but it looked like he’d let his own secret slip.

  “Today is…” Johann began, then paused.

  “Wednesday,” Christoph said with a grin. “What of it?”

  “I may be able to introduce you tonight, then,” Johann said.

  “What’s her name?” Heinrich insisted.

  “Later. Let’s go see the whitesmith.” And with that, Johann headed back out of the construction site and onto the Gustavstrasse.

  Half an hour later, the three Bachs were standing against the back wall of Master Philip Luder’s forge space, watching the master and his assistant work. The two men carried a crucible full of molten tin from the forge to the pouring table with great care. There was no doubt in his mind that the crucible and its carrying rods were weighty, and that the molten ore contained within the crucible added to the load. But there was also no doubt in his mind that the reason for their slow steps and gentle handling had nothing to do with the weight. No, he could see the heat waves above the mouth of the crucible, making wavy lines through which he could not see with clarity. The thought of what that molten metal could do if it spilled or splashed on a man’s flesh caused his groin to shrivel and his stomach to attempt to climb up his throat. Despite the fact that he was well away from them, he still slid down the wall another step or two, pushing Christoph and Heinrich along as he did so.

  The whitesmith and his journeyman came to the pouring table and positioned themselves with care at the head of it. They lifted the crucible so that the lip of it rested on the edge of the trough mounted on top of the table rim.

  “Gently, gently,” Master Luder breathed. “On the count of three…One, two, three, pour.”

  They tilted the crucible until the molten silvery-gray tin slowly poured out in a steady wave into the trough. Higher and higher the crucible tilted, until the pour slowed and the last few drops of it fell into the trough, making ripples in the molten metal.

  “Quickly now,” the master snapped. They set the crucible down on the stone floor with alacrity, then took positions on each side of the trough. “Ready?”

  “Jah.” The journeyman was focused on the trough, having grasped a handle on his side of it with both his gloved hands.

  “Again on three. One, two, three, pull.”

  Johann saw Master Luder trip a latch as he said “pull,” and the molten tin sluiced out the bottom of the trough as they pulled it on the raised rim down the length of the table. The last drops spilled out as they reached the end of the table.

  The two smiths straightened and took off their heavy leather gloves. Master Luder walked the length of the table, peering at the shining sheet of tin. At the head of the table, he turned to Johann.

  “It is a good pour,” he declared, reaching up to take off his scarred leather apron. “That is the first of the English tin. I had to try it myself to see how it would melt and pour. Very few impurities in it, and I was able to skim most of them right off the top. So, somewhat cleaner than the locally produced tin, but also somewhat more expensive. I will do a pour of the local tin and compare them, then you and I will talk. The English tin is more costly, of course, and if there is little benefit to the cost increase, you may need to rethink your requirement. Either way, I will likely contract with other whitesmiths to make the sheet tin like this, and I will concentrate on making the pipes for you.”

  “Very good,” Johann said. He stepped closer to the table and gazed at the shimmering metal through the heat waves. “I trust that we will start seeing pipes soon.”

  Master Luder shrugged. “As soon as this cools and I can start working it. First pipes in a week, first tunable pipes the week after that.”

  Johann calculated in his mind. “That will do for a start. But you may have to work with other smiths to make the pipes as well. Three thousand pipes is a lot for you and your workers to make by yourselves.”

  Master Luder shrugged again. “We will cross that ford when we come to it.”

  Johann said nothing, but observed to himself that the crossing of that ford would not be far off—not if he had anything to say about it—and he did. Still, this was a good beginning. “My thanks, Master Philip. Shall we go to the Green Horse and celebrate this auspicious beginning?”

  “Nah,” the whitesmith replied with a smile. “I have much to do yet before this day’s light is done.” He held up a hand with a raised index finger. “However, the day that you pass the first completed pipe, then we will all go to the Green Horse!” He waved his hand broadly to include both his journeyman and the two younger Bach brothers. The journeyman nodded his head with a vigor that matched Heinrich’s echoing nod.

  “As you will,” Johann replied with an answering smile. “Until then.”

  Johann was still smiling when he stepped out into the evening light. He had carried his jacket from the construction site, and had left it off in the warmth of the forge. For all that it had been a sunny spring day earlier, clouds were covering the sun now and the air outside was cool, so he shook the jacket out to put it on, shrugging his shoulders to get it to settle.

  “Herr Bach!” someone called out. “Johann!”

  Johann looked around to see Marla Linder waving at him from where she stood with her husband, Franz Sylwester. He started to cross the street to where she was, only to have Christoph grab his collar and yank him back just as a large pair of horses moved into the space he’d been about to step into, pulling a rather large and laden wagon behind them.

  The wagon driver looked down at him. “You…” The rest of the driver’s monologue established a masterful command of profanity, scatology, and blasphemy as he assessed Johann’s intelligence, likelihood of siring children, legitimacy, general maleness, and prospects of making any significant contributions to the German people or to the human race in general, all in a few short pithy sentences that trailed away as the wagon trundled on.

  “You might want to watch where you’re about to step,” Christoph said, voice slightly strained. Johann wasn’t sure if that was from concern at almost seeing his elder brother stepped on or run over, or from suppressed laughter at the same cause.

  Johann looked to his younger brother, where he observed widened eyes and lips moving soundlessly as he stared after the wagon. He was undoubtedly trying to memorize parts of what he’d heard. Johann shook his head.

  “Come on.” After a moment, Johann started forward again, this time carefully looking both ways. He suspected he would hear about this again.

  Marla grinned at Johann as he and his brothers joined her and Franz on their side of the street. “Got to watch where you’re going, man.”

  “Indeed,” Johann admitted with a bit of a sour grin of his own. Christoph nudged him. “Ah, these are my brothers, Christoph and Heinrich.” They each nodded as their names were called. “These are Franz Sylwester, dirigent of the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and Marla Linder, leading treble singer of Magdeburg, superb musician and master of the piano, and one of the leading lights of Magdeburg’s music
establishment.”

  The two young men bowed, receiving nods in reply from Marla and Franz.

  “Nice to meet you, boys,” Marla said. She looked at Johann with another grin. “You going to put them to work?”

  “They’re going to help with the organ project, yes.”

  “Good. I suspect you’re going to need the help.”

  Johann shrugged.

  “We’re going to be at the Green Horse tonight,” Marla continued. “You planning on being there? Staci said she was going to come.” Marla’s grin reappeared, this time with an edge of humor to it.

  “Ah, yes,” Johann said, not missing the glances his brothers gave each other.

  “Good. We’ll see you then.” Marla slipped her hand around Franz’s arm. “Meanwhile, we’ve got to run to Zapff and Sons printers and get some more staff paper. See you tonight. And nice to meet you, Christoph, Heinrich.”

  And with that, the two of them turned and moved off.

  “Is she the one?” Heinrich asked.

  “No,” Johann said in a quelling tone.

  “She is that good a musician?” Christoph asked, watching them leave.

  “Frau Marla, as she insists everyone call her, may be the best musician in the city,” Johann responded. “And Herr Franz is not far behind her.”

  “Up-timer, I assume from her accent,” Heinrich said. Johann just nodded in response. “He said nothing. Is he an up-timer as well? Does he hide behind her?”

  That jarred a laugh out of Johann. “By no means. Franz is one of us. He is no weakling. He is as strong-willed as she—he had to be, to win her—but he is somewhat quieter, so that he sometimes seems to be the shadow to her sunshine. Let him stand at the head of the orchestra, though, and you will see him in all his strength.”

  “Dirigent,” Christoph mused.

  “We will talk about that later,” Johann said.

  “Staci,” Heinrich murmured with an evil grin.