Von Dantz, by then, had settled himself into another tent. Anse pulled back the flap and asked: “Would you happen to have a Bible, Captain?”
“Ja, a New Testament, but it is in German. Do you read German?"
It’d be in Fraktur script, too, the Gothic style, which Anse still had a lot of trouble with. “Not too well, no. But Wili does. Wili’s a Catholic, but he’ll be willing to say a few words to send any Christian home.”
The captain looked a little surprised, but got his New Testament out of his pack.
Later, after the burial and a quick supper, Captain von Dantz approached Anse. “I think we should all stand watch tonight. Three on, three off. You, me and Private Schultz on the first watch and Sergeant Ivarsson, Rau and Frau Reardon on the second. Since the Murphy woman is unarmed and seems not very familiar with weapons, I see no point in including her. Besides, she is tending the children.”
“Sounds good, captain.”
January 19, 1633
The night was quiet. Early the next morning as they were re-packing the wagon, Anse asked, “Noelle, what do you think we should do with the boys? We can’t leave them here.”
“You should stop referring to them as ‘the boys,’ for starters,” she said, a little crossly. “You make them sound like luggage. They are Hans Felix Polheimer and Hans Ulrich Moser. They’re first cousins. Hans Felix is the older. As to what we’re going to do with them, we’re taking them to Suhl. Obviously.”
Anse couldn’t help smiling at her frosty tone. He’d heard that Noelle Murphy didn’t suffer fools gladly-and, admittedly, his question had been a little foolish.
“Load Hans and Hans on the wagon, then. We’re almost ready to pull out. Von Dantz will have kittens if they’re are any more delays.”
“I’d say let him, except I’d pity the poor kittens.”
That turned Anse’s smile into a real grin.
* * *
When they arrived in Suhl, a little after noon, Anse was surprised by the size of the city. It was a lot smaller than he’d expected from Pat’s letters. That must be caused by the wall crowding everyone inside, he thought.
Then he noticed the people themselves. Over the past year and a half, he’d gotten used to the mix of up-time and down-time clothing worn around Grantville, and-though to a lesser extent-in nearby Badenburg and Jena. Now, having crossed the Thueringerwald, he was in a strictly German city.
Not only was there no mix of clothing, but many of the people on the streets of Suhl were casting unfriendly looks at the party. Whatever was causing trouble in the countryside had spread to the city, apparently. Anse was getting a weird feeling of deja vu. This was all strange, but all too familiar.
Then it hit him. The last time he’d felt this way was almost forty years earlier. In Saigon, in 1969, just before the Tet Offensive.
There were no overt signs of hostility, however. That was presumably due to the tough-looking mercenaries who were guarding the city gates and, now and then, patrolling the streets in small squads. The Swedish garrison wasn’t very big, true, but it was big enough to keep the peace in a town the size of Suhl. The problem was that the Swedish garrison shouldn’t be patrolling in a NUS state, in the first place. The city council should be keeping the peace with constables or militia.
Anse scowled. He let the wagon pass him and rode close to the tail gate so he could talk to Rau without shouting.
“Can you pass for a local, Jochen?”
When Rau nodded, Anse continued: “Pass me your shotgun and get your revolver out of sight. I want you to do a little walk around here in Suhl. Drop off the wagon when no one can see you. Find out what’s going on and meet me at Pat’s house. You have the address?”
“Nein. But how many U.S. WaffenFabrik can there be in Suhl?” Jochen grinned as he handed Anse the shotgun. “I will find you.”
Anse rode forward to the front of the wagon. When he turned to look, Jochen was already gone. “Slippery as an eel,” he said to himself.
They only had to ask directions three times before they pulled on to the street that promised to hold Pat’s factory. Then Anse spotted it, immediately. Pat had marked his shop with a huge sign made like an up-time Kentucky rifle that reached most of the way across the narrow street. Across the front of the building was printed in two foot high letters, U. S. WaffenFabrik.
“Anse Hatfield! What are you doing in Suhl?” Anse was disoriented for a moment, until he saw that what he had at first glance taken for a prosperous looking down-timer was actually his brother-in-law. Pat Johnson was dressed entirely in down-time clothing.
“Hi, Bubba. We came to see you, partly.”
“Allo, Wili.” Pat nodded to Schultz, sitting on the wagon seat. “Hi, Gaylynn. Gary didn’t tell me you were coming to Suhl.”
“That’s because Gary didn’t know. I wanted to surprise him. Now where is he?”
“Well, he’s either in the office, right through that door, or on the shop floor on the other side.”
Gaylynn was off the wagon quick as a flash and headed for the door. Then she stopped and turned to the wagon. “Felix, Ulrich, kommen mit me. I want you to meet Gary.”
Her mixture of German and English might not have been understood by the boys. But Noelle’s nudge was clear enough. The two young cousins jumped from the wagon and followed Gaylynn through the door. Noelle went with them, after exchanging a brief greeting with Pat.
After watching the little procession pass through the door, John turned back to Anse and Wili. “Does someone want to tell me who those two boys are and what’s going on?”
Anse chuckled. “Well, it looks as if Noelle has convinced Gaylynn that her family just got a little bigger.”
“Ja,” Wili added. “Gary chust become the father of two boys named Hans.”
Pat waved his hand. “Tell me over lunch. Come on. We’ll put the horses, the donkey and the wagon in the factory yard and I’ll buy your lunch. There’s a good tavern nearby.”
“No Freedom Arches? I make it a point to patronize them.”
Pat seemed to grimace a little. “In Suhl? Not yet. And if those boys don’t . . . ah, never mind.”
* * *
Over a lunch of stew, cheese, and rye bread, the two travelers explained where the boys came from. After that they got down to the reason for the trip.
When they were done, Pat Johnson nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’d guess about fifteen hundred guns a week are leaving Suhl. Small arms, that is. Not more than one or two field pieces. Most are going north, either to princes who are members of the CPE or friendly to it. But at least five hundred a week are going to someone else. As far as I know, none of my rifles have gone to unfriendly people, although I can’t be sure. I suppose I should have put the factory in Jena, but . . .”
He shrugged. “Property values in Jena are getting almost as high as in Grantville-and there were so many trained and experienced gunsmiths here.”
“Nobody’s faulting you, Pat,” Anse responded. “Have you talked to the head of the city militia? Or the Swedish garrison commander? Or the NUS military liaison?"
Pat’s grimace, this time, wasn’t subtle at all.
“Not much, still less, and none at all. The garrison commander is Captain Bruno Felder, and I can’t tell if he’s dumb or lazy or both. Either way, he’s made it plain he’s not interested. As for the NUS military liaison, what idiot sent Johnny Horton down here in that capacity? He’s dumber than Felder, and I only wish he were as lazy. What he is, is a hothead. Seems like every other day, he’s quarreling with one of the locals. Especially with the Suhl militia captain. Usually over some petty bullshit.”
Anse rubbed his face. He didn’t know the German captain in command of the Swedish garrison, but he did know Johnny Horton. Stupid and quarrelsome were pretty fair descriptions of the man. He’d been perhaps the least popular teacher at Grantville’s high school.
“The whole army’s stretched tight as a drum, Pat,” he said, by way of an explanation-excuse.
“Sure, I know. Just like I know that it probably looked like a smart idea, back up there in Grantville, to shuffle him off to Suhl. But I can tell you it was one terrible idea. There’s enough trouble here as it is, without us stirring up more of it. And why the hell do we need a ‘military liaison’ in the first place? The whole damn Swedish garrison isn’t more than maybe forty men.”
Anse didn’t bother answering the question, since it was obviously rhetorical. The answer was the same, anyway: Somebody in headquarters thought it would be a bright idea to get rid of Horton by saddling Suhl with him.