“Anse, I’ve lived here now for over a year, and I’ve made a lot of friends among the local gun makers. Masters and their journeymen, both. As you can see, I dress and live just like my neighbors, but no one is talking to me about politics. There’s less than a dozen of us up-timers here, and none of us know what’s going on. We know there’s a lot of bad feeling about Gustavus Adolphus giving Franconia to Grantville to govern, but it doesn’t seem directed at us, so much. Not personally, I mean. It’s just that I doubt you could find three people anywhere in the area who’d give you two cents for Gustavus Adolphus and his Swedes.”
He sipped from his beer. “The truth is that there’s really nobody in charge this close to Franconia, beyond the limits of the major towns. We’re now officially the top honchos, sure-but we don’t have anybody south of the Thueringerwald except a handful of people scattered in the big towns and a ‘military force’ that’s just barely this side of a joke. The Swedes have small garrisons here and there, but since everybody hates them, nobody ever turns to them for help. I doubt they’d be any help, anyway. Truth us, I don’t have a much higher opinion of the mercenaries working for Gustavus Adolphus here than the locals do.”
He dipped into his beer again, this time for a full swallow. “All that adds up to Franconia and the mountains of the Thueringerwald outside of the walled cities and fortified villages becoming a magnet for every gang of robbers and thieves around-of which they’re are plenty, after fifteen years of this madhouse war. The difference between ‘army deserter’ and ‘bandit’ is the difference between Monday and Tuesday. And on Wednesday, often enough- maybe Thursday-you’ll find them re-enrolled in somebody’s army. Here, it’s likely to be the Swedish army, which makes everybody trust them even less.”
“Have you talked to the CoC leaders?”
Pat issued a sarcastic snort. “Leaders? Anse, get real. The Committees of Correspondence here in Suhl-everywhere in Franconia, so far as I can tell- don’t amount to more than handful of kids. The CoCs are not popular even here in Suhl, the way they are further north in Thuringia. Not anywhere in Franconia, so far as I know.”
He paused to take a bite of his stew, and washed it down with some more beer. Then, continued:
“The attitude of people here toward the CoCs is pretty much the same as their attitude toward us. Up-timers, I mean. They don’t have anything against us personally-not yet, anyway-but since we’re associated with the Swedes they figure we can’t be worth much, either. They certainly don’t trust us, as a group, with the exception of some individuals here and there. Some of the villages in the Thueringerwald, too, like the one you ran across. They’ve had longstanding ties with Thuringia, many of them. But those people don’t carry much weight in Suhl or any of the other major towns, once you get over the mountains.”
Anse nodded. “Gotcha. Now, on another subject, I need to talk to you about something other than those guns going south. How many rifles, smooth bores and pistols do you have on hand right now?”
Pat looked thoughtful for a moment. “Finished . . . maybe ten pistols, ten to twelve rifles and at least thirty smooth bores. Wait a couple of days and we can add a dozen more pistols, four rifles, and maybe ten more smooth bores. Rifling takes time, but we can make three pistols for every rifle. Most of our guns are shipped as soon as we finish them. Ruben might have another dozen pistols, and ten to fifteen rifles in his shop. I know he’s sold out of smooth bores. He was by last night wanting more.”
“Ruben?” Anse asked.
“Ruben Blumroder. He’s one of the major gunmakers here-owns some of the stock in our company, too, plus being involved in the same trade in Schleusingen. That’s about ten or twelve miles further down the road. Maybe in some other towns, too. He has a lot of connections all through this region. He’s friendly and has been a big help to us. In fact, without him I don’t think Joe and I could have got our factory started as fast as we did. The man knows everyone in town, and was able to recommend some good gunsmiths looking for work. He speaks something like eight languages, including English. But why are you asking about what guns I have on hand?”
“It’s simple. It looks like the TacRail company is going to war. And we’re getting the littlest pig’s share when it comes to weapons. What I want to do is to fill the wagon with anything that will shoot, and haul it back for the boys and girls. Think of it as a late Christmas present.”
“Okay. We’ll write it off against the debt the factory owes you and save you some money. I take it this is not official.”
“No, it’s not official, although eventually I’ll finagle some kind of reimbursement. But I’ll pay cash money. Gold, in fact.” Anse grinned. “You can handle Krugerrands, can’t you?”
Pat chuckled. “Hell, yes. They’d be a lot better than most of the coins floating around.”
They’d finished eating. Pat pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Let’s go down to Ruben’s shop and see what he has in stock. I’ll introduce the two of you and make sure he gives you a discount.”
* * *
“It’s convenient that his shop is so close to the factory,” Anse commented as the two walked along.
“Ruben found the location for the factory, so it’s not surprising it’s close to his shop. It works out fine. The gunmaking companies in Suhl are competitors, I suppose, technically speaking. But it’s really more of a co-operative relationship, in the real world. Kinda like, back home, a bunch of furniture stores would set up right next to each other. Whatever sales one of them might lose to a guy next door, they all gained from the fact that, bunched up like that, they drew a lot more customers to begin with.”
He pulled up before a sign and pointed at it. “Here we are. You should notice that Ruben changed his sign. Before, it was two crossed wheel-lock pistols. Now look at it.”
Anse looked up. The sign on the gunshop featured two crossed flintlock pistols, just like those that were the output of U.S. WaffenFabrik.
Anse liked the shop, the minute he walked through the door. Its walls were covered with all kinds of weapons. Wheel-locks, the old Dutch-style flintlocks and the modern flintlocks introduced by Pat were in the places of pride, but there were guns of every description on the walls. The floor was crowded with racks that were also loaded with guns. Those spaces in the floor racks that did not have firearms were filled with crossbows, spears or swords. And in between the guns on the walls there were accouterments, powder flasks, bullet pouches and tools.
It was so much like his favorite gunshop back in West Virginia, that Anse felt almost at home. If you added a couple of stuffed deer heads and a girly calendar this place would be just like Jimmy’s Gun and Pawn.
“Herr Blumroder, come on out!” Pat called, waving the sales clerk aside. “I want you to meet Anse Hatfield. I know I told you about him.”
When Blumroder came out of the back of the shop Anse saw a tall man somewhere in his late fifties, slightly older than himself. Blumroder had the confident air of a successful businessman. “Ah, Herr Hatfield! I have wanted to meet you. Patrick has said so much about you.”
His English was fluent, and less heavily-accented than Anse would have expected.
“And he has written a lot about you, sir. I’m glad he had your good advice to help him set up here in Suhl.”
“Nonsense. Patrick is a wise young man. My major contribution was to make it easier for him to meet people. As you Americans say, I introduced him around.”
“And one of those people must be your tailor. Pat was always in jeans and a sweat shirt, before. Now I find him in the latest styles.”
Blumroder smiled. “Of course. A successful man must look successful, or no one will take him seriously. But I doubt you are here to ask for my advice on clothing. What can I do for you, Herr Hatfield?”
“Herr Blumroder, I need all the flintlock rifles and smooth bores in your shop and probably most of the pistols.”
Before Ruben could react. Pat said: “He’s paying in gold, Ruben, and I promised him a discount. What he can’t cover right now we can write off against the debt the company owes him. Besides, it’s good business. With a major war looking to be in the works, Anse’s railroad outfit is bound to expand. And even after the war, the railroads will keep going. If we get in on the ground floor now, we’ll be sitting pretty.”
Blumroder considered Anse carefully. “Railroads, ha? When you have time later, Herr Hatfield, I would appreciate a detailed explanation of how these things are constructed and operate. From what I’ve heard from Patrick, it strikes me that there might be a profitable sideline for us there. Not making rails, of course. That’s the sort of heavy iron work we don’t do. But if those machines are as complicated as they sound . . .”
He shook his head. “But, that is for later. For now, in terms of your immediate business, I will be glad to give you a discount. You are, after all, one of Patrick’s partners-and I hold stock in the company myself. I’ll have Horst prepare all of my modern guns for shipping. We’ll talk about price and discounts when I know what we have.”
“Herr Blumroder,” Anse responded, “I have a team and a wagon at the factory. We can pick up the weapons and save you any shipping costs.”
“Ja, even better.” Ruben turned and called to his clerk. “Horst, wieviele moderne Waffen haben wir im Geschaft?”
Horst’s immediately started making a count of the modern flintlocks. After a short time, he handed a list to Blumroder.
“It seems we have twenty-one rifles and twelve pistols on hand. Will that be enough for your needs? I will personally add a powder flask and bullet pouch for each weapon to the order at no charge.”
Anse did his own calculations. “With the ten rifles and thirty smoothbore Pat has at the factory, that makes sixty-one long guns and twenty-two pistols. Yes, Herr Blumroder, that will make a proper wagon load. Gold on delivery, when I leave Suhl. Will that be acceptable?”
“Ach, pay the money to Patrick,” Blumroder said, waving his hand. “I trust him to give me my share. It is not safe to walk around with that much money.”
January 21, 1633
When Anse walked into the factory office two days later, early in the next morning, Jochen Rau was waiting for him, along with another man.
“Herr Hatfield, I would like to introduce Jorg Hennel, one of the members of CoC here in Suhl. Herr Hennel, this is Warrant Officer Anse Hatfield of the NUS Army.”
Anse studied the man with Rau. He was a bit younger, in his early twenties at a guess, and a bit shorter. But, all in all, the two looked enough alike to be cousins. Given odds, Anse would have bet that a couple of years earlier Jorg had been in the same business as Rau. He had that look about him.
Anse stuck out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Herr Hennel,” he said in German.
Hennel replied in English, after shaking the hand. “Ich bin - I am – Jorg. You are Anse.” His smile was a brash sort of thing, the kind of smile a young man puts on when he’s trying to probe an older one. “Jochen was trying to impress me with how important you are.”
Anse smiled back. “I’m not much given to formalities, myself. I assume you have some of the information I ask Jochen to find out.”
“Yes. He asked for my help in finding who is selling weapons to those Bavarian and Austrian pigs. But perhaps you do not need my help.”
Anse frowned. “Why do you say that? We still don’t know who’s shipping guns or how much they’re shipping.”