Grantville
1631
Just before they reached the top of the ridge, the seven riders dismounted. Leaving their horses in the care of the youngest of them, Karl, a tall, skinny teenager who was the leader's cousin, they made their way to the crest of the ridge, moving as quietly as possible. That wasn't anywhere close to silently—a cavalryman's boots were not moccasins, but they weren't very worried about that. Unless the information they'd been given was far off the mark, they were still quite a distance from their target.
The terrain they were moving through was a bit unsettling to them. Much of it was similar to the Thüringerwald they'd been born and raised in, but there were enough differences in the American lands brought by the Ring of Fire to keep their nerves on edge. For one thing, the slopes of the ravines were steeper than they were accustomed to, and the small, cramped and narrow valleys within them even more so. While it was often heavily forested, the Thüringerwald had a fairly open and rolling landscape. These American "hills and hollers" were claustrophobic in comparison.
The soil was less steady as well–loose shale, too often, instead of sturdy Thuringian soil.
As they looked down the narrow valley they saw an isolated house. It was a strange house to their eyes. The roof wasn't quite flat but it wasn't nearly the peaked roof they would expect in this land of long winters and heavy snows. The walls were paneled in something that was shiny though not so shiny as metal. They weren't the stone work or wattle and daub that you might expect, and the windows were altogether too large. Though trees ran up the side of the valley, around the house there was just grass . . . well, grass and carefully laid out flower beds.
The leader scratched at a three days' growth on his cheek, then said, "That's it." He pointed at the strange house with the smoke coming from a pipe sticking out its roof.
He moved carefully down the steep hill followed by the others.
***
In the living room of the large house at the bottom of the valley, three women sat. Melissa Mailey and Rebecca Abrabanel sat on a Naugahyde couch while Gretchen Richter sat in the lazyboy. Between them was a coffee table with books and sheets of paper. All three women were leaning forward over the coffee table. All were literate and well read. Melissa was a school teacher. In her mid-fifties, she was a spare New Englander, dressed conservatively by late twentieth-century standards. Her hazel eyes were focused on a book from the high school library. It wasn't a book on seventeenth-century Germany, instead it was a book on the American Revolution.
Rebecca, a Sephardic Jew, was looking at another book and rather struggling with the twentieth-century American English it was written in. It would have been easier if it had been in the English of Shakespeare, for that was the English Rebecca knew. But she was reading it anyway; her book, also from the Grantville library, was on the United States Constitution and its amendments. A wisp of her thick wavy black hair had escaped, and she casually pushed it behind an ear as she read, dark eyes intent on the words and their meaning.
Gretchen Richter, tall, blonde, and well-built, with a face that was pretty if a bit too strong to be beautiful, had the least formal education of the three women. But her father had been a printer and in seventeenth-century Germany the distinctions between "printer" and "publisher" and "editor" were essentially meaningless. Gretchen had played an active role in her father's enterprise since she was eight. She had two books opened. She was the one with the least experience with English, so she had a German to English dictionary as she read Common Sense.
Mary Rose Calafano came in carrying a coffee pot. This soon after the Ring of Fire, they still had coffee. "Coffee, anyone?"
Melissa held up her coffee cup, smiling. "Yes, please. Try some, Gretchen. You might like it."
Rebecca grimaced, and Gretchen looked dubious.
Rebeca said in German, "You may not, either. I did not much enjoy coffee, the few times I tried it."
Gretchen, still dubious, accepted a cup of coffee and sipped cautiously.
***
Outside the house, the mercenaries moved cautiously until they reached the relatively flat bottom of the valley. They were now less than fifty yards from the house.
The leader held up his hand. "All of you except Hans, leave your firearms here. Hans, you stay with them. If any of the occupants manage to escape the house–not likely–it's your job to track them down and kill them. Use a blade or an arquebus stock as a club, but if you've got no choice, shoot them. For the rest of you, it's just blades."
He dropped his hand to the wheel-lock at his right hip. He had a brace of the things in holsters on both sides. "I have my pistols, if we need them. But we shouldn't—and we don't want a lot of noise."
He pointed vaguely toward the road. This was an outlying house, but not so far from the neighbors that gunshots wouldn't bring a response.
Three of his men followed him, leaving Hans behind.
***
Harry Lefferts sat at a small table in the kitchen sipping coffee. The table was laminate with steel or aluminum trim. Harry was leaning back in a kitchen chair wearing a caterpillar hat and work boots, along with blue jeans and a plaid work shirt. His heavy coat hung on a peg next to the back door, and there was a backpack hanging from the back of the chair. Harry had come out yesterday to get the lay of the land in preparation for the meeting. The ladies had arrived by car about three hours ago.
Mary Rose came back into the kitchen holding the coffee pot. "Want your coffee warmed up?"
Harry smiled and held up the cup. "Please. You make the best coffee for half a mile around, Mary Rose."
Mary Rose poured the coffee, also smiling. Then said, "Thanks for nothing. This is the only house for half a mile around."
"Well, yeah. And nobody comes out here since the Ring of Fire. That's why Melissa and Rebecca wanted it for this meeting." He used the coffee cup to indicate the living room. "They still talking?"
"Talking and reading," Mary Rose agreed. "Gretchen with a German English dictionary and Common Sense spread out on the coffee table."
"Yeah, Mata Hari in the making. That woman is downright scary—and I don't scare easy."
Mary Rose looked back at the living room, "You mean Gretchen? She seems pretty nice to me."
"I didn't say she wasn't. She's still scary. You weren't at the Battle of the Crapper. You didn't see how she hid her sisters in an outhouse." Harry drank from his coffee cup, then set it on the formica top of the kitchen table. "Then had her knife ready to start carving any bastard that got to her. Jeff Higgins has got some guts, and I don't mean for standing down the mercs from Badenburg. I mean after seeing all that, he's got some guts to be willing to marry her."
***
The five mercenaries moved through the woods near the house and crept closer to the house, moving behind the cover of some bushes. In the shadows a branch had fallen. One of the mercenaries tripped and fell, breaking another branch with a loud snap!
The leader looked back, snarling. "Crap! Johan." Then with gestures he ordered them to get down out of sight behind the bushes
***
In the kitchen, Harry looked up, alerted by a noise. He got up and moved to the kitchen window. But he didn't see anything. And he didn't hear anything either. That was the problem. At this time in the evening, Harry ought to be hearing dozens of birdie lotharios singing for prospective mates. "Did you hear anything, Mary Rose?"
Mary Rose stared at him, looking uncertain. "I didn't hear anything."
Harry scowled out the window and muttered, "Dammit, I told Mike we needed to beef up security for this. We need more than just me. Where's the frigging birdsong?" He turned his head back to the kitchen and pointed to his backpack. "Hand me that, would you?"
Still looking confused, Mary Rose set the coffee pot on the table and picked up Harry's backpack. It was heavy. She took it over to him and Harry unzipped it and pulled out a sawed off double-barreled shotgun.
Mary Rose stared at the shotgun while Harry stared intently out the back window, holding the sawed off shotgun.
"Is that thing even legal, Harry?" Mary Rose asked, pointing at the shotgun.
Harry grinned coldly, not looking away from the back window. "Depends on how you look at it. Back up-time? No, it's illegal as all hell. But here?" Finally, he turned back to face Mary Rose. "Here we're in the goddamned seventeenth century." He moved back to the kitchen table and sat back down with the shotgun in his lap. "Welcome to the Thirty Years' War, Mary Rose. I'd ask for some more coffee, but you're probably running out."
" 'Fraid so," she admitted. "What's even worse is that we're getting low on toilet paper."
Harry grinned. "You gotta love the seventeenth century. The toilets are a joke and toilet paper doesn't even exist. But the beer's great and" —Harry held up his shotgun—"there ain't no hassles about the Second Amendment."
***
In the dining room, Gretchen stared at Melissa and Rebecca. There was a frown on her face as Melissa finished outlining her proposal. "And that's pretty much the gist of it, Gretchen. What do you say?"
Gretchen set Common Sense on the coffee table. "As I understand it, you want me to organize a revolutionary movement, using Grantville as a home base."
Melissa made a face. "Well . . . 'Revolutionary' is maybe a little—"
Rebecca leaned forward. "I think 'revolutionary' is quite accurate." Then she glanced at Melissa and smiled. "Of course, that doesn't necessarily imply any great bloodshed."
Gretchen looked down at the books on the table; not all of the arguments in Paine's book applied to Germany in the seventeenth century. But enough of them did, and enough of them aligned with the ideas already in Germany toward a fairer and more equal sort of government. One where people could be safe in their homes and be able to speak their minds without fear of reprisal. Gretchen slapped the table with her hand. Wham! "And if it does, so be it. Europe's royalty and nobility has never hesitated to spill the blood of common folk. Spill it like water!"
Gretchen smiled thinly. "So I accept. What do you want to call this movement?"
Melissa held up a history book. "I recommend a name out of American history. Our revolutionary movement called itself the Committees of Correspondence."
Gretchen frowned, almost scowling. " 'Correspondence'? That sounds very passive."
Rebecca smiled. "Oh, no, quite the contrary. I've been reading about them. Very lively, they were."
Gretchen smiled back. " 'Lively' sounds good."
***
Outside the house, but by now quite close, the mercenaries prepared for the assault. The leader crouched, half-whispering to his assembled men. "Dieter, stay here in case someone tries to escape." He pointed at the back door of the house, "Konrad, go in the back door." Then turned to the others. "You others, follow me. Remember, the Jew stays alive."
He waited half a minute while everyone got into position then shouted "NOW!" and they charged.
The leader, a big man, slammed into the front door. The door burst open. And the leader banged into the living room of the house followed by two of his henchmen.
***
In the kitchen, Harry heard the running footsteps of Konrad moments before the kitchen door was smashed open. He was already lifting the shotgun when the door slammed against the cabinets and he saw the sword wielding assailant. He pointed and fired one barrel of buckshot into the man before Konrad even saw him.
***
In the living room, the shotgun blast was clear. The leader turned at the blast and snarled, "That was a gun!"
Gretchen, frightened and furious, reached into the vest covering her shirt and pulled out a nine-millimeter automatic. She fired three times, jerking the trigger and throwing off her aim. She missed three times in a row. But the noise of the nine-millimeter alerted the attackers to the fact that there was a gun in the room.
They turned, shocked to see the small pistol in the hands of a young woman. The leader drew his wheel-lock pistol from its holster.
Gretchen, now even more furious at herself for the three misses, jerked the trigger even harder. And missed again.
The leader now aimed the wheel-lock pistol right at her.
Rebecca threw a candlestick at the leader. The candlestick also missed, but not by much. It flashed before his eyes, and he jerked his head back in reflex, which threw off his aim and caused his shot at Gretchen to miss.
Meanwhile, the other two mercenaries were coming around the table and charging toward Melissa.
Gretchen, not trusting her aim, charged forward at one of the two mercenaries. With the nine mil less than a foot from him she shouted "Bastard!" and jerked the trigger. The bullet punched right through his buff coat and his breast bone and exploded his heart.
The other mercenary swung his sword at Melissa. She threw herself backward, falling to the floor and screaming.
The mercenary raised his sword again to kill Melissa.
Gretchen lunged forward, pressed her pistol into the mercenary's chest and shot him. Again screaming "Bastard!"
***
Meanwhile, the leader had drawn his other wheel-lock pistol.
Gretchen, snarling, shot the same mercenary again at point blank range as he collapsed to the floor.
The leader took aim right at Gretchen, shouting, "You bitch!"
Rebecca threw another candlestick, causing the leader to duck and change his target to Rebecca. Again shouting "Bitch!" At this point the man wasn't thinking clearly. He was furious that the plan has gone so far wrong, so quickly, spoiled by women with itty bitty guns. But unlike Gretchen, he had practice firing his guns when he was angry.
That's when Harry burst into the room from the kitchen. And seeing the situation, he shot the leader with the other barrel of his shotgun.
The leader fell to the living room floor as the wheel-lock discharged into the ceiling.
***
Outside, through a big window, Hans saw Harry shoot the leader and fired his arquebus at him. The bullet smashed through the window, but missed Harry and struck the far wall.
Harry looked at the mercenary through the shattered window, and shouted, "You son-of-a-bitch!"
Harry charged out the door, holding the shotgun. Hans threw down his matchlock and took off running. Harry pursued Hans up the slope. The mercenary was looking back at him. Harry was gaining.
The mercenary turned and drew his sword.
Harry raised his shotgun, only then remembering that he'd fired twice already. "Shit! I shot both barrels!"
Hans swung his sword over his head and down at Harry. The swordfighting equivalent of a haymaker.
Harry fended off the blow with the barrels of the double-barreled shotgun.
Hans swung again. Harry jumped back, then retreated back down the slope.
The mercenary grinned at Harry and shouted, "Idiot! Carry a blade next time!" Then he turned and headed for the horses. He wasn't smiling as he made his way up the ridge to the horses, and the leader's cousin. This had been a disaster.
***
As the mercenary continued up the slope, Harry broke open the shotgun. Then looked up at the escaping mercenary and snarled at himself. "I left the ammo in the house!"
***
Hans reached the top of the little ridge overlooking the house. The youngster was waiting with the horses. "Let's go! Everything went to crap! One of the bitches had a gun!"
Hans and Karl galloped off, Hans in the lead. Karl, leading the now spare mounts of his cousin and three friends, shouted, "The boss is going to be furious!"
Hans looked back at Dieter, scowling. "It's his own fault! There was a man in the house too—with an up-time shotgun! Lucky for me that's all he had!"
***
Harry walked down the slope and back to the house. The four women were coming out from the smashed-in front door, looking up at him with concern.
Melissa asked, "Are you all right, Harry?"
Harry waved his hand, looking disgusted. "Yeah, I'm fine, except I feel like an idiot."
As Harry reached the porch, the women gathered around him.
Mary Rose handed him some shotgun shells. "You left these in your backpack."
Harry looked down at the shotgun shells in his hand. "Live and learn, I guess. From now on, I'm carrying a knife everywhere I go. Bathroom, bar, dance hall, church, you name it." He looked up, scowling. "A big knife. I'm thinking a Bowie. Unless there's something even bigger."
"What were they after?" Melissa asked. "Were they trying to rob us?"
Gretchen shook her head in confusion. "Not likely. Those men were assassins, not thieves."
Rebecca turned back to the house, saying, "Michael needs to know about this right away. I think Gretchen is right—which means we need to be prepared in the future."
Harry nodded. "Finally! Somebody's taking security seriously." He looked at Gretchen. The expression on his face was partly a jeer, and partly a scowl. "And you need to make a resolution of your own."
Gretchen looked at him, and seeing his scowl, nodded and held up the pistol still in her hand. "Yes, I know. Learn to shoot this thing."
***