Chapter 1
Magdeburg
February 1636
Manfred Müller didn’t look back as he walked up the gangplank. He and Edwulf Klein had agreed to leave the boat separately and join up later. It was Edwulf’s idea, mainly. Manfred thought it a bit silly. No one in Magdeburg was going to be looking at them or for them—two nondescript country boys arriving by river boat from Halle. Especially since they arrived by boat. Anyone from the south who had serious business in Magdeburg came by train. It was faster and more reliable in schedule. But those who needed to hold onto their pfennigs and didn’t need the speed would still come by the river boats. There were always a few on the way who would be willing to sell a seat on the deck to a poor traveler. But only the poorest would travel by deck passage in February. It was cold, and the water wasn't much better than liquid ice.
The gangplank flexed a little up and down as Manfred set foot on it. That combined with the narrowness made him a bit nervous. He wanted to walk faster, but at the same time he didn’t want to fall off, so that made him want to slow down. When his left foot landed on the wharf, he sighed in relief and moved off.
This wharf was south of the original city—Old Magdeburg, Manfred had heard they called it—and he could see the city walls rising up just to the north of him. There were other wharves along the riverbank, of course, but most of the river freight landed at this wharf, the boat captain had told him, because that was where the industrial complex had developed. Manfred didn’t understand what industry was and he didn’t really care. He was here for far more important reasons.
Edwulf brushed by Manfred and moved on down the street in front of them. Manfred let a long moment go by before he shrugged and pulled his coat closed and followed, hands in pockets, bundle across one shoulder. They traded off taking the lead, until Edwulf finally spotted a tavern and went in. Manfred saw that the sign hanging out front called the tavern The Fisherhawk. He thought that was an odd name for a tavern, but shrugged and followed Edwulf in.
For a moment Manfred just enjoyed the relative warmth, edging toward the fire in the fireplace in the back wall of the room. By that time Edwulf had acquired a mug of beer and was heading for a table. Manfred strolled up to the bar. The host said nothing, just raised his eyebrows. "Beer." Manfred said. The host jerked a thumb at the sign behind him that announced that regular beer was either $1 USE or one pfennig. Manfred took the hint and dug into a pocket, pulling out a crumpled and stained one dollar bill and laying it on the bar.
The host pulled it up and held it in both hands as he looked at it against the light coming in through a nearby window. "That's the dirtiest dollar I've ever seen," he said in a matter of fact tone, "and I've seen some filthy lucre before. It looks like it’s been to Moscow and back—the hard way."
"It's a real dollar," Manfred protested. "I can't help what it's been through. A storekeeper in Jena gave it to me."
The host tucked it into a vest pocket, and pulled a draft of beer from the keg behind the bar, sliding it across the counter to Manfred. "Whatever. I'll pass it on to someone else. Enjoy your beer."
Manfred took a gulp. Beer wasn't bad. "Say, I'm new to Magdeburg. Where can a fellow find work?"
The host snorted. "You a craftsman?"
"No," Manfred admitted. "Just a workman."
"Too bad. Gunsmiths make a pretty guilder these days, and masons and carpenters can find steady work with all the building going on. You might try the hospital project, though. They had a steam explosion a few weeks ago. Killed a bunch of their crew; not sure they’ve replaced all of them yet." He gave directions, and Manfred nodded.
"Thanks. Now, how about a place to sleep?"
"Just for tonight, or for a long stay?"
"Both," Manfred said.
The host snorted again. "There are inns and boarding houses all through Greater Magdeburg, the new part of the city. They’re all going to want money up front. There are a few doss houses up in the northeast corner of the Altstadt where you can rent enough floor to curl up on for a night if you don’t mind the rats chasing the mice around you, the black cavalry nesting with you, or the fact that you might not wake up. Can’t say as I’d recommend that, though."
"No," Manfred muttered in agreement.
He looked around the room. The place was clean and in good repair, and brash colors aside, reasonably inviting. He turned back to the host. "What about you? You need some help in here? I’ve worked in taverns before."
The host pursed his lips. "Maybe. How are you at handling drunks?"
Manfred shrugged. "Country boys or mercenaries, I’ve dealt with them."
"How about two or three at once?"
"That might depend on whether you mind a little blood on the floor."
The host shrugged. "Floor is dark, and I've got a good cleaning woman. Been a time or three when we've had to handle three. Think you could do that?"
"Got a bung starter?"
The host reached under the bar and pulled out a long-handled bung starter which he laid on top of the counter.
Manfred picked it up and hefted it. It was solid, had some heft to it, and was fairly well balanced. He spun it through the fingers of his right hand, rolled it over the top of his hand, spun it some more, then tossed it to his left hand. It slashed through the air twice, then ended up back in his right hand, where he spun on his heel, tapping the tops of two stools behind him as he did so, and ended up facing the counter where he tapped a pattern of knocks across the top of it around and across the hands of the host without touching him. He ended by holding the bung starter in mid-air just above the host's head for a long moment before he set it back down on the counter.
The host never blinked. "Not bad," he remarked dryly. "But if you ever swing it that close to my head again I'll use it to start your teeth out the back of your head. Understand?"
"Yes. Does that mean you can use me?"
"Maybe. You got a problem lifting loads?"
Manfred snorted. "Got a cousin that’s a miller. Been doing that since I was big enough to get my arms part-way around a sack."
"Right." The host turned and shouted over his shoulder. "Elsa!" An older woman appeared in a doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. "Watch the counter. You," he looked at Manfred, "“come with me."
Manfred followed him over to another door in the corner of the main room. In a moment, he was standing in a large storage area watching as the host flicked a little stick on a thumbnail to produce a flame which he in turn applied to a lamp hanging from a support column. In yet another moment, there was a small pool of golden light around them and the host threw the blackened little stick in a metal can set to one side. The host obviously caught his expression, for he grinned. "Matches," he said, "from the Grantvillers. Haven’t seen them before, have you?"
"No," Manfred said slowly. I’d heard of them, but hadn't seen one pull fire out of thin air until just now."
"Not so much of a much," the host said. "Just a trick they know, like most of their stuff. Some tricks are harder than others, is all. Now," he turned to the side and pointed, "you see those barrels over there by the outside door?" Manfred nodded. "You see these barrels here by the inside door?" Manfred nodded again. "They need to change places. These are empty, those are full of beer. The brewer is going to pick up the empties in a couple of days, so they need to be by the door. Clear?"
"Clear."
The host started to open the inner door, but stopped with his hand on the latch. "Two things: first, don’t mess with the cats if you see any. They keep the mice and rats down and away from the grain and roots. Second, you’ll see a stack of bags with black stripes over there. That’s wheat, for the baking. Leave them alone." With that, he tromped back through the door and firmly closed it behind him.
Manfred looked around, took off his bundle and coat and draped them over a peg in the wall by the door, then rolled up his sleeves.
It was hard to tell the passage of time in the lamplight. Manfred guessed he'd been working for somewhat over an hour when he moved the last empty barrels into place by the outer door. He'd been smart enough to move the full ones first, which had taken a bit longer than he'd expected. There was no handcart in the storage room, so he'd had to kind of roll the barrels around on the edge of their rims, and given that the barrels were of the size that held over forty gallons, they were quite heavy—near enough to three hundred pounds, Manfred figured. Needless to say, that had taken most of the time. Moving the empty barrels had been rather easier.
He drew his sleeve across his forehead, unsurprised that it came away damp. Even in February, strenuous indoor activity would produce a sweat. He gathered his bundle and coat and returned to the main room. The host looked around from where he stood by the counter. Elsa still stood behind it.
"Done?"
"Aye," Manfred replied as he walked over to where his beer mug still sat on the counter. By the time he finished draining it, the host returned from the back room.
"Not bad," the host admitted.
"How about another beer to pay me for it?" Manfred asked. The host waved a hand at Elsa, she took Manfred’s mug, and a moment later it was back in his hand filled with beer. He took another sip, then looked at the host. "That would have been a lot easier to do with a hand cart."
The host grinned. "Ja. It’s at the wheelwright’s, replacing a broken wheel. Supposed to get it back tomorrow."
Manfred stared at him. "So why were you so set on swapping those barrels today?"
The host’s grin got bigger. "Wanted to see how badly you wanted the job."
"Sow’s bastard," Manfred muttered. The host just laughed. After another pull at his mug, Manfred asked, "So, do I have a job or not?"
"If you want it. Keep the stock room clean and ordered during the afternoons, and keep the ruffians under control during the evenings. Ten dollars a day, two free mugs of beer, and one meal a day from what we have for the patrons."
"Six days or seven days?"
"Six for sure, seven if you want it."
Manfred thought about it. "Plus ten dollars for every fight I break up."
"Five dollars."
"Seven," Manfred countered.
"Only if there's more than two in the brawl and only if you stop it before they start breaking furniture."
"Done." Manfred spit in his hand and held it out. "Manfred Müller."
The host did likewise and clasped Manfred’s hand. "Jacob Schäfer."
They released the handclasp and wiped their palms on their trousers.
"Now," Jacob continued, "go see if you can clear up the stock room. The guy you're replacing slacked off."
Manfred nodded and headed back to the room he'd just left.
✽✽✽
Three days later Manfred looked up when Jacob nudged him and muttered, "Know who that is?" He inclined his head toward a hard-faced man leading several others into the tavern. Manfred shook his head. "That's Gunther Achterhof. Be polite."
Manfred started to say something, but Jacob waved him quiet. The group settled at the biggest table the tavern boasted and ordered beer. Elsa carried six mugs of beer to the table and served them around. The men all faced inward and leaned forward a little to carry on a quiet conversation.
"So are they all Committees of Correspondence?" Manfred said, in a tone so low it was almost a whisper.
"The ones I know are," Jacob responded. "With him leading the pack, it’s almost a certainty."
Manfred watched as a couple of regular patrons got up from their table and left. He caught Jacob’s eye and nodded that direction. Jacob quirked his mouth. "Not everyone likes the CoC, you know."
"Politics?"
"Sometimes. And sometimes personal. The CoC has stepped on a lot of toes in the last few years."
"That’s what I’ve heard," Manfred muttered.
"Oh, don’t believe everything you hear. They’re hard, but they’re usually fair. I haven’t heard of him," Jacob nodded toward the table, "laying a hand on anyone who didn’t usually deserve it. But you know how people are."
"All I know is I heard that he showed up in Magdeburg with a big sack full of ears, noses, and foreskins from mercenaries he'd killed." Manfred frowned.
Jacob snorted, and a couple of the men with Achterhof looked their way. He waited until after they returned to their conversations before he murmured, "it was only parts from a couple of men that he thought had killed his parents. And he got rid of them a long time ago . . . I think. That said, Achterhof is a bit of an Old Testament kind of fellow. Eye for an eye, and all that. Best not to get on his bad side."
"I think I agree with that," Manfred muttered. Just then, a couple of men drinking at a side table started calling each other names in unfriendly tones, and he headed that direction.
By the time Manfred got the pair calmed down and returned to the counter, the CoC men were finishing their beers and starting to stand up. He watched as they walked out together, not looking back.
"So how often do the CoC men come by?"
"Well, first of all, there’s almost as many women in the Committees as there are men," Jacob said, "in Magdeburg at least. And they’re proud of that. So, unless you want some trouble with some very hard-faced, hard-handed women, be careful how you refer to the CoC members."
Manfred stared at Jacob, but the big man was not smiling, so apparently he was serious. "Uh, right."
"You have heard of Gretchen Richter, have you not?"
"I’ve heard the same kind of stories about her that I heard about Gunther Achterhof."
Jacob grinned. "More of hers are probably true than his." The smile disappeared. "Just remember, Achterhof takes orders from Richter. And all the women in the CoC look to her. So be warned."
Manfred swallowed. Things in Magdeburg weren’t what he thought they’d be. He returned to his original question. "So how often do the CoC come by?"
"Oh, usually once or twice a week. They don’t have a set patrol . . . at least, not in this part of town. Achterhof himself usually drops in once a month or so. They still keep an eye on most things in Magdeburg, both the old city and Greater Magdeburg, but they mostly work in politics now. They used to give people a hard time if they didn’t clean up after their horses, mules, or oxen crapped in the streets, and that will still get you a warning."
"Seriously?"
"Ja. Time was that would get you a tête-à-tête with Achterhof, and you didn’t want a second one because he’d be explaining things with a smith’s hammer on your knees then. If you threw crap in the river or the Big Ditch, the moat around the Altstadt, he might have started with the hammer. 'Clean cities, clean water' is part of their official ‘platform’, to use an up-timer word. People in Magdeburg have learned to take it seriously."
Manfred shook his head, then looked up. "Just how old is Achterhof?"
"How old do you think he is?" Jacob grinned again.
Manfred thought about the other man's hard face, and the lines graven in it. "He looks old . . . thirty-six?"
Jacob laughed, then sobered. "Don't be guessing at people's ages if you can't do better than that. From what I've heard, he's not yet thirty." Manfred looked at him in surprise. "Truth. But he and his surviving kin had some hard times before they got to Magdeburg, after the emperor ran Wallenstein and Tilly out of the area. That kind of thing ages you before your time."
Manfred though of some of the refugees who had arrived in Jena and Grantville after the Ring of Fire, and nodded. "I can see that." He thought for a moment. "Are the CoC Lutheran or Calvinist?"
Jacob's mouth dropped open for a moment before he sputtered, "My God, boy, don't you know anything? Haven't you heard about the freedom of religion principle that's part of the USE?"
"Well, yes," Manfred responded, "but I thought in Magdeburg, they'd be Lutheran."
Jacob snorted again. "Quit thinking, boy. The CoC very much supports that idea, and they specifically disavow any one faith. I know of some Jews who are members, and I think there are even a couple of Anabaptists—or at least they claim to be Anabaptists—who are members. Can't get much freer religion than that, now can you?"
Jews? Anabaptists? Manfred's head swam for a moment. That was more than he had expected.
The door to the tavern burst open, and a rowdy group of workmen stormed in, shouting for beer. Manfred dropped all his questions and focused on the crowd.
The rest of the evening was busy. At one point, not long before closing time, Manfred saw Edwulf come in, look around, and leave.
At last the evening came to an end, and Manfred ushered the last of the loud and rowdies out the door, bringing the lantern in as he closed the door. He blew it out and carried it over to where both Jacob and Elsa were leaning on the counter, looking as tired as he felt. "Go home," Jacob said. "We’ll clean up tomorrow." Elsa nodded wearily, pulled her cloak out from under the counter, wrapped herself up and left. Jacob looked at Manfred, who just held his hand out. Opening the money box, Jacob counted out dollar bills, ". . . seven, eight, nine, ten." He pushed the stack over to Manfred, then counted out a couple more. "For keeping that one drunk in his seat and out of trouble all night."
"Thanks." Manfred folded the bills and added them to the money clip he’d started carrying in his front pocket. Jacob tossed him his coat, and he pulled it on as he headed for the door.
Outside the night sky was crystal clear, and the air was not quite bitterly cold. The stars shone brightly, and the sliver of the moon showing as it moved out of new phase shone argent light brighter than should have seemed possible. Manfred took a deep breath after the fug of all the people in the tavern and felt his head clear. He was still tired, but was alert, which was why he paused at the hint of movement in a nearby doorway.
"Manfred?" he heard Edwulf's voice say.
"Ja, it's me."
"Good. It's cold out here. How is it going for you?"
"Fine. Job is good, and tonight I saw a group of the Committees of Correspondence people."
"Ah, that's good, isn't it?"
"Maybe."
"Why wouldn’t it be?"
Manfred could hear Edwulf’s frown in his voice. "I don’t think it’s going to be like Brother Caspar expected." He went on to explain what he’d learned about the CoC’s membership and commitment to the 'freedom of religion.'
When he was done, Edwulf whistled. "Anabaptists and Jews? I can understand the Anabaptists. After all, Brother Caspar has taken some of those in. But Jews?"
"They must really mean something beyond cuius regio eius religio."
Edwulf moved closer. "Maybe. I always thought it was just some crazy idea of the up-timers that the emperor was spouting just to keep them happy."
"Me, too. But the CoC appears to believe it."
"Brother Caspar’s not going to like that."
Manfred shook his head. "No. No, he's not. But you'd best get word to him anyway. Meanwhile, I'll keep working here and trying to connect with the CoC."
And with that, they turned and went their separate ways.
In his room, Manfred hung his coat on a wall-peg and pulled his boots off one at a time and set them beside the door. He dropped heavily onto the side of the bed, and fell backward. It had been a long day and he was exhausted, but his mind was still running like a frightened horse, unable to settle enough to sleep.
He remembered the day that Brother Caspar Bauhof and Brother Matthäus Vogel, the leaders of their congregation in Grantville, had called him and Edwulf to meet with them.
"I need you to go to Magdeburg," Brother Caspar had said. "I need reliable reports of what is happening in the capitol and what is being said on the streets. I need you to get copies of the major broadsheets and send them to me. And especially, I need to know what the Committees of Correspondence are doing. I need one of you to get familiar with them, maybe even join them, so we can know what they believe and how they think. That will be important in the future, so we need to be building that foundation now."
Manfred wasn't very familiar with Brother Caspar's plans, other than he referred to the village of Angelroda as 'The New Jerusalem' a lot. It was very odd that he and Edwulf were being sent away from the main congregation to Magdeburg. Manfred didn't understand it at all, really. But he followed Brother Caspar's teachings and leadership without question, and he was certain that Edwulf felt the same way. So if Magdeburg was where Brother Caspar thought they could serve, then Magdeburg was where they would go.
Now he was here, and Manfred was really uncertain about what he was supposed to do or what Brother Caspar expected out of him. That bothered him . . . a lot. He didn't want to fail his congregation. He didn't want to fail Brother Caspar.
Manfred threw his arm across his eyes and spent some time in prayer, reciting his evening prayers, and in particular dwelling on his unworthiness and his uncertainty. When he was done, he didn't feel more assured, but he at least felt like he'd done his best for the day. With that, he rolled over, pillowed his head on his arm, and before long was asleep.
It really had been a long day.