PASTOR KASTENMAYER’S REVENGE
April, 1635
Ludwig Kastenmayer would never forget the day. April 11, 1634, by the reckoning of these up-timers, who had adopted the pope’s calendar. The day that one of them had stolen his daughter. It was the worst thing that had happened to him since Count Ludwig Guenther assigned him to the new parish of St. Martin’s in the Fields after the Rudolstadt Colloquy.
The man should not even have been in Grantville. He was an officer in the military of the New United States and should have been in Erfurt, where he was assigned.
Jonas—Jonas Justus Muselius, the youngest teacher at the Lutheran elementary school attached to the church and a friend of several of the up-timers—had said that he was on “R and R.” Even after Jonas had explained it to him, Pastor Kastenmayer found it peculiar. There was far more to do in Erfurt than in Grantville. Theological lectures by guest professors. Organ concerts. Choral performances. Sermons by visiting pastors. The man should have stayed in Erfurt for his holiday. Erfurt was a magnificent city. He had greatly enjoyed all four of his visits there.
That man should not have come to Grantville and, within less than two weeks, seen Andrea on the street, walked up to her, introduced himself, persuaded her to accompany him to a public restaurant for a meal, and—married her!—six weeks before the end of the school term at Countess Katharina the Heroic School next to St. Martin’s, leaving Maria Blandina to manage all of the youngest children by herself. Still, there were only eighty-three of them, after all. There had been little reason for her to complain so bitterly.
Barbaric, this idea that couples could marry in three days’ time and without the consent of the parents. Especially when anyone who thought about it should have realized that the parents would not consent. The man was—well, ultimately, to put it plainly—
Catholic.
At least he hadn’t insisted that Andrea convert to his church. That would have been the final embarrassment. Nonetheless, it had been difficult to explain to the consistory in Rudolstadt. Extremely difficult, to say the least. Better yet, they had not married in the Grantville Catholic church. Pastor Kastenmayer had derived some minimal satisfaction from discovering that St. Mary’s forbade such an absurdity as manifestly disastrous mixed-confessional matrimony on three days’ notice, even if the civil laws did not. They had married before the mayor at the Rathaus, the man saying casually (Pastor Kastenmayer had heard second hand; he had not been there in person) that they “could get the religious stuff sorted out when they had time.”
Additionally, Salome, his second wife, suggested that it was his own fault for not having arranged marriages for the daughters of his first marriage in a more timely manner. Indeed, she had commented that it would not be entirely surprising if Maria Blandina chose an equally unsuitable spouse. She hadn’t quite said that the girls were both self-centered young snips with pretty faces...not—quite. It would not have been true, and she was fair-minded.
Pastor Kastenmayer had duly sounded out Jonas about Maria Blandina. It would have been quite suitable; the father of young Muselius had been his second wife’s half-brother. But he had received a courteous refusal. Too bad. God had blessed Pastor Kastenmayer greatly—five children from his first wife, all surviving (and the two oldest earning salaries, one as a city clerk and one as a junior pastor, which was also a great blessing). Eight children from his second wife, seven surviving. And, ah, of all those, currently, three sets of board, room, and tuition at the university in Jena; two sets of board, room, and tuition at the Latin school in Rudolstadt, and two boys still not old enough for Countess Katharina the Heroic. All on the salary of a parish pastor, with a bit of tutoring here and there. Salome had recently informed him that they were to be blessed again. I am supposed to find a dowry for Maria Blandina where? he asked himself. He sighed gloomily and considered lengthening his morning prayers.
But Jonas, although refusing the offer of a wife, had suggested an alternative. What he called a “payback.”
Jonas felt responsible for the remainder of the village he had led into Grantville. A few old people, a couple of young mothers, and quite a few children. Well, some of the children had been adolescents in 1631, and most of the adolescents had been girls. The older boys had stayed behind with their fathers to fight the delaying action against the mercenaries from Badenburg. The boys lay dead with their fathers, in a mass grave next to the burned-out church. Now, in 1634, the older girls were becoming—at least at the ages the up-timers considered suitable—marriageable. Also without dowries. The arable lands of Quittelsdorf had been removed to West Virginia, Herr Gary Lambert had told Jonas. At least, that was the up-timers’ best guess as to where God had chosen to put their fields. God moved in most mysterious ways. If they had not fled from the mercenaries, they too, presumably, would have been removed to West Virginia. It had been a good day to work in the fields.
“So,” Jonas had said, “if the Habsburgs can do it”—he quoted the proverb about “happy Austria” waging matrimony rather than war, in Latin, of course—“then so can we. We must ask ‘die Krausin’.” Margaretha Krause, widowed with three children, had gone into service as housekeeper and cook for a middle-aged American whose wife had been left up-time and shortly thereafter had married him.
Before the construction of St. Martin’s in the Fields, be it known. Pastor Kastenmayer had had nothing to do with it. The man was not Lutheran. On the other hand, he was a skilled artisan with a regular position, owned a house, and did not interfere with her church attendance. He had allowed her to have their daughter baptized Lutheran at St. Martin’s. Things could be worse.
“But,” Pastor Kastenmayer had protested, “I do observe the truth that the different churches and their pastors of this Grantville appear to survive in this parity arrangement without excessive conflict. But still—if we try to pluck away their members, that will certainly cause offense. Count Ludwig Guenther does not wish to cause offense. They are his allies. He is part of their confederation.”
Jonas cocked his head to the side a little. “More than a third of these up-timers belong to no church at all.”
“You mean that they do not enforce attendance?”
“No. People who do not belong to any of the churches in the town. They are not only not Lutherans. They are not even heretics.” The honest sense of scandal that had enveloped Jonas when he first discovered this was still plain to be heard in his voice. “But, anyway. We steal their men, but we don’t steal them from any of their churches. How can the other pastors complain if we convert the heathen?”
From the perspective of his sixty-five years, the first forty-five of them spent among the feuding theologians of Saxony, Pastor Kastenmayer predicted grimly, “They’ll find a way.”
But it had been irresistible. He called upon “die Krausin,” now known to the Grantville public as Mrs. Burton Vandiver. He did not overreach. The weapon that God had forged to his hand consisted of, after all, a dozen quite ordinary village girls, even though they had been given two or three years more schooling in Grantville. His requirements were basic. He needed a list of up-time marriage candidates: his only limits were “no constant drunkards, no brawlers, no lazy louts who will expect their wives to support them.”
One more year. Palm Sunday, 1635. Harvest time coming in the spring. He smiled upon his congregation from the pulpit. “Today we welcome into fellowship through the rite of adult confirmation Herr Ryan Baker, Herr Derek Blount, Herr James Anthony Fritz, Herr Mitch Hobbs, Herr Michael Lewis Jenkins, Herr Errol Mercer, Herr Roland Worley....”
The men stood in front of him, closely shaved, their hair cut short with the exception of Herr Mercer, who had grown his to a respectable length for an adult man since leaving the army, wearing “neckties” and, most of them, the semi-stunned expression of guys who have not fully analyzed the process by which they got themselves into their current situation.
According to Herr Lambert, the “neckties” were a good omen, indicating that the men were taking their oaths seriously.
The girls of vanished Quittelsdorf had done well in the service of their Lord. Indeed, one was also betrothed to the stepson of “die Krausin,” but that young man, like his father, was a church member elsewhere; another was betrothed to a colleague of Ryan Baker, but that man also belonged to an up-time church. Still, he had seven. “Seven at one blow,” he thought, as the story of the brave little tailor flitted through his mind. Four of the Quittelsdorf girls, prompted by Jonas, had even made their chosen husbands go back to school and get the magic “GED” before they agreed to marry. Jonas was, after all, not merely a school teacher, but their own former teacher, from their lost village; they listened to him. Pastor Kastenmayer proceeded through the liturgy in a dignified manner, but part of his mind was on other things.