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Duty Calls

Written by Karen Bergstralh

March, 1634

The room was packed with villagers happy to see visitors and hear the latest news and gossip. Rob Clark, stretching his legs, found two young boys under the table. It seemed to him that every inch of space was crammed with people. Some youngsters sat the edge of an unfinished staircase, legs hanging, eyes and ears wide open. One boy, after losing his balance, had literally hung from the rafters.

It was a party and a feast with the villagers bringing out what food they had. The town mayor and his son-in-law squeezed through the door, each carrying a keg of beer. Rob and his friends had food presented to them from all quarters. Now, after three winters in the seventeenth century, Rob understood how little food must remain in the village larders. When Dieter Wiesskamp reached for his pack, Rob whispered, "Can we give 'em everything except what we need to get home?" Dieter nodded and began emptying his pack. Sausages hit the tabletop and were followed by a sack of rutabagas and carrots.

When Dieter hauled out the two slabs of bacon Wilf Jones winced. With the bacon gone the group's rations were down to a couple of slabs of salt pork and a handful of sausages. Rob smiled back and mouthed "Hearts and Minds" at Wilf. That got him a grimace in return. Reichard Blucher smiled from the far end of the table, obviously distracted by the two young women hovering over him.

Rob realized that Wilf had been right to insist that they not wear their militia uniforms or tell anyone what their real purpose was. This area was just regaining population and rebuilding the villages. These people had little reason to trust any military—both sides had pillaged them and burned their villages while foraging.

"We're a small party," Wilf had stated. "If we go up there in uniform we're more likely to wake up one morning with our throats slit than find the bandits Major Stieff wants us to look for. Best go as a simple group of horse traders checking out the market for our stock. Naturally we're interested in any rumors about robbers."

The previous fall a Grange-sponsored group came up here to help the villages with their harvest. Rob had come with them. The army platoon that came along to guard the machines had been forced to camp outside the villages. Even those of the soldiers who joined in the heavy labor had been greeted with silence and suspicion.

Rob reached into his pack and took out a Walkman radio. He brought out a pair of battery driven speakers and plugged them in. When Wilf nodded Rob turned the radio on and found the Voice of Luther radio station. The party went from raucous to solemn as he dialed in the broadcast. It was the Vespers service from Madgeburg cathedral. Scratchy and static-filled, as it was, the choir's "Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost" filled the room. Pastor Borstorf nodded thoughtfully; stroking his chin and mustache while the service rolled on. The miracle of hearing what was being said and sung in that distant city even quieted the children. When the Benediction and the last "Amen" had been said, the villagers slipped out into the cold to their houses and bed. Pastor Borstorf remained behind.

"Many thanks, Herren, many thanks for that. It was fifteen years ago when I last heard that choir. Perhaps, should this year's harvests be good, it may be that the village can afford such a machine. Of course, Mayor Bishoff has his eyes on one of the new manure spreaders and so it may come to making a choice between the practical and the uplifting." With a sly grin the pastor added, "I may vote for the manure spreader myself to save my sermons being compared to those from the cathedral."

"Ah, but Pastor, you know it was little Hans that threw his sister's doll in the well and Old Klaus who drinks too much . . ." Dieter teased gently.

"Oh, yes! I know my flock well enough." Pastor Borstorf grew grave, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You go to Oberschwartzwald next, don't you?"

"Yes, that is our plan," Wilf replied as softly.

"Do not play your radio for them, especially not a Lutheran service," Borstorf whispered grimly.

"Are they papists, then? I'd not thought around here . . ." Wilf asked.

"Heretics! Would that they were only deluded papists. No, those left in Oberschwartzwald have corrupted Christ's teachings beyond even the papists' heresies. Beware your souls in such a place. At least the Good Lord has seen that those sons of Satan do not prosper. Would that He removed them from the face of the Earth. We would be well done with Groenwald and his thieving 'cousins.'"

"We've heard others complain about thieves . . . are the men from Oberschwartzwald the ones who have committed these thefts?" Wilf asked.

"They've stolen anything that wasn't chained down or held in hand. Three sows, a horse, and two cows in the last month have wondered off toward the Devil's village. Die Weltzin's freshly-washed blankets and the Donners' two casks of sauerkraut walked off with the animals. Others have lost tools. My own good ax went from the chapel entrance."

The pastor's pained look reminded Rob of how precious the stolen items were to the villagers. It prompted him to ask, "You said something about Herr Groenwald's cousins? I take it you think they are the thieves?"

"Young man, for centuries my family and the Groenwald family have known each other and yet none have ever heard of these cousins nor their supposed ancestors. Devils in disguise they may well be, visited on Groenwald for his heresy. Keep good watch at night."

The Grantville quartet exchanged glances. Rob felt a twinge of conscience. His first feeling had been one of glee. If these strangers in Oberschwartzwald were their bandits, he and his friends might be on their way home in a day or two.

****

Yesterday's snowstorm had turned to sleet around dusk. Just past midnight the wind slackened, the temperature dropped, and the sleet turned to ice. As the sun rose over the hills the village took the appearance of a landscape carved from ice. Sunbeams danced from icicle to icicle, shimmering brightly.

The beauty of the scene was lost to the men huddled around the small fire. The room that had been stuffy and over-warm last night now was frigid. The walls and roof had kept them dry but the wind found every crack.

"What curse follows us that the very weather turns against us?" murmured Reichard as he delicately added a small branch to the fire. "As cold as it is, it's well Christian didn't come with us. "

"Yeah, two weeks riding in snow and sleet after recovering from pneumonia isn't too smart," Rob agreed. He missed the lanky man and his acerbic wit.

"Come, now, Reichard. It isn't that bad. At least it isn't sleeting anymore," Wilf teased. "And look there, our young friend Rob seems as comfortable as can be."

Rob, shivering on the other side of the fire took one hand out of his pocket long enough to give Wilf a single-digit salute. "Yeah, just like I'm at home in front of my own fireplace. All that's missing is the popcorn and beer." Despite his up-time parka, fur lined pants, and heavy boots Rob was cold—down to the bone cold. He wondered again how the others managed. Wilf was wearing an old faded-blue parka neatly patched at the elbows and too long in the sleeves. The parka had once belonged to one of Rob's older brothers. Under the parka Wilf wore a wool shirt, wool pants and a pair of western style boots. His hands sported a pair of rabbit skin gloves. To Rob's eyes the oddest part of the older man's ensemble was the plaid wool scarf tied around his head. Dieter was similarly attired, save his parka was newer, bright orange, and fit him better. Reichard, as big as he was, hadn't found an up-time parka that fit him. Instead the man wore a sheepskin jacket that left Rob idly wondering how many sheep had died to make it. All of the men wore Stetsons. Somehow the sight made Rob think of a Saturday Night Live take-off on Bonanza. Wilf would be cast as Papa Cartwright, Dieter as the smooth-talking Adam, and Reichard, of course, as the oversized Hoss. That left Rob himself as Little Joe. The thought tickled him and he found himself laughing.

"Ah, now you prove my point. You are just as comfortable here as at home." Wilf grinned back at him.

"More so, I think," Dieter chimed in. "Here he doesn't have to listen to all the women chattering."

"Aye, or get dragged off to see the tailor 'just one more time'. Frau O'Reilly is a level headed, practical woman, or so I thought." Dieter shook his head mournfully. "Now, with your wedding at hand, she has gone as mad as the rest."

"Come now, Dieter." Wilf chuckled. "I'd say that 'tis Liz and JoAnn who are wildest about the wedding. Frau O'Reilly's daughters, too. If anyone gives Frau O'Reilly trouble it is her girls. Fraulein Lannie, she stays calm."

"Well, yes . . ." Rob replied. "Grandpa Ev has been running interference for us. He's declared his house a 'wedding free zone.' Even JoAnn shuts up when he reminds her that it's not her wedding. The trouble starts when they get to my house and run into their cousins . . ." He drifted off in memory, then heaved a sigh and grinned back at the other men. "Lannie and I have talked about eloping, except there's no Las Vegas to run to."

Rob tossed a burning branch back on the fire. The guys had it right; he'd come along because he couldn't deal with any more wedding plans, wedding talk, wedding decorations, or sly digs about the wedding night. A week after Christmas, Maggie O'Reilly moved into the housekeeper's quarters in Rob's house. She'd rented out her own house to Christian du Champ and his family. Rob had been in favor of the move as it meant that he got Mrs. O'Reilly's cooking for all his meals. However, he also got the three O'Reilly girls—and their enthusiasms over his upcoming wedding.

Over the last two years he'd had trouble getting used to being alone. Having the O'Reillys in the house helped and in less than month things would change again. He would officially be a part of a family. A large, noisy, boisterous, alive family.

"Yeah," Rob answered, keeping his eyes down so the others wouldn't see the hint of tears in his eyes. "Yeah, I came along to get away from all the wedding craziness. Besides, someone's got to keep you guys out of trouble." Ducking, Rob almost avoided Dieter's rolled up sleeping bag.

"We need to eat and get moving. Oberschwartzwald is just a couple of miles up the road. Even if there are no bandits it is the last village on our list," Reichard announced. He picked up the frying pan and offered it around. "From what the pastor said it sounds like our bandits might be in residence there."

"Aye, we'd better move or we'll freeze our asses off. Until last night Major Stieff's odd stories about bandits from the villages out here appeared to be no more than noises in the night," Dieter commented while eagerly spearing a piece of meat from the pan.

"Well, the good major did say he didn't think there was much to them. Just that he wanted us to check them out. All that we've heard about in the other villages were a missing cow here, a couple of sacks of onions gone there, a horse that didn't come in from the pasture, and so on. But the pastor's concerns about Oberschwartzwald also make me think there is something more to the stories than random chance and the odd thief," came Wilf's calm reply. He, too, readily speared his share of meat from the pan.

"Don't forget the missing girl," Reichard said. "I don't think she just wandered off on her own to admire the snowdrifts. That scared boy two villages back said he saw four or five riders trying not to be noticed. These mysteriously appearing relatives could be deserters. The Good Lord knows there are enough of them wandering about. The tracks we saw the other day, they looked like five ridden horses and they were heading toward Oberschwartzwald." He extended the frying pan to Rob.

Rob flipped open his Buck knife and gingerly speared the smallest piece. Fried salt pork was one down-time food he didn't like.

"We'll check out the village, spend tonight under cover, and head home tomorrow. If we push and the weather holds we'll be back in Grantville by Wednesday." Reichard's share of the fried salt pork disappeared in two large bites and he continued, "We can report to Major Stieff and be done with our militia duty for another year." A broad grin split the big man's face.

****

The men exchanged puzzled looks. They were just coming into the village of Oberschwartzwald, past a pair of half-ruined barns. Ahead they could hear a man yelling.

"Sounds like someone is calling someone else a 'dirty little thief,'" commented Dieter.

"Aye, and I think I know that voice," Reichard said. "If it is him, he dies today." Suiting actions to words the big man reached down and pulled his rifle from its scabbard.

"Yes, and any of the mangy crew he runs with," Wilf added in agreement as he also readied his rifle. "That pastor last night had the right of it—devils in disguise."

"Who are you talking about? Do you think these are the thieves Major Stieff was worried about?" Rob asked in confusion. He reached under his coat for his own revolver.

"Stay out of the line of fire, Rob. This is old business—dangerous business," a grim-faced Wilf warned. "Not your business nor that of Grantville . . ."

"It's old mercenary business, Rob, with as bloody-handed a mercenary as you'd find. Made the Spaniard look like a saint." Even Dieter, usually smiling and laughing, had a grim look. "The tracks said five men."

"Don't assume that's all. This place may hold others. Spread out. We don't want to give anyone a massed target." Wilf grinned, his face looking wolf-like. "Against wheel locks or snaphances we've a good chance. Pray they've not gotten their hands on up-time weapons. Rob, your eyes are good, watch the upper stories and our backs. "

Rob nodded in agreement and started to turn his horse around. Art Deco, the Spanish stallion Rob was riding, quivered and refused to turn. Shoving his revolver into a coat pocket, he reached down to stroke the stallion's neck. "Easy, Deco, easy fellow."

The shouting was coming closer and now Rob could hear hoof beats on cobbles. Deco suddenly rocked back on his haunches and rose into a levade. Rob took both sets of reins in his hands, automatically separating curb and snaffle reins. He took a solid hold on the snaffle as Art Deco's forefeet landed and the horse arched his neck with a snort. "Hey, silly, ease off," he told the horse and again turned him; thankful that he had the pelham on the stallion instead of the plain snaffle he usually rode with. With the stallion this restive the curb would come in handy.

"Get a good hold, Rob. That's a warhorse. When the fight starts he'll be ready to move fast—very fast." Wilf started forward into the village square.

Rob managed to hold the stallion back until the rest of the group had cleared the road. He eased up on the bit. A pair of prancing steps brought horse and rider far enough forward to see what was happening.

In the open area a mounted man was chasing a small boy around the well. The child darted frantically back and forth while the horseman cursed and threatened to trample him. A couple of men standing in a doorway yelled bets back and forth on how long the boy would live after the 'captain' caught him. Two other men were restraining a woman against the wall of a house.

When Rob leaned forward to see better, the stallion grabbed the bit and leapt out, hitting a full gallop on the third stride. Without veering the warhorse ran at the other horseman. Rob sawed on the reins and finally managed to put Deco into a sliding stop, somehow ending up next to the child. Rob leaned down and scooped the boy up. He tried to spin the stallion away, thinking to dodge back the way he'd come. Instead, Deco spun to face the other horseman. Rob managed, barely, to stay on.

His game spoiled, the horseman spurred straight at Rob, his hand fighting with his bulky cloak to reach his saber. Deco leapt forward again, colliding with the other horse. The lighter mount went down.

The downed horseman screamed, "You bastard! You'll die a long, painful death for this!"

Rob recognized several shots from at least two up-time rifles and the boom of a wheel lock. His attention was focused on the horse under him. Deco didn't quiver with excitement now—he radiated rage. The stallion half-reared and smashed his hooves down at the fallen horseman. None of Rob's efforts to control him made it past Deco's pinned ears.

The stallion screamed, high-pitched and eerie, his head snaked forward and grabbed the downed man's face. The crack of splintering bone followed. The fallen horse struggled, blocking Deco from his prey and the stallion stepped back a pace.

Rob slid off and, still clutching the child, stumbled backward until a wall stopped him. He set the child down behind him and turned back to watch the monster that two minutes before had been his favorite horse.

Deco's backward steps gave the other horse room enough to stand and limp off. The rider lay unmoving, his face an unrecognizable mass of raw flesh and blood. Rob was certain that the man was dead. The stallion circled the body, his nose nearly touching it, sniffing and snorting. Then Deco squealed, reared again and brought both front hooves down on the body. Again and again the horse reared and brought those steel shod hooves down, trampling the body.

Movement on Rob's left resolved into a man with a sword and pistol. Rob ducked away from the sword and pulled his revolver from his pocket. He danced far enough away to bring the revolver up and fire a quick shot. The attacker hesitated, dropped his sword and pointed his pistol at Rob. Rob took aim and squeezed off another shot. The wheel-lock pistol in his attacker's hand wavered and dropped, followed by the man's body. Belatedly Rob remembered to check for other bandits.

Against the wall, where the woman had been held, two bodies lay crumpled. Another body convulsed in a doorway. Rob heard Reichard yell "Clear!" off to his right and Wilf's reply from the left. Dieter's voice seemed to come from the house with the open door. The man Rob had shot gave a sighing groan and was still. Blood was everywhere—a shocking red highlight to the brilliant white snow. After one last check for other bandits, Rob turned, dropped to his knees, and lost his breakfast.

"Are you hurt, lad?"

Rob looked up to find Reichard standing over him. "No, I'm okay. But Deco . . . God, Reichard, I've got to shoot him! He's gone nuts!"

"Ah, lad, no. He's a warhorse, doing what warhorses are taught to do. Now, if horses have souls I might worry that Deco is enjoying his revenge a bit too much." The element of satisfaction in Reichard's voice caught Rob's attention.

"Revenge?" Climbing to his feet, Rob made himself look again at the stallion and the bloody bundle of rags under the horse's hooves.

"Few of your horse's scars came from battle. That miserable excuse for a man . . ." He sneered, pointing to the body Deco was still pounding. ". . ...