The Saxon Uprising-ARC

Chapter 44


Dresden, capital of Saxony

Blessedly, Denise and Minnie had found a new enthusiasm. If they’d kept hammering away in the basement, expanding and improving the hidey-hole, Noelle would have had to start thinking seriously about poisons instead of just idly fancying them. Had she been as full of boundless enthusiasm and inexhaustible energy at that age? Surely not.

However, all bad things come to an end. The day after Eddie left, they got a radio message from their employer in Prague.

Stay put. (As if they had any choice.) Interesting developments coming. Make preparations to restore air strip as soon as possible.

Denise immediately interpreted that as an assurance that Eddie would be back within days. How he would manage that was unclear, given that the airstrip in question—the former airstrip—was now the site of a corral where Banér’s Finnish light cavalry kept their mounts. But Denise was not given to fretting over uncertainties.

Not even she and Minnie were so insouciant that they planned to start repairing the airfield with the Finns still in the area, however. They just wanted to be ready to race out there as soon as the first opportunity arose, with the “relief expedition” ready to go.

That was their term, which Noelle thought was absurd. Relieve who? Relieve what? Did they think a field that had been cleared of rocks and obstructions was groaning with pain and despair now that it was covered with horse crap?

Had she been as careless with language at that age? Surely not.

All they were planning to do was scrape off the manure and whatever other garbage the Finns had left with a modified plow. Then they’d level off the snow with a different modification to the plow, and finish by compressing the snow with rollers of some sort.

So far, they’d gotten the plow modifications ready. They were still working on the rollers.

Noelle had been taking advantage of the peace and quiet in the townhouse to write the report Nasi had asked for. What she’d found most interesting about his radio message was that he’d stressed he wanted a full and detailed report. Not something to be sent as a radio message then, but something written on paper that would have to be carried by a courier.

There hadn’t been a courier in two weeks. Even the Thurn and Taxis people had stopped coming after Banér, in one of his fits of fury, had ordered that a detained courier be executed.

Of course, now that the Swedes had pulled out of the trenches and gone after Mike Stearns, couriers might start taking the risk again. Perhaps that was what Nasi was counting on.

“More,” said Jozef. “Many more.”

The gunmaker was looking at him almost cross-eyed. “How many grenades can a man carry?”

“You might be surprised, when he figures his life will depend on them. And we won’t be carrying them on our bodies anyway, not most of them. We’re having sleds made up.”

The gunmaker had been a soldier once himself. His eyes now seemed on the very verge of crossing. “You’re going to carry grenades on sleds? Nobody does that!”

Jozef gave him a cool smile. “To the contrary, Herr Teuber. It’s a standard Polish tactic.”

In point of fact, hussars rarely used grenades. Even the Polish infantry didn’t use them much. But he was getting annoyed with the gunmaker and wanted to cut this short. Never had he met a man who quarreled so much when people offered to pay him for his work. Granted, the money was in the form of a promissory note, but he ought to know by now that if Dresden held off the Swedes, the CoC would be good for it. Sooner or later.

Unfortunately, while any gunmaker and most apothecaries knew how to make gunpowder—so did lots of other people, for that matter—this Teuber jackass was the only one in the city whose shop was set up to make it in quantity.

Thankfully, he was not making the grenades themselves. That work was being handled by a little consortium of two gunmakers and two blacksmiths. The weapons they produced were a bit crude, heavier than Jozef would have preferred, and he wasn’t entirely happy with the fuses. But they’d work well enough and he hadn’t expected anything better under the circumstances. Making grenades was normally specialized work.

Eric Krenz and Friedrich Nagel weren’t any happier with the sled-maker.

“More,” said Eric.

“Many more,” qualified Friedrich.

The sled-maker’s way of expressing disbelief was spitting. The more spittle, the greater the skepticism, as nearly as Krenz could figure.

“Why don’t you just have me make you a few big sleds?” he demanded crossly. “All these little ones…”

He threw up his hands. “Child’s toys! You are expecting to find hordes of children somewhere?”

Eric set his teeth. “Herr Meissner, as I told you before—”

“Twice, already,” Nagel interjected.

“Yes, twice already. We want these sleds to carry grenades. We need to be able to move quickly and we don’t know in which direction we will need to go or how many of us will be together at any one time. It will be snowing, as I already mentioned.”

“Twice,” said Nagel.

“Yes, twice. So perhaps you can see why a few big sleds will not—”

The most irritating part of it was that Meissner had not been a soldier and had spent some time making that clear. So why was he arguing the point? Based on what self-professed lack of expertise?

Gretchen Richter came into the shop. “I was told there is a problem,” she said, as soon as she came in. “What is it?”

Eric sketched the problem. Very briefly. We want a lot of small sleds not a few big ones and this assho—Herr Meissner here—seems unhappy with the order.

Gretchen pointed to Krenz with a thumb. “Do as he says, Herr Meissner. Please do exactly as he says. Or many little Herr Meissners will replace one big one.”

And off she went. Alexander the Great had nothing on Gretchen Richter when it came to cutting Gordian knots.

“I don’t know,” said Minnie dubiously. She walked around to the other side of the roller that the wagonmaker had designed. It was rather ingenious, admittedly. Three barrels in a line on one axle with two others following on a second axle, offset in order to flatten the ridges that would be produced between the first three barrels. The whole thing was held together by a very sturdy frame—which even came with platforms on which more weight could be placed in the form of bags full of rocks.

Yes, very ingenious, assuming it didn’t fall apart under the strain. But it probably wouldn’t. Herr Kienzle seemed to know what he was doing. The problem that remained was…

Denise had spotted it too. “That’s going to take a big team of horses to pull around. Oxen would be better.”

Kienzle inclined his head. It was the sort of nod an august and dignified guildsman would bestow upon two ignorant, prattling, but well-meaning young girls.

“Oh, yes. No question about it. The draft animals will help compress the snow also, of course.”

Denise was looking exasperated. Minnie figured she better speak up quickly. The capabilities of Denise Beasley when it came to the aggravate-the-hell-out-of-pompous-middle-aged-men department were extraordinary. One might even say, astronomical.

“The problem, Herr Kienzle, is that finding such draft animals—on any notice, much less short notice—is likely to be difficult.”

“We’re in a city under siege,” Denise growled, “you—”

“Difficult, as I said,” Minnie rode over her.

The wagonmaker shrugged. “Yes, no doubt. You’ll just have to do your best. My job is done.”

Minnie sighed. There’d be no way to hold back Denise now.

By mid-afternoon, they’d drawn a blank in their negotiations with the city’s stables. Unfortunately, stable-keepers were also middle-aged men and for some peculiar reason Minnie couldn’t figure out, they all seemed to be afflicted with pompous-male-middleageditis. Denise aggravated all of them. By late afternoon, they’d almost given up.

Then they were approached by a couple of young hostlers from the second stable they’d visited. The lads, definitely short of middle-age and not pompous at all, offered to provide the girls with draft horses behind their employer’s back. They said that he was a lazy man who paid little attention to his business and left the details to his employees.

When Denise inquired as to the price, the lads spurned money and offered a more gallant alternative form of payment.

Had Denise been in a good mood, she would have handled the matter casually. She was truly superb in the brush-off-boys-with-delusions-of-grandeur department. Since she wasn’t in a good mood—quite the opposite—she fell back instead to threatening to pistol-whip the dirty rotten bastards if they weren’t out of her sight in five seconds. She was accomplished in that department also.

As was Minnie herself, for that matter. Before Denise had finished the first sentence, Minnie already had her pistol in hand. So did Denise, of course.

At that point, the day began improving. One of the lads raced off but his partner proved surprisingly stout and adaptable.

“Look, it was worth a try,” he said, smiling and raising his hands in a pacific gesture. “No offense meant. If you’d rather pay us with money, so be it. What’s your offer?”

By sundown, they had everything in place. All negotiations had been successfully concluded and all arrangements made. The only hitch was that Minnie had to unruffle Herr Kienzle’s feathers first, which were still ruffled as only Denise could ruffle feathers. She made Denise wait outside the shop until she took care of that problem.

“Okay, I finally got him settled down,” she said when she came out. “He’ll have the roller ready as soon as we tell him the hostlers are on the way.”

Denise scowled. “You did tell him the hostlers were as young as we are, right? We don’t need that fat sorry swell-headed son-of-a-bitch to go all Yesyourmajesty on them when they show up.”

“Yeah, I told him. At this point, I don’t think he cares. Not once he started figuring out what that roller was going to cost him given that you’d made it pretty clear he wasn’t getting the back half of the money on account of the agreement was ‘satisfactorily built’ and we didn’t think it was even though a judge would probably rule in his favor but the only operating judge right now is Gretchen and most of these guildsmen are leery of dealing with her.”

“Gee, wonder why?”

“Gretchen would probably rule in his favor too, you know? We were maybe a little vague about exactly what we needed.”

“Well, maybe. He’s still a fat sorry swell-headed son-of-a-bitch.”

Denise’s skills in the forgive-and-forget department, on the other hand, were minimal. One might even say, microscopic.

Noelle had just finished her report when she heard Denise and Minnie clumping up the steps to the front entrance. She’d been using a quill pen and down-time ink, since she’d seen no reason to hurry her writing and the few up-time pens she still had left were things she was now saving for special purposes. So she had to wait a bit for the ink on the last sheet to finish drying before she stacked it with the rest of the pages.

There were twenty-three pages all told, hand-written. Francisco had asked for a full report; a full report he’d be getting. It would have to be sent by courier, for sure. The cost of sending that long a message by radio didn’t bear thinking about, not even for someone with Nasi’s wealth. The cost was a moot point, in any event. There was no way the CoC people running the radio operation would have allowed that much time to be monopolized for a private transmission.

While she waited for the page to dry, she rose from the writing desk, stretched her arms and began walking about. She’d been sitting nonstop for the last three hours and was feeling stiff.

She heard a screech from outside. Denise’s voice, clearly enough, although no words could be made out. It had just sounded like a screech of fury.

Now alarmed, Noelle raced to the stairwell, stopping only long enough to draw her own pistol out of the drawer of the side table where she kept it.

The screech came again. Noelle hurried down the stairs and threw open the door, pistol in hand and ready to fire.

Not quite. She still had the safety on but this time she’d remembered it was on and was ready to flick it off. There’d be no repeat of…well, any number of embarrassing moments on the firing range. Noelle’s capabilities in the Annie Oakley department were risible. One might even say, the laughing stock of the continent.

But there was nothing. No danger she could see, although she couldn’t see far. It was evening and there was a very heavy overcast.

Minnie was standing right by the entrance, looking up at the sky with a frustrated expression on her face. Denise had moved back into the street and was also staring up at the sky. She had her palm out-stretched.

“What’s the matter?” Noelle asked.

“Look at this shit!” Denise screeched.

“It’s starting to snow,” Minnie said glumly. “Now we’ll have to wait at least another day. Maybe two or three.”