The Grantville Gazette - Volume 4 Part 10

sheep in small flocks to clear these yards," Bauer Mohler mused as he ran the whetstone over his scythe blade. "The older children could manage it."

"I did consider such a business," admitted Herr Glauber, "but I know little about goats or sheep. Besides,

some of the American children are already doing so. Still, for someone who knows goats . . ."

Bauer Mohler nodded in agreement and returned to cutting kudzu. The men worked steadily as the day warmed. Finally the shed emerged from its green shroud. Martin considered it while he straightened the kinks from his aching back. It was larger than he'd thought. Big enough for a small family-if Herr Glauber could make it sound. The roof had an ominous sway to it and the siding looked rotten in spots.

A call came from the yard above and proved to be lunch. Two boys, looking to be about ten or eleven, towed a small red wagon filled with wrapped sandwiches and a small keg of beer. Herr Glauber paid the

boys and Adolf unloaded the food onto a blanket in the shade. Martin took the opportunity to examine the wagon.

Shaking his head and muttering, "Steel, fine steel for a child's wagon." Martin joined the rest of the men.

"Yes and there must be a hundred such wagons in this town. The town is full of entrepreneurs. The

blond boy is American. His mother sells lunches and dinners to workingmen. The wagon belongs to him and it was his idea to deliver the food. His friend is German and translates for both mother and son. The German's family rents rooms from the American's and they have several such little enterprises going. I'd not be surprised to see them wealthy come this time next year," Herr Glauber cheerfully explained.

"Hard work and new ideas make for wealth. Is it not so, my boys?"

A chorus of "Yes, Papa" echoed from Adolf and Heinrich.

When the last crumb of the food had gone Herr Glauber announced it was time to open the shed and

begin clearing it out. It was not as a dignified Master Carpenter that he led them back to the door of the shed, but as a mischievous boy, his glee hardly held in check. "Treasures await within!"

Puzzled by Herr Glauber's comment, Martin a.s.sisted Adolf in prying open the door. In the gloom within

all he could see was brown-rust brown. The shed appeared to be completely filled with rusty metal objects. What wasn't rusty was so covered with dust as to appear rusted. At the front he could make out a gasoline lawnmower, its green and yellow paint barely visible under the layer of dust. A few Americans still used them despite the ban on using gasoline for anything but official vehicles.

"Heinrich, up on the wagon with you. We'll pa.s.s things up to you and you must stow them carefully.

Adolf, Martin, stand there at the door and start pa.s.sing items out to Bauer Mohler and myself." Herr Glauber was almost cackling with glee. "Ah, treasures indeed!"

As he and Adolf got into the rhythm of grab and pa.s.s and the first tightly packed objects went to the wagon Martin began to understand Herr Glauber's meaning. Here was a shed packed with steel. Most of it, like the lawnmower, probably would be beyond repair. But the items could be taken apart to repair other such and if not, still they would yield nuts, bolts, screws, and washers by the dozen. And gears, oh, yes, beautiful gears such as those on this push mower with the broken handle. The steel blades, nicked and rusty could be cleaned, straightened, and turned into fine tools.

"Here, Martin, can you reach that thing?" Adolf was pointing to something that looked vaguely like a

metal chair frame. "It's tangled up and I can't get these rakes loose."

Reaching over, Martin lifted the chair frame so easily he nearly fell over. Coughing in the dust stirred up; both young men retreated outside. In sunlight Martin examined the chair. It consisted of a continuous tubular frame with flat metal arms riveted on. Across the back and seat sagged the remains of woven plastic strips. Hefting the chair, Martin wondered at its light weight. He rubbed the dust off a portion of the frame and felt it. Eagerly he pulled out his knife to test the metal and stopped, suddenly aware Herr Glauber was standing beside him. Apologetically, he made to hand the chair to Glauber.

"No, son. Go ahead and test the metal. Just do so where it won't show. That should clean up and with a

nice new leather seat it will fetch a fancy price in Jena or perhaps Amsterdam," Glauber beamed.

"It isn't rusty, and so light . . . Is it more aluminum, sir?" queried Martin. He picked a spot sure to be covered and scratched the metal frame with the knifepoint. "Soft . . . very soft. How do they work it?"

"Yes, I've seen such chairs around. That is aluminum. It doesn't rust. Unfortunately," Glauber sounded regretful, "it will be years before they can make more of it. Still, that lack makes what remains all the more valuable. Come, son, we've scarcely begun to empty our treasure house."

Adolf and Bauer Mohler had continued to pull objects out of the shed while the aluminum chair held Martin's attention. Now, stepping back in and letting his eyes adjust he caught a glimpse of something.

The chair had intrigued him, now his heart pounded. If . . . if it was what he thought . . . and if he could persuade Herr Glauber . . .

"Hey, Martin, there's an anvil for you. Papa said he thought he'd seen one in here. Come on, help me with this bed frame." Adolf tapped Martin on the shoulder and pointed. "Take that end and I'll just remove these shovels and up she goes."

By late afternoon they had cleared back to the anvil. In a corner stood a forge, and a bench covered the other wall. Hanging on the walls and in front of the forge were a blacksmith's tools. Tongs, swages, punches, chisels, anvil dies, and clamps in a mult.i.tude of sizes and shapes sat draped in cobwebs, dust, and rust. On the bench was a grinding wheel with an electric motor. A leg vise stood anch.o.r.ed on a ma.s.sive wood post. Dazed, Martin opened a drawer in the bench. Fullers and hardys filled it. Another drawer held anvil dies. Still another drawer was filled with rasps and files. A dozen hammers, each different in size and shape hung neatly on the wall. Tucked down under the bench was a bickern and a second, smaller anvil. The quench tub held not water but more tools.

"Well, Journeyman Schmidt, do you think these tools would be a start to a blacksmith shop?" Herr

Glauber asked.

"More than a start. With this, what few things might not be here can be made. All the masters will bid for this."

"Yes, if I were so foolish as to look for a quick profit. I've a mind for a longer, higher profit. There is a building I've rented s.p.a.ce in with thought to storing these treasures. It could make a good blacksmith's shop I think. I just need a blacksmith."

"Oh, sir, you should have masters fighting each other. None like working for another, all would be

pleased to have such a shop." With a pang of regret Martin mentally cataloged the shed's contents.

"Young man, I've no wish to start a war amongst the blacksmiths in town. Besides, the shop I've got in mind would not suit most of our masters." Herr Glauber blew out his breath and eyed Martin.

"Sir?" A cautious hope grew in Martin's heart.

"A Master Blacksmith would argue with me constantly. Besides, masters don't want to do 'fiddly' little things. Now, a good solid journeyman, that's what I want for my shop."

"What 'fiddly' things, sir?" Martin clamped down tightly on his hope, striving to keep his voice level.

"Why, bolts, nuts, washers, screws and such." Grinning, Herr Glauber clapped Martin on the shoulder.

"Interested, Journeyman Schmidt?"

"But, sir! The masters have banned me," Martin pointed out.

"Oh them. For a bit I thought to give you the t.i.tle of 'Shop Manager' and argue that you were not

employed princ.i.p.ally as a blacksmith. Set my lawyer on working it out. Then I got a letter back from Masters Ritterhof and Eisenbach. Those two confirm you as a journeyman-one they consider worthy of being considered for master. The letter will serve to stop Hubner and his bunch." Glauber rocked back and forth on his feet, a wide grin splitting his face. "Have I found my shop manager?"

"Yes, sir." Standing straight and fighting tears, Martin took the hand Glauber extended and shook it. "Yes, sir. I'll make all the fiddly little bolts and nuts you want."

Chip's Christmas Gift

by Russ Rittgers.

Chip and Joachim had just finished working out with quarterstaffs, six-foot-long hardwood sticks, at the von Thierbach estate manor, absorbing a new collection of bruises to join those of the previous two days. Chip wanted to practice techniques he'd previously learned in the army and Joachim simply wanted to gain another weapon in the event they were attacked while on the road. Chip hadn't exactly had quarterstaff training but his close combat training sergeant had taught his company something about using his rifle to block sword strokes. At the same time he'd also said, if they're that close to you, run like h.e.l.l if you're alone, otherwise block, use your rifle b.u.t.t, or punch him with your bayonet if you've got it fitted.

Chip didn't have a rifle at Joachim's home in Thierbach where he'd come for the Christmas holiday or in Jena for that matter, but he did have six feet of salvaged galvanized pipe his dad had kept when he replaced their home's plumbing ten years ago. Wrapped in sticky black electrical tape with a dirt covering, it didn't look like metal, didn't resonate like metal. No sword would ever slash through it like Alex Mackay's had destroyed Chip's pool cue on that fateful night at the Thuringen Gardens.

He and Joachim had padded their arms and legs and wore old helmets pulled out of storage from the days his von Thierbach ancestors had worn them into battle. Fortunately or not, with the advent of the crossbow and firearms, armor was on the way out and it wasn't going to be coming back.

"I'm exhausted, sweaty and need a bath," Chip said, pulling off the tight padded metal helmet which showed a number of fresh dents. Sweat was pouring down his face as he stripped off his arm padding and upper clothing to cool down. The horse barn they had been using was dim and cool but out of the wind and snow. "I haven't had a series of workouts like this since I was in the army," Chip said, wiping his upper body with a linen towel.

"What's it like, being in the American Army?" Joachim asked, sitting down next to him, placing his

helmet on the bench and stripping off his own padding.

"I don't know," Chip mumbled, as he loosened the padding covering his legs. "A lot of exercise, getting your body into shape, practicing maneuvering into formations so they can be used during battle, close combat training, a lot like this but with and without our rifles. Actually, after we achieve a certain proficiency, we hardly ever shoot our rifles. Then there are all the lectures. Medical, technical, history, battle tactics, what's probably happening now in the world, and of course, patrol duty."

"So that's how you fought Josef with a knife and lived?" Joachim asked.

"Ja, and got the scar to prove it," Chip answered, tapping his scabbed-over healing cheek. "It was good that I was almost sober when we met that night. You were enjoying yourself with Inga at the time.""Speaking of Inga, don't mention her to Papa, at least in connection with me.""He doesn't want you to use a prost.i.tute? That's a more up-time position than I would have expected of him."

"Oh, it's not that. He doesn't mind that at all. In fact, he thinks of it as a part of my education. But having a long-term relationship with her, especially with her having someone else's child, never. That should be

for wives only."

"Ah," Chip smiled, nodding sagely. "The double standard is alive and well out here in the countryside, I see," he said, redressing himself in his cooled linen shirt. He tucked it into his pants and but left the collar string untied. "Boys get to play house but not the girls," he explained.

* * * "The maid Karla began heating water an hour ago and a bath is waiting for both of you in the usual place with your usual clothing," Frau Thierbach told them as they reentered the manor house. "Four days you've been here and three baths. How can you be so dirty?" she dramatically asked, throwing up her hands.

"Mama, you are so forgiving when it comes to the smell of soured sweat," Chip said affectionately,