"Good man is not enough; he was the best man in a fight I ever saw."
The voices filtered through Anse's ears as he regained consciousness. Who are they talking about? Surely not me, I ain't dead. Anse tried to move and a burst of pain flashed through him. Well, that settles that. I'm alive. Being dead couldn't hurt this much. But why can't I see. Am I blind?
Anse tried to speak; all that came out was a croak. But that was enough. "Hey, the chief is awake." Light flooded Anse's vision when the cloth that covered his eyes was pulled away. But why was his vision so blurred?
Bottger touched his right shoulder. "Don't try to move, Chief. You got a nasty wound, but you'll live." Bottger brought a canteen to Anse's mouth. "Take a drink."
Anse swallowed a mouthful of water. It was foul and tasted of the metal in the canteen. It was the best tasting water ever. He took another swallow, tried to raise his right hand and was rewarded by pain, but the arm moved. He pushed the canteen away. "How long have I been out?"
Bottger looked doubtful, like he didn't want to answer.
"Tell him, Private. He needs to know," another voice said. The stranger was a tall thin man. A Swede or someone with the Swedish army. At least, Anse thought, he wasn't a prisoner.
"You've been unconscious for the better part of two days, Chief," Bottger stammered. "You had us worried. We were afraid we were going to lose you a couple of times."
Anse asked the first thing that came to his mind. "Did we win?"
"We sure did. The French cavalry ran off and the infantry surrendered. We have been picking up their wounded for two days. It was a murdering great battle. The battlefield is a mess."
"That might be a little more than he needs to know right now," the stranger said.
Bottger went on. "Chief, you were hit in the left shoulder and it looks like you took a bunch of splinters in the face. The surgeon had to cut out the bullet. All told, you've lost a chunk of muscle about the size of a turnip."
Anse started to relax a bit. It sounded like he wasn't likely to lose the arm. At least both wounds were on the same side, left hand and arm. "And my face?"
Bottger looked at the stranger. Anse could tell that the private didn't want to answer. "Go and tend the other wounded, Private. I will tell him." The stranger squatted next to Anse. "I am Dietrich Weiss, a surgeon with General Torstensson's army."
Anse was starting to worry again. It had to be bad if an experienced man like Bottger was afraid to tell him.
Weiss looked Anse straight in the eye. "I have always found it is better to have a man's friend tell him about his wounds if possible, but your private likes you too much and is afraid of hurting you."
"Get on with it Doc. You're starting to scare me."
"You have lost a great quantity of blood, but you will live. Keep that foremost in your mind. You will live to a ripe old age . . . if you avoid battles in the future. As the private so elegantly put it, you have lost a large bit of muscle tissue from your left arm and shoulder. I doubt you will never regain the full use of that arm, but I may be wrong. Your will have some use of your left hand as I was able to save the thumb and first finger and a piece of the middle finger."
"My face, Doc. You're not telling me about my face."
Weiss squeezed Anse's shoulder. "You took a large number of splinters in your face, as the private said. One of which penetrated your left eye. I am afraid you will never regain vision in that eye."
"So my left arm is crippled and I'm blind in one eye? Is that everything?" Anse tried to act calm, but inside he was screaming, "I'm alive."
Weiss smiled. "Yes, that is all. Except for the bruising you received when your man Filss fell on you."
"Hagen was hit? Where is he? He wasn't killed was he?"
"He is right next to you." Weiss pointed to the right. "He refused to leave your side."
Anse turned his head and was confronted by Hagen's smiling face on the pad next to his.
"Chief, it is good to have you back. I was worried for a while. I don't know what Sergeant Rau would have done to me if I lost you."
Anse could tell by the look on Hagen's face it was more than fear of Rau that had kept him close. "Hello, Hagen. How bad were you hit?"
"I got wounded in my leg. The doctor says I am healing fine and it will only bother me in wet weather."
"Who else was hit?"
Hagen's smile disappeared. "Captain Ivarsson was wounded, but not badly. He is in command here now, guarding the wounded prisoners. Linkersdorf was killed. He was a very brave man; he took over when you went down. We TacRail men emptied our revolvers, and then the infantry arrived to drive the French back. Privates Bock, Fasch and Moeller have minor wounds. Most of the rest of our people just have cuts, bruises and splinter wounds." Hagen paused. Anse could tell he was bracing himself to deliver bad news. "Chief, Sergeant Albrecht was hit bad just before you were; he is dead. We heard about it just as you woke up."
"Oh, shit. He was a good man." Albrecht left a wife in Grantville and a girlfriend in Magdeburg, but he was still a good man. Anse knew he was going to be the one to tell the women Udo wasn't coming home.
Weiss stood. "I will leave you to talk. I do have other wounded. Oh, your colonel left this package for you." He dropped a packet of papers between Anse and Hagen.
Anse used his teeth to untie the string holding them together and unfolded the top one. The hand writing was a scrawl, but easy to read.
Hatfield,
I stopped to see about you before we pulled out to chase what's left of the French cavalry. They tell me you'll live. Got some orders for you, see attached.
Don't get a big head, but you did good. Learn to keep your head down in the future. I still think you run your mouth too much, but you're one mean SOB.
That kid, Hagen Filss, saved your life, you know. Stood over you, kept firing until he ran out of ammunition. I'm putting him in for a Silver Star.
You really ought to teach him to keep his head down, you know. What is it with you TacRail types?
Frank Jackson
"Damn Hagen, thank you.You saved my life."
"Not me alone. All of the men were there and the French broke when we charged."
"You still did good."
Anse quickly looked through the rest of the documents. When he reached the final page, it turned out to be part of a field order. Anse read it, then read it again.
Field Order 321 (Abstract)
31. CWO Andersen Hatfield 1TR1003VS is granted ninety (90) days convalescent leave. He is ordered to Grantville SoTF, his home of record.
32. CPL Hagen Filss 1TR1061V is granted ninety (90) days convalescent leave. He is ordered to Grantville SoTF, his home of record.
"Hagen . . . we're going home."
Dog Days
Written by Richard Evans
Spring 1632, Grantville, Thuringia, Germany, early morning
Old Pete sat in his favorite spot and huffed out a breath of air that made his mouth flap comfortably. He laid his head down onto his paws and watched the streets through the white wooden pickets of the porch railings. The scents of the budding flowers made his nose tickle and he sneezed. Even though it was colder than it should be with the smells of spring in the air, Pete found the sunshine just as warm as it always had been in this, his corner of the porch. That his favorite sunny spot had moved from next to the front door to over by the swing due to the Ring of Fire didn't matter to him.
Pete scanned the street once more and snuffled to be sure there were no strange scents in the air. All was good. Duncan would be home soon and then it'd be time for some exercise or he'd get to carry wood over to the smokehouse. Then he'd get fed scraps if someone came over to use it.
That'd be just fine with him. If he was lucky, he and his master could go hunting. From birds to bigger game, it didn't matter to Old Pete. He'd work them all.
Pete rolled over onto his back and let the sun warm his belly. Soon he was dreaming of chasing squirrels and rabbits in the woods just
over the hills. It was a perfect day. His legs twitched as he dreamed.
* * *
The words Duncan Cunningham uttered ensured that no one would try to catch his attention or approach him as he stalked back home.
Duncan had watched others exiting the offices as he arrived. It had been nearly a year since his last visit and there were a lot fewer older folks in the waiting room this year.
He examined the exercise pamphlets and dietary plans Doctor Shipley had given him and stuffed them into his pack. He'd lost over forty-five pounds over the last year and here she wanted him to lose even more weight or he would die sooner than later!
He'd changed his ways as best he could, but since no more medications were available, he'd had to resort to the old-fashioned ways to control his diabetes.
Diet and exercise.
If Duncan didn't start working on his plans to get insulin made, it would kill him. No way in hell was "Slam Dunk" Cunningham going down easily. He couldn't change where or who he was, but he could do something about his being a diabetic, even if he was still just type two. Sure as winter brought snow, it'd get worse with time. Now it was up to him to get an insulin project started to make the medicine he'd soon need.
To Duncan it was a matter of life and death, but the city council and emergency board last year had said no—no funds and no way to make insulin. No place or people to spare to make it, either. More important medicines that would save people, including him, from pestilence took precedence.
"God damn their DDT." He slammed a beefy fist into his large hand. A hand so large that could palm a basketball as easily as someone's face in a fight.
He had no idea how much making insulin would cost, but the numbers were bound to be high. Higher than he could afford, straight up. At least his credit was good. It didn't hurt to be related to nearly everyone in town at times like these. What he'd read so far about insulin purification seemed simple, but there were so many obstacles and sundries he'd need to get it started. He knew he wasn't the man to make the insulin, either. One more problem to overcome.
Duncan knew he'd be in competition with the high school, the new hospital they were building, and even other facilities for some materials, and he didn't even have a tenth of an idea of what all he needed to produce the insulin.
It'd be a busy morning visiting homes and trying to trade unneeded items. He'd have to start small and work his way up to getting the gear for a lab dedicated to purifying insulin.
He'd show Dr. Shipley. He'd show everyone that Duncan Cunningham wasn't a quitter. Not now, not ever.
He wasn't going to die . . . but first things first.
* * *
Duncan sat down on the front deck's steps to rest. It'd taken several trips from the hired wagon to move the small hoard of items he'd managed to trade for that morning. Mostly they were items his imagined lab would need. It was going to take days to sort through it all to see if the stuff could be converted to be useful in a lab. Converting a child's ancient record player into a centrifuge would be tough, but the library or someone he knew would know how to get it done.
Selfish or not, the insulin, when it was made, would be his first. It was going to cost him enough money and time. Time he was short on, even today. It was almost noon and he still needed to put meat in the smokehouse. He owed too many people too much already.
He'd felt his next door neighbor's eyes following him when he unloaded the wagon. He suppressed the urge to give her the finger. Kitty Ann Chaffin was too nosy for anyone's good.
Duncan had friends he did favors for sometimes, no questions asked, and they'd returned the favor when he asked for help this morning. Though it meant that he'd have to babysit five or six kids, mostly pre-teens, this weekend in return. He didn't mind children; it was adults that got on his nerves easily for some reason. Duncan loved children, and the birth of his grandchild, Noah, had made him ecstatic. Word that Gayla was trying to have a child, too, made him even happier.
He grunted. "Well, Pete, it looks like we're not long for this world if Grantville can't get its shit together. And here I am, out of work with an empty house." He scanned his double wide that was anything but empty. There was over thirty years of his and Linda's collected life here.
"Wish Linda had come down-time with us; she'd know what's worth what in no time." Duncan sighed. "You're gonna be one spoiled dog for a few months as I clean out the junk food I was saving, if I can't sell or trade that stuff first."
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kitty's curtains move again. There was a woman God should have found a way to leave up-time one way or another.
Duncan scratched his faithful hunting dog's ears and grinned as Old Pete's tail thumped the wrap-around wooden deck. The sound reverberated like a Japanese demon-drum. Old Pete wasn't a small dog by any means, by luck more than intention. He might actually be a bit bigger than a St. Bernard and easily pushed two hundred pounds of muscle, tooth, drool and fur.
Somehow the loyalty of his half-breed father had been passed on to Old Pete in spades. It was too bad a coal truck had taken Pete's father out five years ago. There were only two other dogs in town he knew of that were directly related to Old Pete.
Old Pete had the instincts of a hunter. He knew when to move quietly, and how to push larger game towards the stands Duncan and his friends set up in deer season. So it had usually ended up with friends inviting Duncan and Old Pete to hunt, and leaving their own dogs at home.
"Well, we're not going to spend the rest of the day moping around, Pete. Freezer's gonna need filled again. Let's get a move on."
Pete knew what the words "freezer" and "filled" meant. It was time to go hunting again!
"Still have some bounce in you, do you? If you do, old boy, so do I." Duncan hopped to his feet to prove that point to himself. "Hah! I still got the moves!"
Old Pete's thunderous barks were punctuated by even more bouncing and shaking of the deck underfoot. "How about a big ole pig? I hear that there are some running wild in the woods near the marsh lands towards Badenburg, harassing folks. Be a long walk, boy. We'll pack for an all-nighter, just in case."
Normally no one went hunting alone, but time was short and the day wasn't getting any younger. No time to make a few calls or visit the store for a pick-up hunting partner.
Duncan pulled out his small game shotgun, an over-under .410, and pocketed a dozen-and-some small game shells and a similar amount of heavier slugs for the gun. It wouldn't be anywhere near powerful enough to take down a hog, especially if the rumors he'd heard were close to the truth, so he reached for his favorite handgun and holster belt.
The Taurus was a very heavy handgun. The belt held three quick-loaders in a pouch with the same ammo in them and twenty rounds in leather loops on the belt.
Every hunter in Grantville had gotten a lesson in seventeenth-century hunting laws soon after the Ring of Fire. Luckily, animals didn't care about borders and moved into the areas the locals could hunt without offending or breaking a local noble's laws.
Meat was meat.
He put on his Indiana Jones fedora. That had been a Father's Day gift from Noreen after the family had gone to see Raiders of the Lost Ark so many years ago. Before she'd had to be committed for her own safety.
A tear threatened to fall, but he bit his cheek. It wasn't his fault Noreen had lost it mentally after the Ring of Fire, but at least she had good care. His other daughter, Gayla, and quite a few friends worked at the facility where she now resided.
He wore the fedora proudly and had even added a timber-rattler's skin band to it after the snake had made the mistake of announcing itself where Old Pete could hear it.
Duncan reached into a cupboard and packed two instant Gatorade mix packs from his dwindling supply. That was one purchase he'd never regretted, but he hated the grape flavoring, so it had lasted longer than anyone would have guessed. For a diabetic on a sugar crash, the instant mixes were the nectar of God.
Knowing he might be out past dinner
, he made sure some homemade jerky filled other pockets. He filled his medicinal flask with some snake-bite juice, then grabbed the first-aid kit and finally moved out. One glance next door and he barred the dog doors from the inside, then locked the doors.
As much against thieves as inquisitive next door neighbors. One in particular, especially.
* * *
Old Pete had spooked quite a bit of small game on the way to the Ring by Birdie Newhouse's farm, but Duncan had only bagged three decent rabbits and two keeper squirrels so far. He'd fed Pete the squirrels, as they were too small for the pot this soon after winter.
Now Duncan sat waiting on the game trail just past the village near Birdie's farm, watching for the patrols he'd seen signs of on his way up here. If he'd read the signs right, the patrols had passed this same area twice earlier in the day, as if following a route. That meant they were trained men and not likely to be bandits.
Old Pete growled, and Duncan fought the urge to load and close the breech on the shotgun. "Stay calm, boy. We know they're there, and now they know we do, too. Sit." He snapped his fingers down toward his side next to his six-gun and took the opportunity to slip off its safety strap. Old Pete obediently sat down next to him, but never took his eyes off the bushes to their left.
Duncan could now smell the scent of someone who'd spent the day on a horse and who didn't bathe too often. Old Pete seemed to agree, as he whined softly and sneezed.
"Well, you coming out of the woods or not? I can smell you, and so can Old Pete."
Finally, a medium-sized man stepped forward, wearing a weathered leather jack over a jacket that blended well with the trees and brush of the area. He held a small spear point down in one hand, and had a musket strapped over one shoulder. A brace of pistols was shoved into his wide belt. The man's hat wasn't too different from Duncan's, excepting the large feather.
"My name is Conrad Feldmeier. I am the head game warden for Count Ludwig Guenther. These lands are his, perhaps even those your town is upon, too." He held up his hand before Duncan could protest. "You wish to hunt these lands?"