1636_ The Saxon Uprising - Eric Flint [160]
“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