by Eric Flint
“So you say. But after he’s questioned him thoroughly, which might eventually include torture—”
“—Prum might indeed kill Schoenfeld and drop the body down some convenient well, where it won’t be found for several months.” Thomas shrugged. “Frankly, if you’re trying to find a lunatic in this whole dance macabre, I nominate Schoenfeld. Granted, civilians often completely misread situations like this one, but Johann seemed sensible enough up until he did this.”
Quinn sighed. “Thomas, you heard Schoenfeld the first night we met him. He’s wracked by guilt, by not being here when the shit hit the fan. This isn’t just about having a plan to save the girls; it’s about the expiation of what Johann considers his sins, of not being in Biberach when his family and town needed him. Johann stated quite clearly that he holds himself responsible for his father’s death. Feels guilty to have fled before the approach of war. And now, he’s probably convinced himself that if he’d been here, he’d have been able to do something to stop this.”
“So he goes to present himself for evisceration by renegades while also inadvertently providing Prum with a tactical update on our departure.”
Quinn shrugged. “Yes, but if pressed, he’ll probably also point out that we’ll be back.”
“Yes, which will only lead Prum to wrap up his extortion racket in a month or two, while the coast is still clear. Which means that the usefulness of the hostages will end sooner, rather than later.”
“Listen: Johann doesn’t understand our line of work, but he has a good heart—” Larry stopped and stared intently through the binoculars. “Damn, is Prum making Johann get down on his knees?”
North looked, nodded. “Yes. I think he’s making him swear to something. Probably giving him his parole.”
“Hmm,” mused Quinn. “That’s interesting. A military habit Prum’s retained. Probably to give his captives—which is to say, his eventual victims—a false sense of security while he decides what to do with them.”
“You sound like you’re scheming, Larry.”
“Me? I’m a guileless American, remember? Anyhow, I’ve seen enough. As you’ve said, now we need to mount an attack as soon as possible.”
North nodded and looked over his shoulder. Dispersed back along one-hundred and fifty yards of open woods, the platoon was hiding as best it could. “Moving them all up to attack positions is not going to be a short job, unfortunately.”
Hastings, hanging a few feet back, shrugged. “We could advance at night, attack under cover of darkness.”
North shook his head. “A night attack is no good, particularly since we don’t have detailed information about the interior of the abbey. Major Quinn and I asked Herr Schoenfeld about the layout; he’d never been inside. Not surprising for a Protestant. Not surprising for a Catholic, either: the sisters and townsfolk were not mutually welcoming. Besides, any earlier layout could have been changed dramatically by now.”
“Then sir, should we move at night and attack at dawn?”
“Hastings, what part of the phrase ‘quick attack’ is confusing you? With every passing minute, there is an accumulating chance that one of the enemy—either a walking patrol, or another mounted lookout—will alert Prum to the fact that we never really left the region and are now poised, weapons drawn, on his doorstep. Being discovered that way—or by some other bit of bad luck—would constitute a situation that we can safely characterize as Very Bad Indeed. Besides, moving at dark could give us away just as surely as moving in daylight: we don’t know this ground, Hastings. And we’ve not been close enough to the abbey itself to know the best positions to assault from, or the most concealed avenues of moving into them.”
Quinn thought for a moment. “I think I can help with that.”
“What? How?”
“Well, you’ve groused about my taking four of your very best soldiers, so I guess I’ll see if they live up to the hype. I’ll take the four of them forward as a pathfinder force. We’ll blaze a trail along the best-concealed pathways to assault positions. Give us about an hour. Once we give you the signal to get the rest of the platoon moving up in drips and drabs, we’ll start looking for ways to get a sniper into an optimal position and, if possible, wriggle into some far forward positions for directing the start of the attack.”
North frowned. “So you’re going to go bounding off into the bush—the rather sparse bush—with Volker, Templeton, Winkelmann, and Wright—on your own?”
Quinn shrugged. “Yeah. You said they’re the best. And you need to manage traffic back here. Got a better plan?”
North looked at Quinn, found the subtly diffident cheeriness of the American unnerving, and, studying his eyes for a second, resolved never to play poker with him again: he had learned how to become well-nigh unreadable.
Quinn crossed his arms. “I’ll ask again; do you have a better plan?”
North sighed. “Damn it, no, I do not. So get moving—and no foolish risks, Larry.”
Larry beamed. “Only sensible risks; I promise.” And then he was gone into the thickets that led away from the copse and down the slight incline toward the abbey.
* * *
As North waited for Quinn to meet him and point out where he’d positioned their sniper, as well as any new details about the abbey, the Englishman scanned the skirmish line of his troops. They were fanned out along the edge of the smaller but thicker copse to which Larry’s pathfinders had brought them. Wright, clearly the shrewdest of the four troopers that the American had selected, had waved them into the positions of the broad outlines of the attack his commander was recommending.
Peering over the one hundred twenty-five yards separating them from the abbey’s walls, North had to admit that the American’s attack concept was a good one, and he had selected good positions from which to spring it. Likewise, the concealment on the approaches had been more than adequate, and, best of all, Quinn had them positioned due east of the abbey. This put them well away from the primary source of traffic—the west-leading road to Biberach—and therefore, to the notional “rear” of the hidden sentry who kept watch over it.
The ground between the copse and the main building was mostly clear, but a smattering of low bushes had grown wild in the year of its abandonment, providing a few points of cover for a conventional approach. But at this range, and with the element of surprise against troops armed with single-barreled, muzzle-loading weapons, North and his lead squad would make a straight rush over the ground. His two supporting squads would provide covering fire until the lead squad was ready to enter the main building, at which point they would deploy to the cover of the bushes. Eventually, a few men would head down the road to set up a flanking position to the south and—
—and why the hell was Larry Quinn emerging from those overgrown bushes and walking toward the abbey, a white handkerchief held high?
“Damn it all, what is that lunatic doing?”
Thomas had expected the question to be rhetorical and inspire fearful silence among his men, but from just behind him, a voice answered his query: “He’s getting inside, sir.”
North turned, dumbfounded, and discovered that Wright had caught up to him again and was regarding him with patient blue eyes. “And what in the name of all that is both holy and unholy does that damned Yank think he’s going to achieve if he does get inside?”
“The element of surprise, sir.”
“Surprise? Well, yes, I’m sure Prum will be surprised: the person who could do him the most harm is now simply walking in his front door, unarmed. I know I’m surprised.”
Wright’s smile was small. “I think Major Quinn has something else in mind, sir.”
“I doubt Major Quinn has enough of a mind to have something else in, Corporal Wright. Now, you’d better tell me—”
“No time, sir. Looks like the party is starting. Watch carefully, now; you’ll need to act quickly.”
“I’ll need to—? Oh, bloody hell. Hastings, Finan: word down the line. We go with the plan
s we discussed upon arriving here, but they could be changing as we move. Everyone’s eyes on me. Assign the covering squads their marks. Designate reloaders.”
“Done, sir,” answered Hastings.
Oh. Well. Why the hell am I here at all, then? “Very well. Be ready.”
“For what?”
“As if I bloody know? Just be ready to follow my orders and my lead.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quinn was disappearing through the front door after a hasty body search by the guards. Only one of the two sentries went in with him. An audible commotion rose up a moment later: several of the other sentries at the windows disappeared inside, their duty overridden by their curiosity. Well, that does help us by clearing the field a bit, admitted Thomas. But still—“Finan: report. The enemy’s patrol status?”
“None out right now, sir. And while one or two of the sentries might look a bit more alert, most of them are trying to see who the visitor is. They probably don’t get a lot of excitement out here.”
“Well, they’re about to get more than they bargained for. Hastings, I want this to be absolutely clear: you do not charge with the last two squads right behind me. You keep your men back here until the lead squad is safe under the walls.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Finan?”
“Sir?”
“Pass the word to the lead squad: rifles back-slung, revolvers out. Except for Arnfauss and Schiltung: if we need close supporting fire on the way in, they’ll provide it with their Winchesters. The rest of us will charge headlong to get to the walls before—”
“Sir,” interrupted Wright, who, it turned out, had Quinn’s binoculars. “The major is inside.”
Thomas swiveled to look through his own glasses. Sure enough, the hare-brained American was in Prum’s own Grand Receiving Room of Tawdry Squalor. Prum was already pulling out all the theatrical stops, lording it over his new, hapless captive.
Which is when Thomas noticed how calm and utterly collected Quinn was. And how calm Wright was. As if none of this were a surprise to either of them. But what purpose, what scheme, could possibly—?
“Sir, get ready,” hissed Wright.
The largely one-sided conversation in Prum’s audience chamber was becoming less cordial: Prum gestured at the floor imperiously. Quinn looked away, said something brief. Two of Prum’s men came forward. Larry, do as the homicidal popinjay says; don’t get him angry. He might—
The prior exchange was reprised: Prum pointed at the floor, Larry seemed to resist again. One of the two men who had stepped closer lifted a sword—whereupon, reluctantly, Larry sank to his knees—
Wright’s breath stopped in mid-draw.
Thomas understood what was happening just before a sharp, distinctively up-time report sounded from the upper third of one of the higher trees in the copse. Almost instantly, Prum spun around, evidently hit in the shoulder. Thomas heard Templeton’s voice utter a ferocious curse—“Bollocks!”—from that same location, accompanied by the faint clatter of the Ruger’s bolt action being worked.
Thomas was raising up as the second shot barked out over their heads and Prum went down, a puff of dusky red marking the impact point just to the right of his sternum.
“Charge!” yelled North, and, nine-millimeter up-time automatic in hand, he began a long-legged sprint toward the abbey. First squad, emerging from the trees, was right behind him, cap and ball revolvers at the ready.
Prum’s men appeared at the windows of the abbey; each one was greeted by the slow but steady roars of two, sometimes three, pre-sighted Winchesters. Half of the renegades sprawled back. The door guard returned fire from deeper in the archway, but did not even have an angle on—or probably know about—most of the squad that was charging in his direction. Winchesters snapped rounds at his muzzle flash. It was impossible to tell if he was dead, wounded, running, or reloading.
Wright was pacing Thomas on the charge, Quinn’s own nine-millimeter in his long-fingered grip. Volker and Winkelmann rose up out of the bushes in front of them, leading the way to the gate by about ten yards. Damn it, how did Quinn manage to get those two positioned before I had even—?
But there was no time to wonder at the obvious—that Larry Quinn had indeed grown proficient as a soldier—because they were coming upon the archway. The fellow in its shadows—the one who had returned fire at the other squads—cast away the musket he was reloading and drew his small sword. He went down under a flurry of bullets from the four lead attackers. To the south, a single musket spoke; Winchesters answered, probably announcing the end of the soldier manning the road outpost.
Thomas, panting, threw himself against the interior wall of the arched entrance to the abbey. “Wright, Volker, Winkelmann: according to what little we learned of the interior from the farmers in Ringschnaitt, we’ll go up the stairs to the—”
“We know, sir; Major Quinn told us. Leapfrog advance?”
Damn smart alecks. “Stop asking the obvious, Winkelmann. Start us off.”
The rest of the first squad arrived as the four of them rounded the doorway and started up the staircase.
* * *
They encountered only three men on the way to Prum’s audience chamber—all trying to run away. One made the mistake of bringing up his weapon; the other two sensibly surrendered. However, Thomas reflected, perhaps the first one was the most sensible of the three: the quick bullets he got were infinitely preferable to what the townspeople of Biberach were likely to visit upon any survivors.
As Thomas’ men dodged into Prum’s audience chamber, a familiar voice spoke from the darkness along the rear wall: “Donner.”
“Blitzen,” replied Volker and Wright in unison.
Quinn leaned out of those shadows. “Quickly, back here. I’ve been covering the approach to the girls, but I can’t get them out.”
The dark at the rear of the room concealed a passageway to a row of hermitage cells. All locked. All with sounds of whimpering coming from behind the thick, dark timbers. Thomas started snapping orders. “Volker, get some men up here and take these locks off. Presuming that the mutinous Major Quinn will allow you to take orders from me any more.”
Volker slunk away like a child detecting the first impatient tones of what might turn into a full-blown parental argument.
But Quinn just smiled. “I wasn’t in the least mutinous, Thomas: I did exactly what I said I’d do. Just not the way you envisioned it. And actually, let’s be clear about one other thing: for this operation, you were my employee.”
“Don’t distract me with the facts, you impertinent Yank. Why they hell didn’t you tell me what you had in mi—?”
“Because, Thomas, would you have agreed to this plan quickly?”
“What, are you mad? Agree to this—?” Thomas had planned to indicate Prum’s awkwardly fallen corpse along with the others of his makeshift court who had not known to keep their heads down and out of Templeton’s scope-aided field of fire. But then the three girls emerged from their prisons with grateful sobs, and Schoenfeld was heard raging in a further cell, obviously none the worse for wear. “Well, um, I suppose I wouldn’t have.”
Quinn smiled. “Right. And there wasn’t time to argue. You agreed that there was no way to be sure how long Prum would let Johann live. And the only reason Johann had his head in Prum’s noose was because we didn’t explain things to our artist friend before he went off on his quest. So every minute mattered, and I didn’t have the right to ask anyone else to go in and get our sniper a shot at Prum. I was the one who put Johann in there: it was on me to start the wheels moving that would get him out.”
North looked away, wondered if he’d have had the nerve—or more to the point, the fine sense of ethics—to have done what Larry had done. “Well, you may be a lunatic, but at least you’re an admirable one.”
Larry shrugged. “Not so much of a lunatic to miss that we really did need a pathfinder group to find a concealed route to some reasonable assault positions. And as so
on as I realized that, I saw how I could put the rest of my plan in place while you were bringing up the platoon. So either way, the best thing was for me to go on ahead with my four men.”
“Your men?”
“Sorry, but they are for now. And you might not see them again for quite a while.”
“Well, I suppose you’re not taking them to invade some other world, are you?” And then, judging from Larry’s patient gaze, North understood. Yes, they were going to another world. The New World, to be precise. “The Americas, then?”
Quinn shook his head. “Thomas, you know I can’t say.”
“No—but you just did. Well, none of my business and not for me to repeat.” With which Thomas set about putting things in proper military order: “Finan, bring Hastings in. I want a head-count of the defenders, dead and alive. If it doesn’t match or exceed our preattack estimate, he’s to organize pursuit teams. As soon as you’ve got that squared away, send a mounted courier back to Biberach. Message follows…”
* * *
By the time the rider to the town was dispatched, the survivors had filled in the blanks of how the garrison had evolved into a pack of blackmailing thieves.
Their group had not started out as part of a regular formation, but as members of a mercenary regiment that had been broken, reconstituted, and broken again in the years leading up to the creeping peace that had begun to break out a year after Grantville appeared. Mostly Swabians, those that had joined from some sense of religious loyalty had, by the end of 1634, found billets with more legitimate units, or directly in Swedish regiments. And those that remained—
Well, the dregs always went somewhere, and in this case, they remained with the regiment that Horn allowed to be battered down to company size, and then a single platoon after sharp exchanges with Bernhard over various contested tracts farther to the west.
