by Eric Flint
Good for him at the moment, to be sure. He was a bit dazed and from the pain he knew he might have suffered a cracked rib. He'd certainly be badly bruised. But even through the shock and pain, Guebriant finally understood what he was facing, even though he still couldn't see the enemy clearly because of the gunsmoke. Those weren't artillery of any kind. They were organ guns!
But what sort of lunatic general would try to use organ guns against a cavalry charge? The weapons took as long to reload as cannons did. They weren't used that often, and then almost entirely in siege warfare for the purpose of suppressing enemy sharpshooters on the walls.
Another volley came, after they closed to seventy yards, and the count was struck again. A minor flesh wound on the back of his hand, but it was the right hand that held the sword. His weapon went flying.
That was three volleys in perhaps twenty seconds. Glancing from side to side, Guebriant realized they'd suffered casualties as bad as they would have taken against heavy artillery or massed infantry. It was incredible. He'd led his men into a trap.
Nothing for it now, however, but to press the charge through. Even with this horrendous enemy rate of fire, they were now within sixty yards. They wouldn't suffer more than one more volley.
That volley came when the French cavalry was not more than ten yards from the line of volley guns. Thorsten had been practically screaming at the gun crews, in his insistence that they stand their ground and keep firing. That wasn't easy, even with the huge clouds of gunsmoke obscuring the sight of the enemy. Unlike infantry units, the volley gun companies didn't have pikemen to fend off cavalry at the final moment. They'd be forced to fight with the ten-foot partisans they carried as hand weapons against men on horseback armed with wheel locks and sabers. And lances, some of them. It would be a slaughter, if it got that far.
But… it wouldn't. The gunsmoke had cleared enough, in patches here and there, for Thorsten to be able to see that the French cavalry charge was already collapsing even before that final volley was fired. There was still a solid group of perhaps two hundred men at the center-coming almost right at him, in fact-that was maintaining the charge. But the rest were not. The casualties they'd suffered from this head-on charge at ranked volley guns had simply broken their spirit. They were already peeling away, salving their wounded pride with a rather pointless caracole-style firing of their wheel locks and then racing to the rear. Very few volley gunners would be hit by pistol shots fired in such a manner.
Thorsten ignored them. There were still that two hundred or so thundering at his batteries. He'd never relinquished his own saber, and now he made sure he had it in a tight grip. Being one of the few men in the batteries on horseback, he'd have to meet cavalrymen directly and fight in their manner rather than his.
So be it. He had a fleeting and regretful thought of Caroline, but pushed it aside. He'd die or he wouldn't.
But it never came to that. That final volley shattered what was left of the charge. Only a dozen French cavalrymen made it into the ranks of the gunners, and a good third of them were wounded. Even with their superior weapons, they were simply too outnumbered to put up much of a fight.
The officer leading them was bleeding badly and half-slumped over his saddle before his horse passed through the line. Fortunately for him, his half-panicked mount instinctively avoided the guns and so he passed just beyond the range of partisans being wielded on either side. Then, not thirty feet beyond, a sudden panicky lunge to the side by his horse spilled him from the saddle. He landed on the ground like a sack of meal, his helmet coming off and flipping over twice. Then, with a little spasm of an elbow motion, the officer managed to roll himself over on his back. Half of his face was covered in blood.
Thorsten trotted his horse over and saw that the man was still conscious. That head wound wasn't as bad as it looked. A lot of blood, as always with head wounds, but the wound was a gash across the side of his head just above his ear, not anything that had penetrated the skull. He'd been creased by a bullet, was all.
The French officer groaned and raised his right hand to the wound on his head. The hand was bleeding also.
Thorsten dismounted and came to one knee beside him. "Hold still," he said. "I'll get a bandage on as soon I can, so you don't lose too much blood."
Bleary-eyed, the officer stared up at him. Only then did it occur to Engler than he might not speak German.
Apparently he did, however. The critical phrase, anyway. That might be the only phrase in German he knew, which he'd have memorized as a young soldier.
"Je suis Jean-Baptiste Budes, comte de Guebriant," he whispered. Then added in German: "There is a ransom."
Eric Krenz had run over and arrived just in time to hear. He stooped, hands planted on knees, and gave Engler an evil-looking grin. "Not that it'll do you any good, Thorsten. You're neither a widow nor an orphan, and don't have any even if you'd gotten killed, since you didn't marry Caroline yet. Makes you long for the good old days, doesn't it?"
Thorsten gave him an exasperated glance. Leave it to Krenz to make wisecracks about an issue that had practically caused a mutiny in the army, back in training camp. The mercenary soldiers-who were few, in the ranks, but constituted almost half of the officers-had taken it for granted that any ransom for captured enemy officers would accrue personally to the soldiers who actually did the capture. With a rightful portion accruing to the officers in charge, naturally. That had been the established custom for centuries; the army's version of naval prize money.
But, led by their CoC component-very large component-the volunteers in the regiments would have none of it. Medieval barbarism, that was. Instead, in solemn assemblies that they technically had no right to hold but fuck the authorities if they didn't like it, the soldiers voted in their great majority that all ransom money should be turned over to a common pool, to be dispensed to the families of those soldiers who were slain or crippled in action.
The officers had tried to suppress the assemblies, the soldiers had taken up weapons, and things had gotten very tense. Fortunately, General Torstensson was able to keep the situation from escalating to actual violence long enough for the emperor in his siege at Luebeck to rule on the side of the soldiers.
A number of mercenary officers had resigned at that point. But since they were usually the ones who'd been foremost in trying to suppress the near-mutiny, it was just as well. Certainly for them. Very prominent among the American loan words that had made its way into Amideutsch-especially as spoken in the volunteer regiments-was the term "fragging."
Most of the mercenaries stayed, however, grumble as they might. In part, because Gustav Adolf sweetened the deal for them by saying that he'd pay bonuses out of his own imperial coffers to officers whose men did well in the fighting-and it was understood that one of the important determinations for "doing well" meant capturing enemy commanders, especially the noblemen who completely dominated the French officer corps.
So, the issue had died down. The soldiers were now arguing over exactly how to organize the disbursement. Some favored using the CoCs, but even most CoC members felt that would be inappropriate. Others wanted to set up special committees for the purpose in the regiments. But that had the disadvantage of impermanency, since the regiments were supposed to disband in three years-the men felt very strongly on that subject-and a widow or orphan was likely to need the money for a lot longer than that.
Of late, a new school of thought had emerged and was gaining many adherents. That was to turn the whole problem over to the settlement house in Magdeburg run by the Americanesses. They had a reputation for being honest and efficient; they were on good terms with the CoCs but not part of them; and, best of all, they maintained scrupulous neutrality with regard to sectarian and denominational disputes.
Thorsten was in favor of that solution, of course. As Krenz promptly alluded to with another stupid witticism.
"Caroline will be delighted, on the other hand. What's that up-time expression? 'Tickled pink,' I think. That
's because you're 'bringing home the bacon,' as they say."
"Shut up. And find me something to make a bandage for the man's head wound."
"Good idea. If he bleeds to death, no ransom. Caroline will be furious. Might break off the engagement."
"Eric!"
"No sense of humor, any more. Exalted rank has ruined you, Thorsten." Shaking his head, Krenz went off.
***
While they'd been seeing to the wounded French officer, the USE's own cavalry had swept around the volley guns and was now pursuing the retreating French. Thorsten hadn't given much thought to the matter, once he saw that his own position was now secured.
The unconcern of a sergeant, engrossed in immediate tasks. General Torstensson, of course, was taking a much keener interest.
"That's it!" he exclaimed, handing the eyeglass to an aide. "General Jackson, my congratulations. I couldn't have asked anything better from your heavy weapons units. They broke the French cavalry on their own, leaving mine still fresh and ready to be used."
Frank grinned with pleasure. But Torstensson was already turning away, giving rapid-fire orders for the cavalry to press the charge against the French left flank-which would collapse, watch and see if it wouldn't!-and for the infantry and artillery to begin an assault against the enemy's main force. In one hour, this battle would be over! As big a victory as Breitenfeld!
The French left flank was not well organized, to begin with. The routed French cavalry who poured into their ranks with the USE cavalry in pursuit confused and demoralized them still further. Coming less than two minutes later, the impact of five thousand charging enemy cavalrymen simply shattered the flank altogether and sent the units reeling against Angouleme's forces facing Torstensson directly.
By then, the USE's infantry had closed to within four hundred yards and the USE artillery was in position at the fore and firing steadily. The biggest difficulty with green artillery units was giving them the confidence to take positions far enough ahead of their protective infantry to do any good in the first place. The rout of the French left flank was obvious to anyone on the field, by then, and that was enough to do the trick, given that they'd been well trained during the months in camp over the winter.
At three hundred and fifty yards, with a clear line of fire and good level ground, the artillery was devastating. Grazing shots fired by three and four pounders, each gun managing a round every six minutes, were just murderous against massed infantry. The balls caroming off the ground would pass through the enemy ranks at waist level, killing or wounding up to a dozen men at a time.
The battle actually took almost three hours, not the one hour that Torstensson had predicted. Once his initial enthusiasm passed, Torstensson realized he'd do better to take the time to use his artillery to pound the main forces of the French before he pushed through an infantry charge. Here on this field, as on every one that Gustav Adolf or his generals fought, they had a great superiority in artillery. That was counterbalanced by the usual enemy superiority in pikemen-Tilly had enjoyed that at Breitenfeld, too-but the counterbalance in practice was almost meaningless. Great masses of pikemen in tercio formations simply couldn't move fast enough to overwhelm massed artillery, unless their own cavalry could clear a way for them. And most of the French cavalry was somewhere on the road back to Luebeck.
It didn't help any that their commanding officer joined those cavalrymen less than an hour after the battle started. True, he didn't race off in a panic. Not officially, at least. Instead, he tried to lead a flanking maneuver of his own-so he described it-even though the maneuver bordered on insanity, coming as it did early in the afternoon in the middle of a battle. The duke of Angouleme proposed to lead his remaining cavalry forces down to the Trave at Reinfeld, then follow the river up to Segeberg and from there, fall upon Torstensson's army from the rear.
It was a total distance of at least thirty miles, which he'd be attempting with a force of two thousand cavalry traveling along narrow country roads across a terrain that was in parts heavily wooded. Even if the maneuver worked, it would be a miracle if he could bring his forces into play before nightfall.
Still, off he went. Leaving in command the thirty-one-year old Charles de la Porte, seigneur de Meilleraye, after having stripped him of all the cavalry forces that remained to the French army.
Not surprisingly, the first words spoken by de la Porte after Angouleme left were "that fucking bastard." So were the next three, and the three after that.
Chapter 58
"The poltroon!" snarled Torstensson. He handed the eyeglass back to the same aide. "Yes, you're right. That's got to be d'Angouleme, unless someone stole his personal banners-and why would anyone do that?"
Frank took off his hat and scratched his head. "What the hell does he think he's doing? All that's back there is Luebeck-and by now, the emperor's probably led the garrison out."
Gustav was doing much better than that-or, rather, was ordering Axel Oxenstierna to do it for him.
The chancellor of Sweden had accompanied Admiral Gyllenhjelm and his fleet. So had ten thousand Swedish soldiers, packed on its many ships.
"Axel, once you get them formed up, take them up the Trave to meet Torstensson. Between the two of you, you'll have d'Angouleme's army in a vise."
The chancellor gave Gustav Adolf a skeptical look. Not because of any hesitation on his own part-Oxenstierna was quite an experienced military commander himself-but simply because it was so out of character for the king of Sweden.
Seeing the look, Gustav Adolf smiled a bit ruefully. "Yes, yes, it's a great temptation. But the truth is, Axel, I'd do far better to leave for Copenhagen with Karl and his warships rather than lead this expedition myself. Judging from the last radio report, by the time you get there it may all be over, anyway. Torstensson seems to be doing quite well. Whereas there's only so much Admiral Simpson can do on his own. Those wonderful ironclads are splendid for blowing things up, but I need to make a settlement with the Danish king. Not so good for that, once he's softened up the drunken bastard. I need to deal with that business myself."
Oxenstierna nodded. "Oh, I don't disagree, Your Majesty. Especially when I reflect that less than two years ago, in another universe, you got yourself killed at Lutzen leading a cavalry charge. It's amazing, really. You wouldn't think the difference between being thirty-eight and thirty-nine years old would produce such a drastic increase in wisdom. I'm fifty, myself, and I can't remember any such great transformation in my own life."
The emperor just responded with a grin. "It's yours, then!" He turned and clapped his half-brother Karl Gyllenhjelm on the shoulder. "Come, Admiral of Sweden! We don't want that upstart Simpson to get all the naval glory."
As they headed for the door leading out of Luebeck's Rathaus, Gyllenhjelm winced. "He really hasn't left us poor Swedes with much more than scraps, Gustav."
"All the more reason to grab the scraps! Before the greedy bastard takes them from us, too."
Torstensson was still snarling. "I'll be damned if he will! Thinks he can escape while leaving his army in the lurch, does he? Fuck that French shithead. Bryan, send a cavalry force after him."
Colonel Thorpe cleared his throat. "Ah, general. You've already thrown the cavalry we have against the French left. All that remains are two companies in reserve."
Torstensson frowned. "So I did. Well…"
He turned his head toward Jackson, smiling a little wickedly. "Let's see if you can make good on another boast, Frank. Now's your chance to prove those heavy weapons units can march as quickly as you claim, too."
Jackson returned the smile with one of his own, that was just as wicked. "A small wager, on the side?"
"Ha! Think me a fool? No, just see to it, please. Do the liaison with Colonel Straley personally, if you would. That'll be faster than sending a courier to try to explain it all."
As he'd been talking, Jackson had squatted down, so he could see the map spread over the ground better. It was held down by small rocks on e
ach corner. Fortunately, there wasn't much wind. Somehow or other, the tent they'd planned to use for a command post had gotten lost along the way. It would probably turn up in a day or two-by which time, the way things were looking, they'd be comfortably set up in a nearby tavern anyway and wouldn't need it.
Such is war, as Frank remembered quite well from his days as a youngster in Vietnam. The plans of mice and men gang aft agleigh, and never more so than once the fighting started.
"I don't think there's any point in actually chasing after them, General." He pointed to a spot on the map and then shifted his finger. "The volley guns can move fast, but they can't move as fast as cavalry-and they'd lose more ground right at the start having to get around the French army. Better, I'm thinking, to figure out where Angouleme is going and cut him off at the pass. So to speak."
Torstensson squatted next to him, and studied the map for a moment. "Yes, I see your point. He can't go down to Luebeck, obviously, which means he's probably trying to reach the Trave somewhere around here." His own finger came down on the spot that marked the small town of Reinfeld, then slid along the line that marked the upper stretch of the Trave until his finger reached Segeberg.
"Somewhere between Reinfeld and Segeberg-but it would have to be much closer to Segeberg-he'll leave the Trave and make his way across to the headwaters of the Stor. Then follow it down the Elbe near Gluckstadt and try to cross there."
"That's what I'm figuring," agreed Jackson. "So I think we'd do better to take the volley guns back to the headwaters of the Trave right here"-he pointed to the west-"and just follow it down until we run into Angouleme coming the other way. Should be somewhere around… here, I'm think. This village called Nutschel, if I'm reading this damn script properly." An aggrieved tone came into his voice. "I thought we'd agreed to use Roman lettering in the army, instead of this Fraktur crap."
Torstensson rose from the map. "Germans, you know. Most stubborn people on the face of the earth. All right, General Jackson. Be off, and Godspeed. Bring me back the head of Charles de Valois. And I don't care if it's attached to the rest of his body or not."
