by Eric Flint
***
"Again?" whined Krenz.
"I told you to pay attention to your horsemanship." Thorsten had no sympathy at all with Krenz on this subject. " 'Flying artillery,' remember? And now we'll really have to fly, if we're to catch up with that French general."
"Order an advance, all across the line," said Charles de la Porte. Before his lieutenants could start arguing the matter, he threw up his hands with exasperation. "Yes, I know! But what else can we do? If we continue to stand our ground, those fucking guns will just keep hammering us. Our own artillery is simply no match for them. And if we try to retreat-and where, exactly? Certainly not Luebeck!-we'll get cut to pieces without cavalry to screen us. We've got no other choice. We either win a straight-up battle or we surrender. That's it-and I don't want to hear any arguments."
At least the flight of Angouleme had left a decisive man in command of the French army. As they hurried off to prepare the advance, the lieutenants tried to take what confidence they could from that fact.
"His best option," said Torstensson, once he saw the enemy beginning its advance. "Not a good one-not with our artillery-but the best he's got. Who's in command over there, Bryan, do you think?"
His staff officer pondered the question, for a moment or two. "Hard to know, General. If I had to guess, I'd say either Charles de la Porte or Gaspard de Coligny. Either one of them is supposed to be competent. Coligny has seniority, but de la Porte has better family ties. He's one of Richelieu's cousins. Given d'Angouleme, I'd think he'd ignore seniority and select for family ties. If nothing else, it'll help spread the blame better."
"Why not de la Valette, then?" asked another of Torstensson's lieutenants, who'd spent some time in the French colors. "His mother was a Montmorency, his wife a royal bastard, and now that she's dead the rumor is that he's courting one of Richelieu's nieces."
Thorpe barked a sarcastic little laugh. "Better for us if he had! But I don't think d'Angouleme is downright stupid."
As it happened, Bernard de Nogaret de la Valette had accompanied Angouleme's cavalry force, although no one had actually invited him to do so. He knew perfectly well that the so-called "flanking maneuver" was the best-probably the only-way to get out of the trap the French army was in. There'd be hell to pay when they got back to France, but de la Valette would deal with that when the time came. He was considerably more proficient in that field of battle than he was in this much cruder one.
By the time they reached the Trave near Reinfeld, however, scouts reported that lead elements of a new army were advancing from Luebeck. As the duke of Angouleme had guessed, Gustav Adolf was already leading out the city's garrison. There was no time to waste!
Somewhere between Reinfeld and the town of Oldesloe, any pretense that the two thousand cavalrymen were engaged in a wide flanking maneuver crumbled. This was a simple retreat-and, as panic began spreading, it rapidly took on the features of a rout. With d'Angouleme himself setting the pace, the cavalrymen began running their mounts much faster than they should have been, given the great distance they still had to go before they'd reach the Elbe. Or even the headwaters of the Stor, for that matter.
De la Valette was relieved at first. That half-buried part of him that was an experienced horseman knew perfectly well that they couldn't maintain this pace for very long without winding the animals. But all he cared about at the moment was putting distance between himself and those two armies of the damned Swede.
Soon enough, though, his relief gave way to apprehension, and then fear. Let two thousand horsemen on a narrow country road lose control of themselves, and the sure result is what amounts to equestrian turbulence. It was like riding rapids on horseback instead of a boat.
About two miles past Oldesloe, another horseman jostled de la Valette's mount and forced the beast off the road. One of its hooves caught in something, the horse went down, breaking its own leg and one of de la Valette's in the bargain. Then, as it continued to thrash about hysterically with its rider unable to move away, broke the French nobleman's collarbone, cracked several of his ribs, and left lacerations and bruises over half his body. It only ended when a frantic de la Valette managed to extract one of his wheel-lock pistols and shoot the animal in the head.
At that point, he collapsed unconscious. When he came back to his senses, the sun was setting-and four very ruffianly-looking soldiers were grinning down at him. One of them had a dagger held to his throat.
The relief was immense. First, because he was alive, even if in great pain. Second, because his injuries along with his capture would help a great deal to alleviate suspicion once he got back to Paris. The awkward matter of the precise location where these unfortunate events occurred could probably be elided over.
Finally, he was relieved that he'd been captured by soldiers. Just two miles from Oldesloe, he could have easily been found by villagers instead. In which case, the knife now being held to his throat to ensure his cooperation would already have slit it. And then moved on to his evisceration and probable emasculation-except most likely not in that sequence.
De la Valette knew the magic phrase also, of course. "Je suis Bernard de Nogaret de la Valette, duc d' Epernon," he croaked. "There is a good ransom."
He said that last in German. Which, as it happened, not one of the soldiers understood, being Swedish country boys. But it didn't matter. They weren't such rural bumpkins that they didn't know that all four of them had just gotten rich, if they kept this fine fellow alive. Swedish troops, naturally, had no truck with that CoC foolishness about creating a common pool for widows and orphans-if they'd heard of it at all, which these new arrivals from Sweden hadn't. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, since they were soldiers of the king of Sweden, not the emperor of the United States of Europe.
"Fire!" shouted Colonel Straley. Lying in what amounted to an open ambush across the road alongside the Trave and in the edges of the woods beyond, the volley gun batteries could hear the colonel's voice perfectly well. They were already starting to fire when the bugles blew.
With dozens of volley guns concentrating their fire on such a narrow frontage, the first ranks of the French cavalry force were simply shredded. To make things worse, the piled up bodies of the horses made it impossible for them to advance further-and the panicked cavalrymen from the rear were still pressing forward, making it impossible to retreat. They were like animals trapped in a cage.
The batteries fired four more volleys before one of the French officers managed to jury-rig a flag of surrender. By then, they'd suffered casualties that were every bit as bad as those being suffered by the main army still fighting on the field.
On that field, a considerably more courageous young French commander had finally had enough. "Send a surrender signal," gasped Charles de la Porte. He was so exhausted he didn't even notice the minor wound he'd taken to the hip. "This is hopeless."
Torstensson had been waiting for the signal, since the outcome of the battle had been obvious from the moment the only French units who managed to reach the USE infantry had been driven back in less than a minute. Since then, this had just been carnage.
"Cease fire!" he commanded. As the buglers blew the signal, Torstensson turned to Colonel Bryan Thorpe with a cheerful smile. "Well, I admit I misgauged the time. But it's still as good as Breitenfeld. Better!-if we catch that bastard d'Angouleme. At Breitenfeld, Tilly got away from us."
One of the French officers in the trap along the Trave tried to escape on his own, racing his horse toward the woods. He might even have made it-at least two hundred did-except that he passed too close to Engler's batteries. Thorsten spotted him, and since he was still on horseback went in pursuit.
He probably wasn't as good a horseman as the fleeing French officer, who was almost certainly a nobleman who'd been riding since he was a boy. But Engler was good enough, given that his mount was fresh and that of his prey was badly winded.
He caught up with him in less than half a mile. The fleeing officer's horse had finally stu
mbled from exhaustion. By then, fortunately, the horse had been moving so slowly that its fall was more in the way of a slow roll than a sudden spill. So its rider had the time to get out of the saddle before the huge beast fell on top of him and crushed him.
He was still badly bruised, of course. Horsefalls are always a dangerous experience and never a pleasant one. But he didn't even have his wind knocked out, so when Thorsten brought his horse alongside and aimed his wheel-lock pistol at the man, he was able to speak.
"Je suis Charles de Valois, duc d'Angouleme. There is an excellent ransom."
***
As Colonel Nils Ekstrom worked his way through the various reports sent to Luebeck from Torstensson's adjutants, he spotted an oddity.
Coincidence, perhaps. Or a simple error.
Still, it was intriguing. He sent a courier to inquire.
The following day, the courier returned. No coincidence of names, and no error. The humble sergeant in Torstensson's volley gun units who had captured both the French cavalry commander Guebriant as well as the enemy's commander-in-chief d'Angouleme were, indeed, one and the same man. And, yes, he was the Thorsten Engler who was betrothed to an American woman in Magdeburg.
"Oh, splendid!" exclaimed Ekstrom. "That's one problem solved, at least."
Well… not quite. Imperial counts-at least, if they followed the Austrian model-didn't carry place names. And the princess was likely to be stubborn.
"Bring me a map," he commanded an aide. When the map was brought, Ekstrom studied it for a moment.
"Nutschel. That's about where the capture was made."
Frank Jackson happened to have come into the chamber of the Rathaus where Ekstrom was conducting his labors, while Ekstrom had been waiting for the map. "What's this about, Nils?"
Ekstrom explained, then said, "Silly name, anyway. We'll just inform the villagers that the emperor-their emperor, now-has decided to rename their village to honor the great victory."
"Rename it what?"
"Narnia, of course. That gives us a fallback position-that is the American term, yes?-in the not unlikely event the emperor capitulates to his daughter."
Frank stared at him. Then, at the map. "You've got to be kidding."
Ekstrom gave him a fish-eyed look. "You have met Princess Kristina, I believe."
Frank had grown a beard not long after the Ring of Fire, foreseeing the likely disappearance of safety razors, and long since had developed the common habit of tugging it. He did so now, wincing. "Good point. Yeah, I have met her."
He looked back at the map. "Narnia, huh? Well… as long as they don't spell it in Fraktur."
Chapter 59
The Oresund
SSIM Constitution moved steadily on a north-by-northwest heading. The gray-blue coast of the island of Falster lay to port, floating on the horizon like some distant bank of fog, as she led the rest of Simpson's squadron out of Luebeck Bay and towards Copenhagen. The dark, cold blue water of the Baltic stretched into hazy invisibility to starboard, and Simpson stood gazing out into that blue vastness while he considered what lay just over two hundred air miles north of his present position.
God knew King Christian was a stubborn fellow. He was as renowned for that as he was for his ability to… multitask enthusiastically. But surely even someone like Christian should recognize the inevitable when it dropped anchor off the waterfront of his capital city.
Of course, anyone but King Christian would have recognized that aligning himself with Catholic Europe against Protestant Germany and Sweden had not been the most effective possible technique for convincing his fellow Protestants to back his candidacy for their leadership. In which case, he wouldn't have had to worry about what the USE Navy might be about to do to his capital city, now would he?
He's not really an idiot, Simpson reminded himself. He couldn't possibly have accomplished everything he's gotten done if his brain simply didn't work. In fact, his brain has to work better than most people's. But he's certainly managed to figure out how to look like an idiot this time.
The admiral snorted at the thought, more in disgust than amusement.
At least he's a hell of a lot smarter than King Charles of England-not that "smarter than Charles" is any great recommendation of genius. And I suppose part of it is that we all end up comparing him to the other Scandinavian king, which would tend to make anyone look less than lifesize. But I still wish Railleuse had managed to get there before we did. Grosclaud's report would've been a real douche of cold water. Unfortunately-he looked back towards the south, where the squadron had passed the crippled French ship an hour or so earlier-she didn't. But even without that, he grinned thinly, we should still be able to get Christian's attention when we get there. Now if only-
"Message from Commander Klein, sir," a voice said respectfully from behind him, and Simpson turned. It was an indication of how lost he'd been in his own thoughts that he hadn't even noticed the bridge signalman's approach until the young rating spoke.
"Thank you, Ebert," he said, accepting the message flimsy. The youngster-he couldn't have been a day over seventeen-smiled as the admiral called him by name. Fortunately, Simpson had always been particularly good at remembering names. And the practice of issuing nameplates for all personnel didn't hurt any, of course, he acknowledged with an inner smile.
He opened the message slip and scanned it quickly, then frowned.
"Give Captain Halberstat my respects and ask him to join me here," he said and young Ebert saluted sharply and scampered into the conning tower. Franz Halberstat appeared on the bridge wing moments later.
"Yes, sir?"
"Message from Klein," Simpson said, holding up the message slip. The paper's edges fluttered with an almost popping sound in the brisk breeze. "He's just carried out an inspection of his deck boat, and it doesn't look good."
"Why not, sir? I was under the impression that Achilles hadn't been hit at all."
"She wasn't. Apparently, it's blast damage from the carronades."
Halberstat grimaced, then nodded in understanding.
Two of the motor boats that had scouted ahead of the squadron on its passage down the Elbe River had been put aboard Achilles and Ajax as deck cargo for the passage from the Elbe River's estuary to Copenhagen. The timberclads had been chosen because they could stow the boats higher, thanks to their taller superstructures. And because they'd been supposed to be committed to action against Overgaard's blockade fleet only after the ironclads, which should have meant they would have been less exposed to hostile fire.
On the other hand, the flag captain reminded himself, from what the admiral had just said, it didn't sound like hostile fire had been responsible for the damage.
"How bad is it, sir?" he asked after a moment.
"From what Klein's saying, the actual damage doesn't sound all that bad. In fact, if it were a wooden hull, his ship's carpenter could probably fix it pretty quickly. Unfortunately, it's a fiberglass hull. And someone"-Simpson tapped himself on the chest-"didn't insist on bringing along a patching kit."
"I see, sir." Halberstat carefully didn't point out to the admiral that no one else had thought to suggest that they bring one along, either. "What about Ajax's boat, sir?"
"Mulbers is inspecting it now. But, first, he's got the smaller of the two. And, second, I've always had reservations about using them at Copenhagen at all. They're just too small, Franz. We can't put anywhere near as many men into either of them as the Danes can get aboard their galleys and gunboats. Without the second boat to support Mulbers', I'm even less inclined to risk letting the one of them we'd have get far enough ahead we can't support it quickly. And if we're not going to let it operate any farther ahead of us than that, I'm afraid the scouting advantage isn't going to be great enough to do us much good."
"I suppose not, sir. Although there are those reports of minefields."
Simpson glanced at the flag captain and smiled very slightly. Halberstat's tone could not have been more respectful, but he'd m
anaged to put exactly the right edge of cautionary question into it. And he had a point. Someone in one of the small, agile fishing boats would have a much better chance of spotting a moored mine than any lookout on Constitution's bridge or mast. And a boat that small would be far less likely to hit a mine in the first place.
The admiral thought about it carefully, for the better part of a full minute, then shrugged.
"All right, Franz. If Mulbers' boat is in good shape, and if weather conditions are no worse than this"-he waved one hand at the relatively moderate swell-"then you can have your mine scouter. But only if the weather cooperates, mind you. Those flat-bottomed bastards are bitches in any sort of seaway, and a load of seasick Marines isn't going to be keeping the best lookout in the world. Besides, if it's too rough, they'll actually be slower than the other side's galleys."
"Of course, sir," Halberstat agreed.
"Your Highness!"
Prince Ulrik held up one hand, interrupting his current conference with Baldur Norddahl, as the messenger half-dashed into the room in Rosenborg Castle that Ulrik had taken over for what amounted to the headquarters of his naval force. In earlier times, the chamber had served his father's second wife Kirsten Munk as a living room.
"What?"
"Your Highness," the newcomer repeated, sliding to a stop and bending in a hasty, panting bow, "the Americans have arrived!"
"Where? When?" Ulrik demanded rather more sharply.
"They've anchored in the Oresund, Your Highness. About three-quarters of an hour ago."
"Anchored?"
"Yes, Your Highness. They've raised a white flag, and their Admiral Simpson has requested a truce. According to the messenger he sent ashore, he has messages for your father. The king sent me to tell you that he wants you there when he receives him in the Long Hall."
