by I. J. Parker
THE LEFT-HANDED
GOD
A Literary Thriller
By
I. J. Parker
Published by I. J. Parker
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Copyright © I. J. Parker, 2013
Cover design by I. J. Parker
Cover image: Jean-Etienne Liotard, portrait of Mlle Lavergne; 1746
e-book formatting by Guido Henkel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Acknowledgments
I wrote this novel in 2007 and no longer have records of who read for me, but I thank them nevertheless. In addition, two extremely nice and generous gentlemen answered my questions and sent me material about the battle of Freiberg, the participants, and their uniforms. To Torstein Snorrason and Robert Hall my very special thanks.
Praise for I. J. Parker
The Wall Street Journal: the writing is “terrifically imaginative.”
The Boston Globe: “her steady, mature narrative puts us at ease.”
The Globe and Mail: “Parker’s research is extensive and she makes great use of the complex manners and relationships.”
The Chicago Sun-Times: the “author possesses both intimate knowledge of the time period and a fertile imagination as well. Combine that with an intriguing mystery and a fast-moving plot, and you’ve got a historical crime novel that anyone can love.”
And Publishers Weekly in one of several starred reviews: “Parker masterfully blends action and detection while making the attitudes and customs of the period accessible.”
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction, but the plot plays out in historical time (1762-1763), touches on historical events (the Seven Years’ War in central Europe) and involves several historical characters and actual incidents.
The battle of Freiberg (1762) ended the war between the Imperial forces under Empress Maria Theresa of Austria and the armies of Frederick the Great of Prussia. One of the participating countries was the Kurpfalz (the Palatinate), a small principality in what later became Germany. By this time it had lost much of its ancient significance and was primarily still important because its sovereigns were among those who elected or were elected Holy Roman Emperors. The Kurfürst Karl Theodor and his wife Elisabeth Augusta in this novel are historical figures, and the stories about them are factual. Their palaces are still among the wonders of German Baroque architecture. Mozart really performed at Mannheim and Schwetzingen in 1763, and the famous Doktor Mesmer (who gave his name to “mesmerizing”) really grew up on the shores of Lake Constance (Bodensee). Lindau was a free city then, subject only to the Holy Roman Emperor.
I have made slight changes to the names of the villains, but they, too, are based on real characters, and the punishment visited on one of them by Karl Theodor is exactly what happened in 1763. Their crimes are fictional, though believable, given the political climate of the day and their reputations. Karl Theodor seems to have been a forgiving husband who protected his wife’s good name even after their separation.
Contents
1 - Freiberg, 1762
2 - Lindau, 1763
3 - Mannheim
4 - The Journey Home
5 - The Homecoming
6 - Nepomuk Stiebel
7 - Max
8 - Mesmer
9 - The Proposal
10 - Travel Plans
11 - The Betrothal
12 - Gods and Kings
13 - Highway Robbery
14 - Small Helpless Creatures
15 - The Earthly Paradise
16 - The Good Daughter
17 - A Question of Honor
18 - The Duel
19 - Of Dark Deeds and Darker Desires
20 - Matters of the Heart
21 - What Price Happiness?
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by I.J.Parker
1
Freiberg, October 28, 1762
God is always on the side of the strongest battalions.
(Frederick the Great, King of Prussia)
Dawn was slow in coming on the day of the battle. This late in October the soldiers should have been in their winter quarters instead of on this cold hillside in Saxony. The infantrymen lying about looked ghostly in the gloom, like bodies scattered by some cataclysmic event. One or two snored. Those who were awake said little and spoke in subdued voices. Empty bellies and the knowledge that they might not live through the coming day kept them quiet. On this cold and dark night far from home, men’s hearts were full of tears. If they survived, they might be crippled for life and forced to beg on the street.
Somewhere, horses snorted and scampered, harness metal clinking. A sudden burst of nervous laughter was stifled abruptly. The sun would rise whether those on the hillside wanted it to or not.
They wore the white and red uniforms of Austria, but their regiment was made up of troops from several principalities within the Holy Roman Empire. They had gathered here to defend one of its members, the duchy of Saxony, against the Prussian king. The Prussians were commanded by Prince Heinrich, brother to a king who had already become a legendary commander during the seven years of this war.
That morning only two men on that cold, wooded hillside were impatient for daylight.
*
The assassin crouched in a thicket to the side of the waiting regiment. His green uniform coat looked black in the darkness. He had borrowed it from one of the supply wagons and wore it because the “green coats” were the sharpshooters and skirmishers who would begin this battle. They were not confined to their companies but moved independently ahead of the rest of the army to take out enemy officers. Like them, he carried a rifle, though his weapon was a far better quality than those issued to ordinary sharpshooters. It rarely failed him.
He had planned carefully and informed himself about the order of battle for the initial engagement. He must not fail, and his success depended on perfect timing, but he had a feeling that his luck was with him.
It was early and still too dark to see details, but he knew that ahead lay the overlook and that at sunrise the plain below would become the battlefield. Somewhere to his left, the Regiment Salzburg would be readying soon, but he had time. He made himself comfortable and waited.
*
Franz Wilhelm von Langsdorff stood about fifty yards from the assassin. He was twenty years old, an ensign of the Salzburg regiment, and this was his first battle. He was too excited to rest with the men and leaned against a tree, looking northward across the wide plain to the points of light less than two miles away. The Prussian campfires shimmered like a necklace of red stars in the night. They stretched for miles in a wide sweep across the plain below.
Prince Heinrich had caught them unready, still frantically building defensive positions for their guns when night fell. With the coming daylight, the Prussians would seize their advantage and force a decision, perhaps the final decision of this long war.
Franz felt oddly suspended between his two worlds—that of his recent past as a student in Heidelberg and this one as a soldier. He was newly embarked on the military career and felt as naked as a newborn child.
M. Voltaire’s Candide and other godless writings mocked the Deity, but Franz rejected such cynicism toward His creation.
His youth and religious upbringing had something to do with his optimism, but at the moment more pagan ideals buoyed his spirit. He was Hektor, bearing a hard duty heroically. He was Achilles, filled with a righteous anger against his enemies. He was Odysseus, the patient, clever one, who succeeded and survived against all odds. He would prove himself worthy today of carrying the regimental flag and leading his men into battle.
“Sir?”
Franz started and looked down at the regiment’s drummer boy. His name was Carl and he was freckle-faced and slight at fourteen. He had attached himself to the new ensign, perhaps because they were close in age. Franz had been told to discourage familiarity with the men and now he frowned. “Aren’t you a long way from your place?” he asked. “And where is your drum?”
The boy grinned, his face a pale shadow in the gloom. “Plenty o’ time, sir. It won’t start till daylight.”
Franz glanced at the eastern horizon and thought he saw a slight brightening above the tree line. He felt a pang of envy. For all his youth, Carl had seen more battles than he. The boy had lived with the regiment for two years already. Proof was the grimy and ragged condition of his white uniform. The Salzburg regiment wore white coats with crimson cuffs and linings, white breeches, red vest, black tricornes, and black, buttoned gaiters. The Austrian colors were striking, but they did not stay presentable very long on a campaign, and most of the regiment had fought and marched for seven years now.
“Are you scared, sir?” the boy asked.
“No,” Franz snapped, then was sorry he had spoken so harshly. It was all very well for grown men to fight battles, but Carl was a mere child. Boys his age belonged in school, not on the battlefield. He wanted to say so, but that would not do at all. He said instead, “And you mustn’t be afraid either. We will win today.”
“How do you know, sir?”
“What do you mean? Of course, we’ll win. God is on our side. The Prussian invaders will be stopped and driven back where they belong.”
The boy gave a snort. “The men don’t think so, sir. Old Fritz is a stubborn bastard, and his brother’s just like him. The men say it’ll be a bloody day.” He paused, then added with morbid gusto, “And we’ll get slaughtered, being right in front like this.”
What he meant was that Salzburg had been ordered early to this hillside within sight of the Prussian camp because they would be among the first to march into battle. Moreover, ensigns and drummers tended to walk in the first lines of an infantry regiment. Franz swallowed and pushed the thought away. “Nonsense! Just march forward and drum up a good measure to give the soldiers heart. They’ll take care of the rest.”
“Yeah. But I wish it were over.” The boy fell silent. After a pause, he said, “They’ve got a lot of fires, don’t they? They say more troops’ve come overnight. There’s talk of fifty thousand of ’em. They’re devils in a fight. The men don’t have much relish for it.”
There it was again. The mood in the regiment was shocking, but Franz was not going to acknowledge this. He looked toward the Prussian camp. Were there fewer campfires than before? Were they putting them out already? He checked the east again. Yes, the sky was lightening to a charcoal gray that was not much more cheerful than the pitch black night that had preceded it. “You must go back,” he said, his heart beating a little faster. “The sun will be up soon.”
Carl snorted again. Franz tried to see his expression. He felt sorry for the youngster. Drummer boys were often the sons of common soldiers by the women who followed the army. The men made a pet out of Carl because he was small and had not yet lost his boyish looks. Franz wondered if he had lied about his age. He looked like an eleven-year old.
Carl’s eyes met his defiantly. “Well, good luck then, sir,” he said and scampered off.
“God’s blessings on you, Carl,” Franz called after him and heard a stifled guffaw from a soldier. He had caught their sneers and sniggers before when he had wished them “God’s speed,” and yet they were almost to a man superstitious, practicing all sorts of heathen rituals to protect themselves against death and injury. It did not matter to them that he had a good education and an officer’s training, meager though the latter had been. They knew that this was his first battle and that he might blunder and take them into harm’s way.
Only a month before, the recruiters in Heidelberg had paid him the princely sum of one hundred and forty taler to serve in this war. They made him an ensign because of his year at the university and the “von” in his name. Then they had deducted forty-five taler for his uniform. He had not minded that expense because the uniform brought him melting glances from pretty young women he was too shy to approach. The remainder of the money, along with a loving letter, he had posted to his mother and sister in Lindau. Then he had hopped a mail coach to the battle fields.
In Hof, he reported to General Luszinsky, and presented his orders.
The general had looked at him and frowned. “You’re from the Kurpfalz? Are they so pressed for able-bodied men that they send us children?”
Aware of his new and still much too thin mustache, Franz blushed, but he stiffened his back and said, “I am twenty, sir.”
The general had sighed and smiled a little. “Very well, Ensign. You will join the Seventh Company of the Infantry Regiment Salzburg. Regiment Salzburg is made up of different companies, the Seventh being from the Kurpfalz. Field Marshall Serbelloni has ordered Austrian uniforms for everyone.”
So Franz’s handsome light blue and white Kurpfalz regimentals were packed away. In theory, the Austrian uniform should have been quite as handsome, except that his was secondhand, taken off the wounded or dying, and of summer-weight cotton. But one of the women who followed every army had washed and mended it and made some alterations for a small amount of money, and he was quite content with his appearance. Though he shivered a little in the cold this morning, his spirits were high.
The same could not be said of the men of the Seventh Company, who were discouraged, tired, and sullen, their uniforms dirty and ragged, their shoes and gaiters muddy from marching on rain-drenched roads churned up by wagons, horses, and the heavy guns. They had fought Prussians and Russians all over Eastern Europe and spent the past three weeks crossing and recrossing Württemberg and Sachsen to no apparent purpose. Once or twice they had briefly engaged the enemy, but both sides had parted without decisive action.
Today would be different. Today, two large armies would clash in the open country outside Freiberg.
*
The assassin blew on his cold hands, then checked his pocket watch. Less than an hour until daylight. He was aware of the position of the seventh on the wooded hillside near him and knew their eyes would be glazed from lack of sleep and their mood bitter from lack of proper food. They would not be fed this morning either, and last night’s ration had been a scant piece of rough dark bread. Provisions ran low in a war-ravaged country, and they would have had no time to steal or hunt so close to the enemy.
But neither their discomfort nor the outcome of the coming battle concerned him. He would take measures to stay alive as soon as he had done what he had come to do. His plan was brilliantly simple. All eyes would be on the enemy, the advance action would cover the sound of a single shot, and one more body would attract no interest once the battle had started.
*
Franz, too, was hungry, but his belly was warmed by the excitement of coming battle. He touched the grip of his sword. This day fate beckoned, and Franz wanted glory with every fiber of his
body, knew it would be his, saw himself already victorious, carried on the shoulders of his men, congratulated by his commanding officer, promoted and decorated for his valor. He would return a hero, and Mama would shed tears of joy and his sister Augusta would look at her big brother with admiring eyes.
The men were coming awake now and getting to their feet. Some talked, a couple cursed, and someone hacked and spat. He could smell tobacco. The men smoked their clay pipes in lieu of breakfast.
Franz cast another look at the lightening sky, then took up the standard of his flag and went among them, counting every man, making sure they had loaded their muskets and fixed their bayonets. They tolerated this without the usual smirks and muttered comments, but he saw in their faces that they did not respect him. They held his youth and inexperience against him.
He worried briefly about this. But he was an officer, though the lowest ranking of the officers, and they would have to follow him, follow the flag he would carry. They probably feared that, in his inexperience, he would lead them into disaster. There had been the drummer boy’s warning. If they decided to run today, where would be his glory? With God’s help he hoped to prove to them—and to himself—that he was brave and a good officer.
When he had finished his inspection, he returned to his lookout. It was much lighter now, and things stirred. Several officers passed at a gallop. A cavalry regiment gathered on the next hillside, and at the unfinished gun placements, the gunners were building some last-minute reinforcements, moving another cannon into place, and carrying buckets of water.
Between the rolling hills and the enemy camp the ground sloped gently downward. The Prussian lines extended from the village Lang Hennersdorf southward. Two roads to Freiberg lay between the imperial position and the Prussian army. One led from Lang Hennersdorf, the other from the hamlet of Klein Schirma through the Spittal Woods. The fields lay fallow at this time of year, but a farm or two, a few stands of trees and some shacks dotted them here and there. Toward the west more hills rose, and toward the east, beyond the imperial positions, lay the small town of Freiberg.
