The Left-Handed God

by I. J. Parker

  Not all the dreams were the same, of course. Sometimes his father wore a hussar’s uniform and rode a big black horse, and Franz would raise his bare hands and cry, “Don’t kill me! It’s me, Franzerl.” And sometimes, most dreadful of all, he fought and killed Prussian soldiers who changed into Carl, the drummer boy, before he could stop himself. Then, when he went to kneel beside the boy’s severed head to ask his forgiveness, he saw that he was looking down at his own face.

  Speculum Hominis.

  *

  The city of Mannheim was laid out in a neat grid within the heavy fortifications that guarded the confluence of the Rhein and Main rivers. The palace of the Electors of Kurpfalz dominated the city as the cultural hub of the principality and strove mightily to equal Versailles.

  This night, in a steady, drizzling rain, carriages and sedan chairs waited outside the Hoftheater adjoining the palace. They carried away those who had attended the latest production of Olimpie, M. Voltaire’s tragedy, written specifically for Their Most Serene Highnesses, Karl Theodor and Elisabeth Augusta.

  It was close to midnight. One man, in a dark cloak and gold-trimmed cocked hat, emerged from a side door of the Hoftheater and hurried past a waiting carriage when its door opened and a familiar voice summoned, “Herein!”

  The man inside was a power at court, and the pedestrian was the assassin.

  The great man clearly did not relish the meeting. He looked as if he had bitten into a lemon and wished to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  “You botched it,” he informed the assassin coldly as soon as he had climbed in and closed the door. “The letter exists.”

  “That cannot be, my lord. I made certain. Captain‌—‌”

  “No names or titles!” snapped the other.

  “Your pardon, sir. I’m a good shot, and I made sure afterward. He was dead. I searched him. Then I searched his quarters. There was nothing.”

  “He was able to pass it to another before he died.”

  The assassin drew in his breath sharply. He had thought himself safe. Months had passed without news. He had assumed that the unknown Austrian officer had been killed and the letter destroyed on the battlefield. “I don’t understand. How can this be?”

  “Because of your slovenly work. And don’t doubt for a moment that your life is lost if you cannot correct the mistake.”

  The assassin did not doubt it and found that his knees were shaking. He said fervently, “You may count on me, sir. It’s a matter of pride and honor. I did not miss last time, and I shall not miss this time. And this time, I shall make sure I get the letter.”

  The great man snorted. “Oh, no. This time there will be nothing to trace this back to us. We know who has the letter, no thanks to you. By a stroke of luck, he talked to one of the officers in the hospital. The patient wanted to know what had happened to a wounded man who had given him a letter for his father. The officer asked around and, by another lucky chance, I overheard him.” He paused to let his heavy sarcasm register. “Fortunately, the man has no idea what he carries. You will get the letter, and this time without using violence and without making him suspicious. But under no circumstances will you approach him here in Mannheim.”

  “N-not approach him?”

  “He will be leaving shortly. His name is Franz von Langsdorff. He will travel by post to Lindau Tuesday next. You will follow or join him and get the letter in such a way that he doesn’t realize its importance.”

  The assassin bit his lip. How much good luck did they hope for? “What if he delivers the letter before he leaves Mannheim?”

  “He won’t. No one by that name lives here.”

  Apparently luck was still with them, but the assassin did not trust it for a minute. “Might he not throw it away then? Or open it to get more information?”

  The great man stamped his foot. “Curse you for an incompetent knave! You will make sure he doesn’t or suffer the consequences. Don’t contact me until you have it.” He did not trouble with farewell courtesies as he opened the door.

  The assassin meekly descended into the rainy night and watched the coach drive away.

  It was a difficult assignment. A shot from a distance was simpler and safer, but his livelihood depended on the people he served and he was obliged to play it their way. They had given him a second chance when he had no right to expect one.

  4

  The Journey Home

  “Do you think,” said Martin, “that sparrow-hawks have always eaten the pigeons they came across?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Candide.

  “Well,” said Martin, “if sparrow-hawks have always possessed the same character, why should you expect men to change theirs?”

  Voltaire, Candide

  Regardless of how much he wished to delay facing his family, Franz had to leave the hospital in Mannheim. By April, he had protracted his departure past all tolerance. He was the last of the wounded officers from the recent war, and the doctors had declared him fit and washed their hand of him. So he shaved off his mustache and put on his old uniform again, dressing with some difficulty because his breeches would not buckle around the deformed right knee and his boot pinched the barely healed leg.

  With the uniform and boots gone, the trunk was nearly empty. He decided to abandon it in favor of a light satchel for a clean shirt, shaving kit, letters, and decoration. The undeliverable letter from the dead captain he tossed away at first. But after a moment, he picked it up again and shoved it into his right boot where the leather bit into his crippled leg. Then he took up his crutches, flung the satchel over his shoulder, and made his slow way to the post station inn Der Goldene Pflug where he paid for his coach fare to Stuttgart.

  He hated the pitying looks and questions from the passengers and reacted by glowering and ignoring their questions and offers of help. After a while, they left him alone.

  The coach traveled south along the Neckar River, through Heidelberg and Heilbronn. Whenever they approached a station, the postilion blew his horn, and people came to welcome passengers and mail. In Heidelberg, the old capital of the Kurpfalz, the blackened ruins of the castle loomed large above the city where Franz had spent carefree student years. The castle had been sacked and burned by the French in another war, but the swaggering university students he saw from the coach window were innocent of ugly thoughts of battles and casualties.

  In Stuttgart, capital of the dukes of Württemberg, Franz had to spend the night before buying a seat in another coach to Ulm.

  A cold rain was falling when he climbed out of the coach in Ulm. The posting inn, called Goldener Adler, stood in the shadow of the looming cathedral. Three beggars huddled against the inn’s wall, stretching their hats and hands toward the travelers who hurried past them through the rain.

  “Help a fellow wounded veteran, sir!” begged a young man who had lost an eye and wore a patch over it.

  “I’ve got a starving wife and four kids, sir. Have mercy on them,” pleaded the gray-whiskered man who missed a leg.

  The third man, pale and red-haired, wore an arm in a sling and was racked by a hollow cough. He said nothing, just held out his hand.

  They wore the tatters of their uniforms, an Austrian jacket here, the breeches and gaiters of another regiment there, a vest and bandolier over a torn shirt on the third man. None inspired trust, and the other travelers had ignored them.

  Franz, who had been the last out of the coach, stopped, felt in his pocket for money, and gave each some silver he could ill spare. Their misery was worse than his.

  They saluted and thanked him fervently.

  Inside the inn, he was shown to a seat near the window. As he waited for his meal, he could see the three wretches huddling together in the rain. They were looking enviously his way. A maid brought him a plate with a slice of roast beef and two potato dumplings swimming in gravy. The food looked and smelled delicious, but he had lost his appetite.

  After a few listless bites, he got back on his crutches
and hobbled outside. The three beggars watched him coming. Perhaps they thought he wanted his money back.

  “W-will you j-join me for a m-meal?” he asked, speaking carefully.

  They gaped at him, then looked at each other.

  “You’re asking us to eat with you, sir? In there?” the youngest finally asked.

  Franz nodded.

  The old soldier with the gray whiskers eyed Franz slyly. “We can’t afford the prices.”

  “M-m-y g-guests.” Franz said. “I-it’s c-cold and w-w…‌.” He gestured at the rain.

  They looked at each other, grinned, and accepted.

  The inn’s staff was not happy to see three wet and filthy beggars occupying their premises, but since Franz paid, they served them hot food and beer.

  Franz watched as the soldiers ate. He felt a little better.

  “You just getting back from the war, too, sir?” The whiskered man’s name was Hannes Moser. Franz nodded, and Moser guessed, “Freiberg, was it?‌—‌where you got wounded, sir?” Franz nodded again. Moser shook his head. “Them Prussians are devils. At least you still got two legs.”

  Franz said nothing.

  The man with the cough was Willi Reiss. He was shoveling in the food and asked with a full mouth, “Where’s home then, sir?”

  “L-lindau.”

  Willi choked on another spasm of coughing, washed it down with a draft of beer. “A far way.”

  The one-eyed youngster grinned and raised his own beer, “Here’s to you, sir! May you get home safe.”

  Franz did not particularly want beer, but it was churlish not to respond and he filled his own mug from the pitcher and drank, then proposed another toast to happier times for them.

  They took turns talking about their battles and wounds and where they had served, consuming a large amount of beer toasting fallen friends and famous generals. Franz was thankful that this conversation asked little of him except an occasional nod or grunt and a raised glass. And ordering fresh pitchers of beer. They were talkative enough. He learned that they, too, were on their way home but without money for lodging or post coaches. They would have to spend the night outside in the rain and were reluctant to leave.

  Finally Franz was nearly asleep and went to talk to the innkeeper about sharing his room for the night. The innkeeper didn’t like the idea but agreed when Franz offered to pay double if he would provide three pallets and blankets on the floor of his room.

  This act eased Franz’s guilt a little more. He fell into bed in his breeches and boots and slept deeply and without his usual nightmares.

  He woke at dawn, heavy-headed, and scratching. The innkeeper deserved a lecture for overcharging him because of vermin-ridden companions when the inn’s beds were infested with bedbugs or fleas, or both. Then he became aware of the silence in the room. In the gray light filtering through the closed shutters, he saw that the pallets were empty. He was alone.

  Franz sat up and felt for his money purse under the pillow. It was gone. Then he groped for his crutches. He had left them leaning against the side of his bed. No crutches. He got off the bed and hopped to the window to throw back the shutters. Daylight from an overcast sky filled the room. His guests were gone, and so were his cloak and hat from the back of the chair. His leather satchel lay near the door, limp and empty. The old single crutch that had belonged to Moser stood in a corner. Apparently, Moser had traded it for Franz’s new ones.

  Cursing himself for a fool, Franz checked the room thoroughly. The only things they had left were the clothes he wore and the empty satchel.

  The thieving bastards! The ungrateful dogs! So that was what came of charitable gestures. They had taken what he had offered them out of pity and a feeling of brotherhood, and they had made off with his clothes and property.

  Now how was he to pay his bill and theirs? Franz had visions of being arrested and thrown into the local prison, to linger there the rest of his life. He could not ask his mother and sister to help him. No, that would be too much. The thought of suicide, carefully kept at bay these many months, surfaced again. A day ago, he had had little enough to live for. Now he had nothing. Nothing but trouble!

  But common sense returned. Awkward on one crutch, Franz made his way downstairs, showed the empty satchel, and demanded that the gendarmes be called. Because he was excited, it took him a while to make himself understood. The innkeeper looked at the satchel and the old crutch and shook his head.

  “I warned ye,” he growled. “But ye young officers are all alike. Ye think nobody but a soldier matters in this world. Now see what ye’ve come to. And ye a wounded man, too. They’ll be long gone by now.”

  *

  The assassin received Moser’s report and the papers taken from Franz with disbelief.

  “What d’you mean, that’s all there was, you oaf?” he shouted. “The letter I want isn’t here. Who in damnation had the gall to keep it? Was it you? Are you holding out for more silver? Curse you for a goddamned thieving swine!” In a fury, he drew his sword and put the point to Moser’s throat.

  In the end, he had to accept that they had either overlooked the letter in the dark, or that the lieutenant no longer had it. He thought over his options, decided to bribe a maid at the Goldene Adler to search the room and, if the letter did not turn up, to go back to Mannheim to make a thorough search of the hospital. He wished he had done the job himself, killing the man and searching the body, but he had been forbidden to use violence.

  Foolishness, but best not to inform the great man of another failure. Next time he would do things his own way.

  *

  Despite the innkeeper’s gruff manner, Franz thought he detected signs of kindness. He offered, “I-if y-you’ll allow m-me, I sh-shall pay f-f‌—‌you when I r-reach – h-home. M-my f-family l-lives in L-lindau.” He made a gesture of writing.

  The innkeeper raised his brows. “Lindau, did ye say?” He pointed to Franz’s uniform. Ye’re from Kurpfalz, ain’t ye?”

  “Y-yes, b-b‌—‌.” Franz took a breath and started again. “I w-was a s-stu – ah‌—‌u-univ-vers‌—‌ty – ah – H-hei‌—‌d-d‌—‌b-b‌—‌.” The last came out as a mere garbled breath.

  The innkeeper sighed. “Never mind.” He went to get paper, quill, and inkhorn. “Just sign yer name and write down who ye are and where ye live on the bottom of the bill.”

  Franz did so eagerly. The bill was large, but the man had been kind and was taking a risk.

  “How’re ye going to get home?” the innkeeper asked.

  Franz looked down at his crippled legs. At least the three villains had left him his boots, no doubt because they did not fit them. “W-walk.”

  The innkeeper shook his head and left. Franz started toward the door. He needed his second crutch because he could not put weight on his right leg at all and his left leg was still too weak to bear his weight and push him forward.

  “Wait, sir.” A maid ran after him, a bowl of milk and a chunk of white bread in her hands. “Ye’ll need yer breakfast, sir,” she said, her eyes filled with pity.

  Franz hated the pity but thanked her for her kindness, and sat down on one of the benches to eat. At this hour, the inn’s main room was still empty of guests, and he was in no one’s way. He finished the milk and bread quickly. He had hardly eaten the night before but hurried more out of shame than hunger. When he was done, he staggered up to return the bowl to the kitchen. Those dependent on charity, learn to be humble before their benefactors. The thought reminded him unpleasantly of the sycophancy of the three soldiers the night before.

  The maid was kind, though. She saw him coming and rushed to take the bowl, waving away his stuttered thanks. “A safe journey, sir,” she said with a smile, just as if he had been an ordinary customer and not a begging, penniless cripple.

  And then more kindness.

  The innkeeper returned. “There’s a wine wagon outside,” he said. “The carter’s going south as far as Kempten. He says ye can ride with him if ye like.�
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  Tears came to Franz’s eyes. He could not speak, but he shook the innkeeper’s hand, then hobbled outside, the innkeeper holding the door for him, to meet a graybeard in rough woolen clothes and knitted stockings, master of a team of sturdy draft horses and a wagon loaded with wine barrels.

  Franz got up on the seat with the help of the graybeard and the innkeeper and started on the next leg of his homeward journey.

  The graybeard’s name was Anton. He was taciturn, and Franz was grateful for this and sat for the long day, sunk into misery. He no longer feared that he would die somewhere in a ditch, but the homecoming now loomed even more hatefully in his imagination. They would see a hopeless cripple who brought them debts instead of his lieutenant’s pay. Perhaps this was his punishment‌—‌and given his offense, it was mild indeed‌—‌so he bore up under it.

  The advantage of traveling with a carter who carried wine to customers at various inns on his route was that he was invited to share his meals and found a dry bed in the straw of the inn’s stable in Kempten. His companion broke his silence only once, to ask about Franz’s regiment, where he got wounded, and where he was bound to. The fact that Franz had trouble speaking put an end to other conversation.

  In Kempten, Anton found Franz another form of transport in a farmer’s cart. This carried him only a few miles westward, but it brought him the gift of bread and a hunk of cheese. He set out on foot after that. It was a dry, warm spring day, and he moved by leaning on his crutch and swinging his left foot forward. He thought he was becoming handier with the single crutch until he had to rely on it for any distance. The pain the crutch caused to his underarm and shoulder within the first mile was so great that he had to rest frequently. Dying in a ditch seemed once again a possibility, even a release.