Elizabeth and Empire (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 4)

by Alma Boykin

  The men sat back and thought about it. Captain Martin combed a flop of white-blond hair out of his eyes and ventured, “Your grace, I think they each had a militia, along with guard forces for the mines and caravans, and city militia.”

  “That sounds right,” Eulenberg agreed.

  Major Lucien, listening in on the briefing, grunted, “No big guns: small wagon guns and some snow cannon.”

  “Snow cannon?” Peilov peered around Eulenberg’s stout frame so he could see the artillery commander.

  “Stop avalanches before they get big. Shoot into the snow,” Lucien clarified.

  Jones nodded so vigorously that his jowls almost flopped. “They had a mobile defense with light weapons, in other words, with some small artillery but nothing like the Sea Republics or the Empire.”

  “In which case, Javertt could well argue that he was moving heavier assets into place in order to help equalize the Bergenlander forces with ours,” Elizabeth thought aloud. “Which is a flat lie, but believable.”

  Several grunts and nods of agreement met her words. She leaned forward, arms resting on the table. “So, based on what General Destefani said, and what we know at the moment, barring any further surprises, you have your orders. I hope to hear soon about the Frankonian position, but that’s in Godown’s hands.”

  T.G. Peilov dropped back onto all four chair-legs with a thump. “Your grace, how are the Sea Republicans moving so fast without telling Godown and everyone where they are?”

  “I did not ask, although I suspect this much: that they established depots along the planned line of march in the guise of trading station supply caches. Just the basics: food, fodder, medicine, arms, and some clothing, but enough to free them from a big supply train. Yes, that raises possibilities about their intentions I don’t care to discuss. We deal with what’s going on now, and Archduke Gerald André and his majesty can sort out the diplomatic side of things.”

  “Good. I hate diplomatic dancing,” Jones grumbled under his breath.

  Albinez snorted, “You hate any kind of dancing.”

  “Take it outside, please,” Elizabeth warned. “You’re dismissed.”

  That evening, after supper, Peilov called Captain Martin to come with him. “I’ve found something,” was all T.G. would say, and Elizabeth shrugged. T.G. needed seasoning. He was young, the youngest of the count-colonels, and tended to see things behind every shrub. On the other hand, he’s safer than Jaz Hoffman ever was. Hoffman really should turn command over to his son-in-law, preferably as of three years ago. She returned to her prayer book. It was the feast of St. Thomas, patron of farmers, and she offered up prayers for the safety and prosperity of the men and women at Donatello Bend, and for all who worked the land.

  “Your grace?” A soft call interrupted her meditations. “Your grace, I apologize, but you need to speak with this gentleman.” Ulli Martin hovered just outside the door flap of her tent, apology and urgency warring in his expression.

  Elizabeth set her book and beads aside and walked to the door. A man, a trader or hostler by the looks of him, stood beside Martin. The stranger had a bland, most unremarkable face, and it took her a long second to recognize Lt. Jan Neruda. “Ah, yes, come in.”

  Neruda shook the worst of the road dust off his clothes and came in, then sagged into the camp chair by her worktable, almost collapsing the light chair. “Ulli, something to drink.” After Neruda knocked back a cup of watered wine, Elizabeth leaned forward, hip braced against the table, arms folded. “So, what news, Lieutenant?”

  “He’s across the Whaar, your grace,” the young officer grated, throat still dry. Ulli refilled his cup. “Thank you, sir. Your grace, they crossed two days before I found them. At least ten thousand of his own troops, and another three or five thousand Bergenlanders. I didn’t get close enough to count noses,” and he drank more of the watered wine. “As soon as I knew what I’d seen, and saw their direction of march, I started on my way back. Your grace, they’re trying to close the roads and I don’t think I can go back without getting drafted.”

  “Which way did they turn, and no, you’ve done more than your duty, Jan. You’ll stay here.”

  “They turned northeast, along the Whaar and then the dry Kite Valley.” As he finished the wine, Elizabeth closed her eyes and ran the numbers in her head.

  Fifteen thousand? St. Gerald and Godown have mercy. We’ve got at best twelve, unless Godown grants Grantholm and Midland wings. I should have called them in earlier, given the state of the countryside and roads. Well, it’s too late, now. I’ll just tell them to move as fast as they can and Godown have mercy on all of us.

  “Your grace?” Ulli Martin asked. She opened her eyes to find a cup of the wine in front of her nose.

  “Thank you.” She in turn tossed back half of the contents. “Gentlemen, the race is on. Martin, get the runners and send them to the contingent commanders. They already have their orders. I’ll need a messenger to go out before dawn, and I’ll brief him personally.” No point in trying to accomplish anything until dawn, anyway. “Jan, you—”

  “Zzzznax.” She and Martin both turned in time to see Neruda, asleep, slide out of the chair and onto the floor. They picked him up and moved him close enough to the tent wall to be out of the way, then left him under a blanket.

  “Youth is wasted on the young,” she observed.

  Ulli, almost twenty years her junior, smiled. “I heartily agree, your grace. The wine’s not that good.”

  “No, but it does kill whatever’s in the water.”

  “Yes, your grace, that it does, along with killing your tastebuds.”

  Only the faintest of glows in the eastern sky hinted at sunrise when Elizabeth briefed her messenger. “Sergeant, you are going to ride as hard and as fast as you can to Kildonn, then north until you find the Sea Republic army if they have not yet reached the town. You have two messages for General Destefani, and for him alone. First, tell him the Imperial army is moving to our agreed location.” She held up a tightly folded sheet of thick paper, with her marshal’s seal on it. “Then give him this. If you are intercepted, destroy this if you can.”

  The slight, lean rider repeated, “Kildonn, then north if necessary to find the Sea Republic army. General Destefani alone, the Imperial army is moving to our agreed location. Give him the pages, and destroy them if I’m intercepted.”

  “That is correct. Ride like the wind and may St. Michael-Herdsman be with you and Godown give you wings.”

  He saluted, bowed, and hurried off. The sound of his boots on the wooden step outside the tent woke Lt. Neruda. He blinked and peered around, reminding Elizabeth of nothing so much as a h’owl. The young man rolled onto his back and sat up, wincing as he did and rubbing what had to be a stiff neck. “Good morning, Lt. Neruda,” she said, keeping her voice down.

  “Ah, uh, good morning, your grace.” He blinked some more before getting to his feet and starting to fold the blanket.

  “Don’t bother. It has to be shaken before it gets packed. We’re moving out in a few hours, so go rejoin your unit, Jan. And very well done. I’m mentioning your name in my next report to his Majesty.”

  “Th-thank you, your grace,” he stammered.

  “You are welcome, and you are dismissed.” He hurried off as best he could, obviously stiff. If I slept on the floor like that, I’d never get up without assistance, let alone walk.

  Later that morning, as the first troops set out for Boehm, she scratched Schwartz’s neck, petting the black and brown warhorse. “Well, horse, the race is on,” she told him. “Can we beat Lazlo, and more importantly, can we beat Javertt?”

  And will my re-enforcements get here before I need them? Only Godown knows.

  9

  The Battle of Boehm

  She could see the Frankonian army from where she sat on Stubby’s back, on a small hill not far from Sherlin Creek. If she swept the binoculars over the terribly large array of men, animals, tents, and fires, she could just see the temporary bo
at bridge Javertt’s engineers had thrown across the Donau Novi, south of Boehm, and the stream of men and animals still crossing it. Ahead of her, between the armies, lay the woody trace of Sherlin Creek and a parallel road from the hamlet of Greenlet west to the village of Kirburg, at the base of the Donau Novi hills. Her men had been on the move since three hours before dawn, and it was now two hours until noon. Dust already rose in places, despite the waterlogged bogs and copses of wet forest in the lowlands to her south, at the foot of the hill.

  The sun beat down, making her armor into an oven. The enemy’s guns glinted in the sunlight, and she looked over at the small settlement of Brightston. “Better you than me,” she whispered under her breath to the man riding beside her. The cluster of houses and church formed a tight, defensive square and she dreaded the thought of trying to fight for or through it. But that was Lazlo’s job. His troops were streaming into position as well, to her east, sprawling across the lowlands to anchor on the bank of the Donau Novi proper, following Sherlin Creek inland. The land sloped up from the creek into a long ridge, where the Frankonians had established their lines. The allies would attack south, or defend south, depending on what Javertt and Andrew Milnesand, the Bergenlander commander, decided to do. “We’re fighting the terrain, the heat, the mud, and the Frankonians,” she observed, lowering her binoculars at last and looking at General Destefani.

  “Aye, your grace,” Lazlo agreed. “The only question is do we make the first move, or do we wait?”

  Good question, because if Javertt had much sense, he’d have attacked us already to keep us from getting established along a good line of defense, like Sherlin Creek. But he’s waiting for something. I, on the other hand, am sick of waiting.

  “I’m heartily tired of dancing to the Frankonians’ tune, General, but I defer to your decision.” He had the larger force, he’d planned for the confrontation, as much as was possible, and he had the card up his sleeve.

  Lazlo twisted in the saddle, looking back to where the last of his forces were trudging down the road from Tarly. He’d swung behind her to get between her and the river, even as her own forces fought rough terrain and woodlands to get into their positions. If all went as hoped, Lazlo’s maneuver had hidden her soldiers’ motion from the Frankonians, leaving her as a nasty surprise on their western flank. He turned back to her. “Is your artillery in place?”

  “Yes.” It had taken more horses than she’d wanted to spend, but they’d rushed the guns up, getting them into position on a low rise within the forest, where they could move easily into position to protect the crossing of the Sherlin.

  “Then we start firing at one hour before noon, and Godown willing, we attack at noon. They’ll be expecting us to camp and do nothing until the morning. We’re not as rested as they are, but we’ll have the momentum and surprise.”

  She nodded. So be it. Godown be with all of us, because a lot of us will see You today. “Very well, General.”

  They turned their respective mounts and rode north, down the back slope of the hill. Once at the base they paused. She maneuvered Stubby so the mule stood beside Lazlo’s horse, the riders face-to-face. Elizabeth looked one last time into her husband’s eyes, searching for what she wouldn’t find, not here and now. He extended his hand and they shook, then parted company.

  She rode west, collecting her messengers and a few staff officers. From east to west, Peilov, then Martin with the Donatello troops, Eulenberg, and Jones on the far western end of the line had their infantry in position, or close to it. She’d assigned one of Jones’ men, Albert Parr, to head her combined cavalry. For now the cavalry lurked in reserve at the edge of the trees, just up in the hills behind the Sherlin valley. Major Lucien waited with his guns, bunched just east of an especially thick copse of trees, on a small rise north of the Sherlin.

  Elizabeth returned to the center of her lines. She changed mounts, swatting Stubby on the rump as a groom led him off. Instead she rode Schwartz, with Maldonado in reserve. Mules were too smart to stay around in a battle, and she’d never heard of anyone persuading a mule to cooperate as part of a massed cavalry charge: instead of running, they froze or went the other way. The flies and gnats already whined and hummed in eyes and ears, drawn to the hot, dirty men and the impatient horses. Schwartz stamped and swished his tail and Elizabeth fanned her hand in front of her face.

  The tension among the men grew as they watched the shadows creeping back, growing shorter. She should have been resting and trying to relax, but couldn’t. She hated waiting, even though each minute they waited was another minute for her men to catch their breath, for the last troops to get into position, for the allies to strengthen their hold on the Sherlin.

  “Your grace?”

  She nodded to Lt. Peter Chow, Captain Martin’s dark twin. “Yes?”

  He scratched under the rim of his helmet before pointing south. “Shouldn’t the Frankonians be attacking us? Before we get into position and organize our lines?”

  She puffed and waved away a swarm of gnats. “Yes, in theory. But he still has men crossing the river. And he may be planning to initiate the battle tomorrow, at dawn, as is the standard practice.”

  Chow tipped his head to the side as he considered her words. “I see, your grace, but Javertt, well, is it wrong that I wonder if he’s got something funny planned?”

  “No,” and she smiled, reassuring him. “It’s not wrong. He very well could have ‘something funny planned,’ as you put it. Just what I’m not certain, since he’s not prepared the battlefield any more than we have.” Lazlo’s troops had planned for the terrain well in advance, making the bundles of reeds and sticks that the old authors called fascines, to help cross the wet ground and still-full creek.

  At last the roar of the guns began, the dull crack and boom that filled the air with noise, shaking the earth and belching out puffs of smoke and spits of flame. At least the wind’s at our back for once, for now, Elizabeth smiled as she passed behind the artillery position. She’d begun riding the lines once more, encouraging the men and reminding them of her presence. The woods provided a moment of almost cool respite from the day’s oppressive heat, even though the bugs swarmed thicker in the damp, dappled shadows than in the open fields north and south of the Imperial position. A fainter answering roar told of the Frankonian guns’ reply to Destefani’s challenge. The birds had long since fallen silent. Now and then showers of leaves and an errant cannonball or patter of shot hit the Imperial troops, but discipline held. The Imperial army sat at the far end of the Frankonians’ range, or so Elizabeth judged by the minimal damage.

  As the sun passed overhead, she gave the orders. “Advance, bayonets fixed, hold your fire until you know your targets, then fire by the numbers.” Her commanders knew the order already, but she repeated everything as a final confirmation. Ahead of them, they faced the marshy woods and the Bergenlanders under Andrew Milnesand. To the east, Count Peilov’s men blended into the Sea Republic line. Her cavalry and Eulenberg’s infantry waited behind the main body of her troops, held in reserve. She’d given up hoping for Grantholm and Midland to reach them in time to have any influence on the outcome of the day’s battle.

  The soldiers began their steady advance through the streamside woods and up, onto the plains and field beyond, closing ranks as they walked. A ragged volley of shots met them, then another, but slowly. The Imperials held their fire, the men filling in gaps in the formations as needed. It was majestic, the wall of deep blue advancing through the dappled green and into the waist-high tan of the field of quinly, and horrific, as cannon and musket fire tore into the soldiers. Elizabeth ignored the screams and curses of the injured and dying, shutting them out of her mind. Then the Imperials began firing, a long steady roar with barely any hesitation between ranks as they rotated on the advance. Elizabeth bared her teeth. Milnesand, you are behind the times. Fire discipline, man, fire discipline is the key. Something whizzed past her hear and she ignored it; after all, the shot had missed, and it was on
ly the first of many. The plumes on her helmet that let her men find her easily also made her a prime target.

  An hour later her respect for Milnesand had increased. The red and brown line facing her had buckled in the face of her attack, but it had not broken, and now the two forces pounded at each other, firing round for round in a grinding slog. Acrid smoke filled the air as gunpowder burned in abundance. Elizabeth rode back and forth along her line, watching and trying to keep her finger on the mood of her men. She remembered all too well the battle on the Great Plate River all those years ago, when then-Lord Jan Peilov had fled in terror before a Turkowi cavalry charge. That fear had almost infected the entire army before she and the others contained it. Not this time, not if she could help it.

  All at once, as she passed behind Albinez’s troops, she felt it. A few soldiers had moved back, glancing over their shoulders, muskets held in one hand, and she heard the sound of yells and screams, like an infantry charge. The mood of the men around her began to waver and soldiers retreated towards her. She drew her saber and rode into the line. “Hold! Form ranks and hold the line!” Lt. Chow and her guard took up the call, adding their strength to the line. More men staggered or slunk past, and her guard caught them, driving them back into the line of musket men. “If you scatter you die,” she yelled, “Hold the line.” The pressure grew and she drove Schwartz forward, riding to the sound of the guns. There, she caught a glimpse of trouble, and turned to find the front rank falling back in the teeth of a bayonet charge.

  “Rally,” she screamed. “For the Empire and St. Gerald, rally!” She laid into the enemy infantry about her with her saber, matching deeds to words. She ducked a shot and kept fighting. A man beside her hesitated and she reached down, grabbing his loaded and cocked musket. Schwartz froze under her. Trusting her sword knot to keep her saber at hand, she sighted and fired into the face of a charging figure in deep brown. “Reload,” she ordered, throwing the gun back to its owner. Schwartz screamed his own battle call and she wrenched his head around, putting him into position for a mighty kick that ended in the ripe “thunk-squish” of iron-clad hooves against heads and chests.